My first interview with the bank went remarkably well. For whatever reason, I couldn't stop talking. The woman was so friendly, even asking if I would be interested in upper management. I left the interview and my boyfriend and I went to the Pirates game. They lost.
The second interview was with my current manager. For reasons of privacy I will just call him Dick, because that is what he is. I walked in and he said, “Okay. I'm not good at this whole interviewing thing. So I guess, just tell me about yourself.” That's enough to get me started. I started talking about my education because at that time, I had just graduated from college. I attended a small liberal arts college that was known in the area as being pretty prestigious. He interrupted my story. He said:
“You know, college graduates think that they are worth more than they actually are. They come to places like this and just expect to be paid good, like I am. They think they are something that they just ain't.”
My ears actually started bleeding. Mostly because he was degrading my education and then throwing “ain't” and “good” into his dialogue. He was an arrogant prick, the same age as me, with no education whatsoever. I felt like someone was messing with me. This Dick couldn't be real. All of my life, all that I have known was that I had to go to college. Now this guy was slamming me for my education. Somebody dressed this bum up in a shirt and tie and slapped him with the title of manager and now he believes that this has given him superiority over the rest of us. Screw that. I left the interview pissed and was even more pissed when I got the job working in his store.
From the moment I started working he gave me menial tasks, like filing and shredding paper. When a new pretty blond was hired after I was, I realized that I was still being assigned these shitty jobs and I complained. Why should I have to shred paper? Is it because I have brown hair and brown eyes? He replied, “Oh Holly! You said that you like to shred paper and file.” As if I would EVER say something to that extent.
I needed out, but I needed money. So I discovered an internal internship program that would, I thought, rescue me from the madness. I was told by Human Resources that I was eligible after six months, but Dicky Dick claims that it is twelve and refuses to sign off on any papers allowing me to leave the branch. So I am stuck with this miserable Dick that thinks that his K-mart tie looks like Kenneth Cole and that “ain't” is an acceptable word to use in public.
I hate my job. For the first time since high school, I hate my job. In high school I worked at this small pharmacy and card shop doing crap work for crap money. The owner hated me. She was a monster. I was once mopping the floor in the card shop when she snuck up behind me and said, “Excuse me.” I was in another world at the time, probably daydreaming about what I was going to wear to school the next day. I jumped and said, “Oh (Mrs. Monster)! You scared me!” She replied with this: “You should have known that someone was behind you, Holly. People are probably stealing things left and right because you can't pay attention to the door and what is going on around you, and THAT scares ME.” I wanted to say, “Piss off lard-ass.” But I needed money to pay for my car insurance and I couldn't. Plus, I actually have a big ass. And now I felt like I was right back in the same place, with that big monster looking over my shoulder constantly telling me that I fucked up. What a horrible, horrible feeling.
How do these people even get to their positions? I mean, how on earth could this Dick be a manager? I started reading everything that I possibly could and started to realize that he knew nothing. Everything that everyone would ask him, he made up the answer to fit the situation. I would complain, “You know, this just doesn't make sense to me, Dicky.” To which Dicky would reply, “Welcome to retail, Holly.” As if that were the most sensitive and gut-wrenching thought that he had ever come up with his whole life. I imagine him going home and writing it in his journal: “…and then I told Holly "Welcome to retail" and I could tell by the half dazed look in her eyes that she was moved by what I said. Love, Dicky.” In fact, the only thing that he has ever said to me that made much sense was this: “Holly, when I talk to you, I don't feel like you hear what I say. You just ain't paying attention. You look like a deer in headlights.”
That's when I knew that I actually made a face when I spaced out. And that is what really bothered me. I wanted to know what my face looked like when I spaced out. Because I will never know. You can't space out in front of a mirror and still see yourself. I was so moved that when I got home, I asked my boyfriend to snap a picture of me when I looked spaced out. Then I would know what I look like when I ain't paying attention.
