I Think I Almost Became a Telemarketer Yesterday.
Long story short I was more or less tricked into going to an interview yesterday. Whoever runs this company took my naivety, my hopefulness that I’m even the slightest bit hirable, and my inability to say no to anyone and used them against me to great effect. I was 99% sure what the job was, I had already ignored a bunch of spam-emails inviting me to come in, I was also already pretty convinced I didn’t want it, but I still find a way to end up at this interview. I’m in a non-descript office near Penn Station filling out paperwork as scores and I mean scores of people are coming into this office looking for the same job. It literally looks like they’re just bringing in people off the street.
The guy across from me is trying to be friendly. This man explains to me that he’s from Malaysia, that he’s famous, and that he’s been looking for a job for 5 months to pay off his two divorced wives and child support- so naturally he and I become allies. My new best friend gives me his card, tells me we should hang out, and is then ushered into a room for his interview. Meanwhile they are BLASTING Top-40 from 2012, which is painful on its own. But it’s expounded by the fact that it keeps on looping the first 5 seconds of “I Love It” by Icona Pop. Go ahead and listen. That’s not even 5 seconds of music, that’s just a lawnmower with auto tune.
I sit in this waiting room for 45 minutes basically undergoing the first stage of any CIA black site torture routine, and two things become very apparent:
- I’m weak of mind.
- I’m pretty sure I’m about to accept a job as a telemarketer.
I do some mental push-ups, get called in, and tell them I’m not interested.
Take that big corporate, you don’t own me. Can’t wait to hear from them telling me I got the job and I start on Monday. Guaranteed, I would work that job until the day I die.
