I interviewed with I—–T—- on Tuesday. It didn’t calm the nerves any that their offices are located on the 8th floor of a World Trade Center building, overlooking the Columbia River with panoramic windows and the type of work area you’d expect from…I don’t know…the chaps at Facebook. English graduates are used to dimly lit corners, coffee shops and libraries, not corporate offices, cubicles and conference rooms.
How did I do? I’m not even sure. It was a pressure cooker: 11 applicants in the group, two recruiters from I—–T—- and the fastest three hours of my life. Everyone was told we would be contacted within one week of the interview. I’m clinching on to the fact the company and office is expanding, creating a need for new hires. If I was among the dozens vying for one position, I don’t know that I’d get it. Cautiously pessimistic.
I applied for a few more sales associate jobs with Nike and Bally Total Fitness, though I have no real itch to get into sales. I contacted a guy from Edelman in New York City who paired me with the Trojan Evolve sexual health campaign a few years back, checking to see if he knew of any openings at the Portland Edelman offices. He was going to ask around. My very last resort is going back to bartending.
Why don’t I want to bartend? Two reasons:
- To bartend in the great State of Oregon, one must attain an Oregon Liquor Control Commission servers license. These require a clean record (no DUIs) and attending a two-hour class. To apply for the license, one must pay $23. To attend the class, the going rate is $25-35. Money is tight enough where I can’t take an unnecessary hit, but if Monday rolls around and I haven’t heard any good news, I’ll probably get the ball rolling.
- I’m not looking for a job — I’m looking for a career. I want something I can sink me teeth into. I want to contribute to the common good, hence I—–T—- and working in education. Bartending is a job, and while it is a well-paying one, I’d much rather keep my nights open and have my weekends free. And lastly, I know I’ll compare any bar I would work at to South Street. No bar out here can live up to South Street from an employee’s standpoint.
So, it’s the waiting game. I’m checking my phone for e-mails and missed calls every other minute. I wished the other applicants good luck, and I meant it, but each of them already had full-time jobs. In terms of need, I took first place. I wish that counted for something.
I think I just heard my phone.