Getting Down to Business

And so the weekend ends, and the reality of the job search begins to set in.

I finished off the weekend with a beautiful hike with Xavi and Avani (Xavi's girlfriend) on a beautiful trail off the Blue Ridge Parkway. The trail was called Knobbled Gardens or Craggy Gardens or something like that, and it wasn't hard to see why. The trees along the path were knobbed and craggy creatures, and looked something like the oversized hands of a wizened old witch. The views along the way were beautiful, and hiking with the dogs, which required some extra watchfullness and a keen whistle, was really quite nice.

Today I began the job search in earnest, heading out into town armed with addresses, phone numbers and copies of my resume. My first stop was a place called "Labor Something or Other" -- "Labor Works" or "Labor Jobs" -- and is basically an official equivalent of the groups of immigrants one often finds on street corners in cities and towns around the country. The business is a temporary employment agency--workers must register with them and then show up early in the morning (any morning one wishes) and hope for work.

As one can imagine, the scene was grim. The office was small and grimy. The walls were lined with dirty and broken plastic patio furniture and squeaky tables. In a somewhat pathetic attempt to cheer things up, a white board hung on the wall, with the words, "Every day is National Safety Day" and "Quote of the Day". The quote was by Hellen Keller, and somewhat oddly, seemed to advocate taking risks and not playing things too safe.

There I was made to fill out a number of forms and then take a short personality test of sorts. The test booklet was contained in a grubby binder, and I was given a credit card keypad, of the sort used in restaurants and mini-marts, on which to input my answers.

I dutifully complied, and read through and completed such questions as:

1. How much money have you stolen from your previous three jobs?

a. Five to ten dollars
b. Ten to fifty dollars
c. Fifty to two hundred dollars
d. More than two hundred dollars
e. None at all.

More questions like this followed and were repeated ad infinitum, with such interesting variations as:

2. What have you stolen from your previous jobs?

I was also asked a number of questions regarding drugs, alcohol and violence, and answered each repetetive question as it appeared. Over five times did I reply that I did not take drugs, and verified at least ten times that I do not hit people when I am angry.

In all, it was a rather amusing, yet sad (and perhaps a bit fear-inspiring) experience. When I had completed the test, I handed it back to the manager, who plugged in the machine and informed me that I had passed. I could indeed work for "Labor Boys" or whatever the place is called.

You cannot imagine the pride and elation that I felt.

I was told to return tomorrow morning, early, if I wished to work. "How early?" I asked.

"I wouldn't come any later than 6," came the answer from the other side of the desk.

It remains to be seen if I will return. Perhaps I'll wait and see what else comes up.

From there, I headed off to Adecco Staffing. The woman in the office asked me to have a seat, and began to look over my resume. Her eyes registered confusion, and she looked from my resume to me.

"What kind of work is it that you're looking for?" she asked, seemingly unable to understand why an experienced teacher with a graduate-level education was in her office.

"Pretty much anything," I told her, "just not data entry. I won't do data entry."

"Well," she replied, "we mostly deal with clerical, administrative work, as well as light industrial work."

"Light industrial!" I told her. Again, her face clouded with confusion. I guess it's not easy to see why a Cambridge graduate would be interested in lifting heavy boxes and driving a forklift, but it makes perfect sense to me.

"Okay...." she told me. "We do have something. It pays 10.65 an hour--second shift--and would be Monday to Saturday. The hours would be 3 to midnight on those days...."

Have I moved to Asheville just to work disgusting hours in hard (albeit interesting to me) labor? Couldn't I at least find some hard labor with nice, cushy hours?

Not yet.

I told her to keep me in mind, but informed her that my schedule would not permit such horrid hours. I thanked her for her time and continued on my way.

Downtown, I pounded the pavement, handing out resumes at cafes and bars and restaurants, filling out one silly application form after another, answering on the spot questions like "What do you know about wine?"

"Huh?" I had responded to that one. "Like, what do you want to know?"

"Well, can you name some kinds of wine?" the woman had asked me.

"Uh...well, there's Merlot and Shiraz and Syrah (but that's basically the same thing, I said) and Cabernet and Rioja and Montepulciano and Sauvigon and...Is that enough?"

I put my best accent on all the names, trilling the "R" in Rioja with mastery, speaking through my nose on the French names, and waving my arms when I said "Montepulciano".

Still, I didn't even impress myself all that much.

Amusingly, I have received one call so far regarding these applications, and it is for this very same restaurant. Perhaps they liked the way that I pronounced "Sauvignon".

Maybe they found my Italian inflection on "Montepulciano" charming.

Who knows.

And so we shall see what the fates will provide. Until then, I'm hard at work and study here in my new North Carolina home, among friends and a number of dogs.

More soon, with pictures if Blogger and my computer cooperate.