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The Search Is On

When I decided I needed to find a new job, I realized I had three options for on-campus jobs right under my nose (listed in order of priority):

1. Work in the English department’s writing center. I’ve been offered a job there before, more than once (but back when I was uninterested in a campus job), and I thought maybe now I’d try taking it, assuming they still remember who I am. Of course, even if they didn’t, my friend Anne works there, and she generally talks it up. I figured she could put in a good word for me.
2. Weasel my way into a job in the film department. I’m there more often than I’m in the Wabash building, and the atmosphere is likely to be less irritating.
3. I was offered a job last semester by a really desperate-sounding lady in the music department who really wanted somebody to act as her part-time secretary in the evenings. My schedule conflicted with hers, so it didn’t work out, but this semester is different, so I may be able to work something out with her.
4. Pretty much any other job anywhere ever. Honestly, the listing of work-study jobs is pretty huge, and a lot of jobs are offered that aren’t even on the list.

And this is just on-campus stuff! If I decide to get a dreaded real job, my options expand almost as far as the mall.

I decided that getting the job in the writing center was top priority, because it’d be really easy and a generally non-annoying place to work. Plus, Anne.

So, I called her up. She wasn’t around, so I left a message telling her I wanted information about hours, responsibilities, pay — basic stuff. She called back about half an hour later to inform me that they had just fired her, along with ¾s of the staff. She explained that there used to be a requirement for Comp I students to take their papers to the center, but the department dropped the requirement, thus eliminating the necessity for such a large staff. Even the people they kept have drastically reduced hours.

“Those fucking bastards,” Anne reacted calmly. I found it interesting how her rage about losing her job (and other bad things that have happened to her this week) managed to transform her from the free-spirit I often find myself attracted to into the seething cauldron of hate I often find myself really attracted to.

Anne insisted we find a job together this weekend. I didn’t really know what to think of that, because normally I’m the one pressing the idea that we should see more of each other, and she’s decidedly (and appropriately) stand-offish. Needless to say, I automatically knew the prefect job for our dynamic duo.

“We should become technical consultants for a porn studio,” I suggested.

She laughed at that, even though I was being serious. So, we hung up, and I said I’d call her back and we could look for jobs, but I haven’t done that yet. I’m sort of worried that, much like my epic adventure into the south side, I might be biting off more than I can chew, if you’ll excuse the disgusting imagery.

That phone conversation occurred on Thursday. Friday was another grueling day, although at least it was sorta different. Instead of being treated like a retard, I was mostly left alone. They made me stuff Valentine’s Day bags because I’m too stupid to do anything else. The bags, I kid you not, contain: one pamphlet on STDs, one pamphlet on why condoms are effective against STDs, two condoms, and two pieces of chocolate. The IT guy came in sometime that morning, and he looked at a desk covered with condoms and chocolates and joked that I’d be having a great weekend.

I laughed because it was funny, but then I got really depressed, because everybody’s having more sex than me, even the IT guy.

Over the course of the day, I got approximately 15 million papercuts. Gosh, the fun of my job. Not that I really care too much about papercuts; it’s just another of many annoyances.

About halfway through the day, an announcement came that made me want to stay at this job for at least another month. Over the course of black history month, my office is hosting a series of screenings, and many of the screenings are Spike Lee films. It’s not exactly common knowledge, but Spike Lee (and particularly Do the Right Thing) was the primary reason I went to film school. I’m sure he’d be ashamed to learn that.

At any rate, he called the office and said he’d be in Chicago, so he wanted to come to one or more of the screenings, which excited…well, pretty much just me. Everyone in the office seems to really not particularly like or respect his work, Malcolm X excepting. I find that odd, but whatever. The point is that at some point in the near future, I get to harass Spike Lee until he exasperatedly accepts a copy of my paltry reel and insists I be committed.

This made me unbelievably happy. I still hate my job, but in the near future, I get to have what might actually amount to a life-changing conversation with somebody I idolize.

This won’t end well.

Tags: Anne, bastards, Black History Month, chocolates, condom, Do the Right Thing, employment, English department, fired, frustration, job, liaison, Malcolm X, on-campus, pamphlets, porn studio, screenings, sex, South Side, Spike Lee, technical consultants, Valentine's Day, work-study, writing center

Posted by Stan on February 7, 2004 3:02 PM  | Permalink | Friends: Can’t Live with ‘Em | Digg It