April 17, 2007

-- I went to a job fair yesterday, in Wilkes-Barre, and a more demoralizing event I cannot imagine. There were two companies in particular I was interested in, and both blew me off like I was a street person sporting a fecal monobrow.

I almost didn’t go, because of the snow. There was four or five inches on the ground when I got up yesterday, and it just kept coming. By the afternoon we had upwards of a foot of the stuff to contend with, and it took the four of us an hour or so to shovel the driveway.

But I wanted to talk to those companies…. 

I’d watched The Pursuit of Happyness a few nights before, and if that guy could eat so many shit-sammiches and still come out on top, I sure as hell could drive a few miles on wet roads. So I decided to go for it. Because of Will Smith.

The “fair” was held at the Wachovia Arena, and there were dozens and dozens of companies in attendance. I wanted to talk with representatives from a pharmaceutical firm, and a large health insurance provider. Both are advertising operational opportunities I feel I’m qualified for.

I drove through snow the entire way, and by the time I parked at the arena, it was pouring down rain. I hoofed it across the parking lot and jumped over great ponds of standing water. When I finally reached the lobby I was soaked, and had full-on Michael Jackson hair.

A woman shoved an informational packet into my hand, and told me where to start. I did as I was told, and noticed the place was teeming with people all trussed-up in dress clothes. Nobody looked comfortable, and most had neck fat cascading out of the tops of stiff collars; they could barely swivel their heads. They looked like a gang of terrified muffin monsters. 

I’d dressed much more casually, thank you very much, and my fat was allowed to move around without hindrance. Nothing was propped up on a tee of fabric.

A lot of the boofs were taken up with people peddling popcorn machines(?!), and home cosmetics businesses, and that kind of crapola. And, of course, there were military recruiters on hand, and plenty of outfits looking for hourly warehouse workers. 

McDonald’s even had a presence, and the guy behind the table looked like every fast food manager in the world. I guess if things get desperate, and I’m forced to go that route, I’ll have to make an attempt at growing a big bushy moustache? I’ve already got the body-type covered.

But I wasn’t there for McDonald’s.  I needed booths two and thirteen. And that’s where I headed.

At boof two the woman smiled and took my resume, then said, “Do you have a four-year degree?” It was the first thing out of her mouth. I said no, but I do have seventeen years of real-life experience. 

And that was the end of that. I went from being an actual prospect to a six-foot stack of filth and garbage, in two seconds flat. She handed me back my resume, as if it had been soaked in sewage, and told me they wouldn’t be able to help. She was wearing the expression of a person who’d just entered a public restroom stall, and discovered a toilet already loaded-up.

I took four of her freebie pens, shot her a “take that!” look, and walked away. And over at thirteen, we didn’t even get to the resume stage. The guy said my best option would be to apply for an entry-level customer service job, and work my way up. Because, you see, I’d been a misguided dumbass during the Reagan administration.

So, that was a lot of fun. It reminded me of the World Series game I attended in 1976, and the night I touched a living, breathing female breast for the first time. Oh, it was quite exhilarating.

I headed for the exit, parting a sea of muffin monsters along the way. Apparently I looked pissed and deranged, I just don’t know. 

And as I began to drive away, my cell phone rang. It was one of my BITs coming to fruition: a literary agent calling to offer me a contract. He works at one of the most-respected firms in New York City , and said he wants me as a client. 

The floor of my ass almost fell out.

When I got home, I checked my email, and there it was: a contract. Apparently I hadn’t been hallucinating, after all. The first paragraph ends with the phrase, “We are pleased to accept this engagement.” Sweet sainted mother of the Great Gazoo!

So there you go. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. And I’m focusing on the former today. Fuck ‘em. I wish I'd taken five pens!

I’ll leave you now with a couple of fresh and extra-cool Smoking Fish sightings. Right here. Keep your eyes open, folks. ‘Cause our logo, man, he gets around.

See ya tomorrow.

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Last updated
01/17/12 12:12 PM

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