Patiently queuing at a pedestrian crossing with business folk who didn’t look like they’d turn down a healthy dose of leisurely discipline after hours, I absently pulled at my necktie. I’d been hoping that the next job I procured didn’t require me to wear this dirty uniform of corporate whoredom, as I’d been lucky enough to slip into all my previous jobs wearing old jeans and a Machine Head t-shirt.
Unfortunately for my oxygen intake, a necktie, shirt and pants were all part of the recruitment agency interview formalities. Due to my slightly plump waist, my necktie and belt combined to ensure I had the appearance of a juicy sausage tied with string, ready to split into three easy pieces.
As a truck roared up the road, I stepped back as if to reduce the aural impact somewhat. The vehicle boomed past us and the group grimaced at the vacuum of wind in its wake, when a buckletload of water smacked me in the side of the head. It appeared to have been emitted from the truck – a bodily discharge of sorts.
Looking slightly startled, I patted the back of my hair. Sopping wet, which was exactly the type of professional image I pride myself on. With alarm, I noticed that the liquid was incredibly pungent and seemed to be drying a lot quicker than it should have been.
My eyes widened. Was I now wandering around the city with a head congealed in petrol? Jerking my head around to check there were no sources in my personal space which could cause my head to spontaneously combust, a woman next to me lit up her cigarette with a Zippo lighter as if on queue. My womanly scream caused an alarmed reaction from her as I dashed away. ‘Bloody health freaks,’ a man complained as I scooted over the road with scant regard for the traffic signal system at large.
Touching the back of my head to ensure there were no small flames present, I entered the building of the recruitment agency who were interviewing me on this occasion. After being greeted with enthusiasm that bordered on assault by a perky receptionist behind the obligatory glass desk, she proceeded to take seven pictures of me on the office digital camera for identification and would not depart the waiting room until I agreed to a glass of water and biscuit.
Then, with what was obviously a rehearsed WWF-style entrance on the opposite side of the room, my designated recruitment consultant burst forth from a set of double doors. Striding over with a swagger which suggested that small fruits and/or vegetables could be in a very close relationship with his prostrate, he extended his hand and executed the smarmiest smirk I’ve ever witnessed.
‘Joseph,’ he spoke down at me whilst introducing himself, and slid his entire face to the left side of his head. This guy seemed to think he was Kid Rock in an Armani business suit. Immediately I could insert him into one of my personality placeholders: this guy was a twenty-two year old yuppie who thought he was the absolute shit. The primary factor in my immediate dislike towards him was his unabashed attitude that his state of being was oh so much more important than me in the scheme of things. He was one of those smarmy types in Country Road advertisements who seem to divide their leisure activities evenly between attending country clubs and gargling testicles on the sly when their wife isn’t looking.
Immediately, I began praying that (a) his surname rhymed with a really rude word, and (b) a flammable source was in my vicinity. Kamikaze missions are required in drastic situations.
Sitting me down in an interview room, he twisted his head and cracked his neck. Explaining the bog standard job application procedures to me, he also graced me with the information that they’d be sending me on temping assignments while they searched for a full-time position for me. Shrugging, I advised him that was fine. Cashflow and all that.
‘So after every temping assignment?’ he spoke succinctly to ensure maximum patronisation. ‘We ask the client to fill out a feedback sheet? We like to keep things positive, so we only retain the good feedback for you? You can have a look at your compliment file whenever you… need a little encouragement?’ Country Road had a speech pattern which caused him to end each sentence as if it were a question. No doubt he’d soon start inserting the word ‘like’ as random punctuation too. He patted an example of a feedback file, which was bulging with faxed compliments for a very busy individual.
With maximum emphasis, he produced an empty manilla folder from beneath the desk. ‘And this is your compliment file?’ he grinned with the sincerity of a telco executive. Given my attitude to temping, it appeared likely that my file would resemble the Angelina Jolie Guide to Self Awareness for some time.
‘And what industries have you been looking at getting into?’ Country Road smirked, as if I was still clutching my high school certificate, wet behind the ears.
Looking him straight in the eye, I spoke strongly and ignored his tone of voice. ‘I was working with the media a fair bit in my last position, so I’d like to move into that. Of course, given the current job market, I’m not really picky about where I work.’
‘Mmm?’ he chewed a pen, leaning back in his chair in full businesswear catalogue mode. ‘Just as well, because you probably won’t get anywhere in the media industry? I should know?’ I expected him to follow up this statement with a regaled tale of personal career direction gone wrong, but slowly realised he had just passed judgement on my capabilities. Bast.
‘Well, I have made a few contacts in some publishing houses,’ I retorted, grimacing at my blatant marketing language.
‘I think you’d only need to look in AdNews to understand where you stand?’ Country Road insisted. I began a serious internal conflict over job interview etiquette vs dignity issues, and dignity won without much of a pause. I opened my mouth to call him a twat, then snapped it back shut as I realised it probably wasn’t constructive to completely wipe a whole recruitment agency off my radar.
Flapping my resume around without appearing to absorb any of the details I’d noted, he scoffed at a detail on the front page. ‘You made an error here?’ he stabbed at my document. ‘You’d want to be careful of that if you’re trying to get an admin or PA role?’ he chuckled.
This seemed strange. I’d forwarded my resume to numerous agencies without comments like this previously. ‘What error would that be?’ I curiously enquired.
‘Your typing speed?’ he intoned. ‘You wrote 100 words per minute?’
Slowly smiling as I realised the position I was in, I too leaned back into my chair. ‘Ah,’ I nodded at him. ‘That, in fact, is not an error. I do indeed type 100 words per minute.’
Country Road’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, we’ll see?’ he proclaimed. ‘I’m going to set you up on some computer tests?’ This was nothing new – most agencies I registered with tested my typing speed and Microsoft Word skills.
Scribbling furiously on a note of paper, he pulled me into the reception area and passed it to the receptionist. ‘Set him up on these tests?’ he fumed. ‘Let’s see your hundred words a minute, eh?’ he sarcastically remarked and stormed away.
The receptionist glanced at the note and frowned. ‘That’s a lot of tests,’ she observed. ‘Normally they only get you to do a typing test and a Word test.’
‘What do I have to do?’ I asked.
‘He’s set you up on Word, Excel, Powerpoint, Outlook, Publisher, Act, Access, Photoshop and FileMaker Pro,’ she spoke slowly. ‘Oh, and the typing test. Sheesh. That might take a while, they take at least 15 minutes each.’
My lips whitened as I pressed them together. So this was how the little fuck wanted to play the game. Well, screw him. I’d type faster than Mavis Beacon on speed this time round.
Powering through the various tests for each application, I finally arrived at my true challenge: the typing test. Pounding away at the keys with a feverish persistence and determined mind, my fingers ached after I’d finished my digit workout.
As I eagerly bounced out to the reception area for my results, Country Road appeared WWF-style once more and snatched my scores from the printer. Frowning and flipping rapidly through the sheets, he arrived at my typing test results.
‘One hundred and seven words a minute?’ he murmured. I grinned – that was a new record for me. Country Road may have been trying to put a dampener on me, but right now I was in the kind of mood induced when you open up a bottle of shampoo and a bubble floats out.
‘But?’ he spoke sharply. ‘Your accuracy will need some attending to? Ninety-eight point nine percent?’ he tutted.
I gaped at him. ‘Is that all?’
‘Sure, here’s my card?’ he replied. ‘I’ll phone you if anything comes up? Now, how are you getting home?’ he asked, shifting back to a patronising, sickly treacle-sweet voice.
‘Train,’ I confirmed, wondering where this query slotted into my recruitment requirements.
‘Right?’ he droned. ‘The train station is just around the corner? If you just go out and turn left, and-’
‘I know where it is,’ I interrupted, eager to leave as soon as physically allowable. ‘It’s in that underground shopping centre.’
‘The shopping circle?’ Country Road asked.
‘Shopping what?’ I responded, wondering if I’d misheard him.
‘The shopping circle? It’s not a shopping centre, it’s a shopping circle?’ he explained.
‘….what?’ I repeated.
‘The building is a circular shape? And it’s actually called a shopping circle, not a shopping centre?’ he smiled with dripping falseness.
‘Am I really having this conversation?’ I retorted, imitating his ascending tone of voice, and swiftly leaving the offices.
‘Can you smell petrol?’ he asked the receptionist as I departed.
An absolute twat to add to the long list of recruitment agency reps who weren’t exactly falling over themselves to assist me. But more importantly – was I really going to put up with him to get a job? Bloody oath. Isn’t that what ‘touching base’ is all about?
Oh, he wouldn’t get rid of me that easily.