Pattern Recognition

I had spent a pretty good chunk of change sending out clips and such via Priority Mail to distinctly more rural newspapers last month. When one called me in for an interview, the process was remarkably cold. The weekly's office was located in the small downtown at the end of the Metra line. The two gents I was interviewing with both appeared younger than me and after the editor shook my hand, we took our seats and they immediately picked up their clipboards and went right into the pre-typed questions.

Usually, every interviews I go on begins with the five or so minutes of bullshitting about the drive, how the day is going, what the weather's like, etc. Not these guys.

After having spent a couple months being on the other end of the interview process, I'm a little more aware of how often things get repeated (i.e. "I want a position that will allow me to grow"). That said, I thought my answers were fairly fresh.

Of course, since it seems that editors at newspapers move with the immediacy of a sloth when it comes to hiring or just returning phone calls, I also noticed that the local country club had been rather active in placing ads in the classifieds. Figuring it couldn't hurt to e-mail my resume again (I've grown used to doing it on a daily basis and never hearing anything back), I gave it a shot. A day later, I had a voice mail from the club manager. We arranged for an interview when I returned from my sister's wedding in Brroklyn.

One of my best friends got married at this country club. I was the best man. When I walked into the place for the interview, that event kept coming back to me. Then, the other clubs I've worked at started coming back too. Considering I spent far too much time growing used to the terribly unsatisfying setting of a breakfast place, the club environment seemed like an acceptable fall-back while waiting for the two editors to get their shit together.

This interview, by contrast, was almost too relaxed. I was open about having interviewed with two newspapers now, awaiting a design test at another, and only applying if those didn't pan out. It was basically my way of warning that if I got hired, I might not stick around long. The manager understood and had me starting the following week, barely skimming over any restaurant experience I had.

When I finally got one of those two editors on the phone, I was informed that a decision would be made by the beginning of the following week. They were deciding between two people. I was one of them.

The optimistic part of me saw it like my uncle had put it: "50-50 chance." The skeptical side of me figured they were likely going with the other candidate, but wanted to keep me interested in case that person found something else, turned down the offer, whatever.

Long story short: They went with the other guy.

"We've been having problems setting the design test up," the woman told me from that other opening. When she asked me for my phone number again, I figured it was time to stop holding my breath.

Going back to waiting tables isn't necessarily what I had in mind, but I won't complain right now; at least it's not as dehumanizing as referring to myself as a "waffle waiter." I forgot just how laid-back a country club is, and this one seems to be about as casual as any I've ever worked at. Members can basically get anything they want to eat and since country clubs aren't really designed to make profits, just maintain operating costs, there's no real pressure on anybody. Food gets sent back or taken off the bill? No problem. Extra dressing or extra sauce? No, you don't have to charge them for that. A little more tequila in your margarita? Sure.

I took a two-hour series of tests at a staffing agency yesterday. I thought I bombed the Excel portion, but apparently I scored above average. The Word, typing and data entry scores were pretty impressive too. Having taken these tests before for agencies in the city and then hearing nothing back, I didn't build up my hopes too high. And then, sure enough, I get a phone call on the way home. There was already a job I could be good for, the woman said. I was caught completely off-guard. I'm supposed to call her back on Monday after she talks to the company.

My only complaint about being single again is probably the same complaint I would have when I'm in a relationship: I hate introducing myself—in the sense of explaining what I'm doing, where I'm going. "Boy, I wish I knew."

Nothing is concrete and laid out neatly for you. The uncertainty is nagging. But I'm worrying less about it. The only thing that bothers me is that after finally getting a degree, it's just the having to say that I'm still waiting tables. The actual job, however, isn't all that bad. It's miles more fun than the phony headhunting gig that allowed me to dress nice and pretend I was putting the degree to good use.

The other night, I had a table of 13. When I asked the bartender if I would recognize who in the party was the member, he told me I'd recognize the daughters. This club actually has photos of their members, complete with family shots, in the guide. It's a useful tool. And sure enough, there was a husband, wife and three curvy blonde daughters pictured in the book. The one spilling out of her dress and seated across from the birthday girl suggests a round of those foo-foo shots with the whip cream for the ladies. Ah ...

I don't know what will happen with the newspapers or the staffing gig, but for now, I can't argue that it's not bad to be paid to watch baseball games and occasionally fetch drinks for rich people. After all, there's not many places you get to go up to a group of people and ask, "So that was six blow jobs, right?"