Another day, I traveled to a rather uncool, unattractive part of Brooklyn to interview at the Grand Prospect Hall, a large historical ballroom owned by a tactless, gruff man. He had a thick Greek accent and extremely long nasal hair. New Yorkers might recognize his infamous commercial- “We’ll make you dreams come true!” The interview began with a tour of the ballroom. It smelled like an attic and was decorated with large, gaudy gold statues of giraffes, elephants and big-tittied mermaids- it was kind of like being on a psychedelic safari guided by Donald Trump. After the tour, the owner sat behind a large desk and interviewed me in front of three other applicants. It was usual to have a captive audience for a job interview so I pretended I was a guest on a late night talk show.
“Eh, youra resumeah say that you organizah, eh, booka signing for Dee Trumpet Award-zah. What are deese Trumpet Awards-zah?”
I smiled and delivered an answer worthy of a sound bite. “Well, The Trumpet Awards celebrate excellence in the African-American community.”
The owner wrinkled his bushy brows and he leaned towards me. My crazy person radar was beeping in my ear, louder than ever. “So dere wasah no white people?!”
“Uh, yeah, me. I was there. I’m white.” If I was on a late night talk show, this is where the audience would laugh as I smirked and sipped from the logo-emblazoned coffee mug that had been placed for me on the edge of the host’s desk. Instead, the other applicants watched in horror as the owner continued to ask me bizarre questions.
When he asked what I liked to do in my free time, I said I like to write fiction and he suddenly became incensed. “Fiction eeezah bullshit!” he barked.
Startled, I jumped a little and he looked me over, frowning. “Everybodya comah to New York! Desa nota Sexa in dee City, capeesh?!”
“Capeesh,” I answered before high-tailing it out of there.
I also interviewed at Shiraz Events, an event planning company in Chelsea. The man who interviewed me, who we’ll call Harry Chest, greeted me with his Cavalli shirt unbuttoned down to his naval. Had he been attractive, this would have been welcome, but his chest hair was fire engine red and looked like wispy clouds of cotton candy. He constantly tugged at a large gold chain around his neck, occasionally wincing when it snagged on his fluffy mounds of Ronald McDonald chest hair.
“How do you stay organized?” he asked.
I leaned back in my chair confidently. “I’m a big fan of the ‘to-do list’,” I said.
“Can I see your to-do list?” He leaned forward and suddenly grimaced and quickly pulled at his gold chain. I wasn’t expecting this, but complied, and dug into my murse for my notebook. I handed it to him and he flipped it open to a day that my to-do list consisted of a shopping list- Grey Goose, condoms, and Nestle cookie dough. I had also written my name several times in bubble letters.
“This is a serious job,” said Harry. “How do you feel about that?” This disappointed me greatly as I was hoping to find a less-serious job at which I could take lengthy naps, practice making balloon animals and watch internet porn. I spewed out an answer about being a serious, hard worker and Harry lifted his gold chain from his chest and lightly swung it on his index finger.
“I’m asking because I want you to know that we expect you to work hard.”
I nodded, only slightly fazed at the ridiculousness of his statement. He sighed and looked down at his necklace. “Living in New York is not like Sex and the City.”
TO BE CONTINUED.