The phone call started out simply enough ‘I’d like to start by saying thanks for coming in for the job interview last Wednesday’…yep, I muttered as I realised a little too late that another chocolate bar had melted in my handbag ‘but unfortunately you didn’t get the job’ they continued –
shit, my entire train pass was covered in Mars Bar – (note to self: start diet tomorrow). I went to hang up, but the caller continued ‘it’s not to say your CV wasn’t impressive, and your presentation was impeccable with the exception of your shoes’ – excuse me? My shoes? ‘yes’, she continued –’they were wet.’ Of course they were wet I thought, I mean it was torrential rain outside that day, and short of a valet carrying me inside or gracious men covering the wet pavement with their coats, my goddam shoes were going to get wet.
I muttered my thanks and went again to hang up, when –’and there’s something else’ – oh fine I thought as I forced myself on the train and barely managed to escape the clutches of some sweaty man who was going around declaring himself a patron of women’s hair (but I love da blondes he muttered as he stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a clump of blonde hair) – ‘it’s just, you lacked that certain something, that special quality that it takes to be – (a what? A glorified typist? Please….), that little something extra we were looking for, basically at the end of the day you weren’t well special enough.’ And with that she hung up.
As if on cue my mother called –’ok, pay up – I knew you wouldn’t get it.’ She was right and supportive but to be honest I wasn’t really surprised I didn’t get the job, it was more the comment about not being special enough – like was she saying ‘special’ in the retarded sense? Or special in the way that we’re led to believe we all are, and then I realised it, for the first time in my life I was being called average – sure I’d been called lots of things, but average – nup, not one, and that I idea was so distracting that I didn’t even realise I’d boarded a train in the wrong direction, an express train in the wrong direction and everything suddenly smelled of urine!
Turning to my left I noticed a women squatting in the corner relieving herself – as one does on public transport. Suddenly a firm tap on my shoulder drew me from my dazed state and a tight-lipped older woman accosted me from behind – she started going on about how she’d over heard my conversation and she just wanted me to know that all the Chinese were special, she’d lived there for 2 years and sure we all looked the same, but we were all special, and how dare someone say I wasn’t special when you could tell by my shoes that I struggled to come to this country and make something of myself. All I could think while she continued to ramble on about how she ran a refugee support group, was how much I hated express trains to fucking no where and more importantly how do I break it to this women that after spending 2 years in China she was still at a loss to spot the difference between a Chinese person and someone of Irish/Spanish decent.
So I thanked her for her sentiment and she grinned a cheeky smile adding that my English wasn’t half bad – I thought it best not to mention I had a Masters in that very subject and with that I flung myself from the train and onto the tracks below.
I think I attract idiots…work with me on this
Let me tell you an inspiring story. I went on a date once, with this – I’m going to call him ‘idiot’ for the purpose of this story. He seemed nice enough. Seemed to know an awful lot about me…but I’ll get to that later…
It was my own fault really; I shouldn’t have even been out to dinner with him in the first place. I was already seeing someone, and even though I’d made that abundantly clear to the idiot, he still insisted on us being friends, and as such friends eat dinner together and I couldn’t argue with that sort of logic, but when he turned up at my door dressed in a pressed suit and holding flowers, well I should’ve been concerned, because my definition of ‘smart casual’ was a little more relaxed and involved me wearing the same pantyhose from the night before. He insisted I take the flowers -after all the petrol station was giving them away to any customer that spent more then $7.00 at the pump.
I texted my boyfriend to tell him I was being kidnapped, and when he told me to ‘have fun with that’; I decided that the evening was going to stop short of reckless abandonment.
As we drove up, and up into the hills, away from the taxis’ and buses, away from the authority of the law I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d left with my mother with any decent photos of myself, should police and searchers need a point of reference for identification…he even told me that for shits and giggles he’d Googled me, searched the archive section of the state library and had a cool pic of me in his wallet, just in case he found himself in a situation where he needed to describe me to someone…’5’3″, brown hair, olive skin, last seen in the presence of someone in desperate need of help…’
I’d met idiot boy at party with work colleagues I was in the process of barely tolerating at the time. He thought I was funny and cute – a pocket puppy I think was the term. I was drunk, miserable and hadn’t seen my then boyf in over 6 months – I would’ve accepted a dinner invite from someone on day release…
Finally we arrive at the restaurant -or should I say winery. We were led to a remote table for two, complete with candlelight and our own private waiter. Had it been a Monday night I wouldn’t have blinked, but I couldn’t help but think that for a Saturday evening, it was a little more then decadent.
I excused myself to the bathroom, where I broke my rule and called my boyf in Oxford – demanding that he come and take me home NOW! He made up some dreadful excuse about being stuck at work, or being in another country – but either way I didn’t want to hear it and promptly hung up, dropping my phone in the toilet at the same time.
Back at dinner, an arrangement of food and bevies had been delivered to the table. I wasn’t impressed -he’d ordered for me, and that was one liberty I wasn’t having, but I didn’t want to give him any hope, so I let this charade of a chat between friends continue.
As for the caviar was plated onto our gold leafed plates and I took out some nail polish to stop a ladder in my pantyhose, idiot pulled out a small box, neatly wrapped – David Jones I think and a card.
It wasn’t a public holiday, my birthday, Hanukah, Saints Day, nor the running of the bulls…what was he like? Before I could fill my wine glass he opened with the notorious line of ‘you’re special’ – oh Christ I muttered. ‘Thanks’ I responded ‘but you do know I’m seeing someone at the moment, and you’re really nice and everything, and I’m sure-’ He placed finger over my mouth, my red Coral Colours Lipstick smudging over my face, and he opened my card…now I don’t know how many of you reading this have any been in the presence of a serial killer, but I think I was pretty close, as I was forced to sit there listening to him recite his card – an ode to me- yep, he’d taken every letter in my rather long name and found a word that perfectly described me, but when he told me I was like a flower, and I vomited a little in my mouth I knew it was time to set the record straight.
This did not go down very well at all – let’s just say that after carefully explaining that I wasn’t going to advance on his intentions he called me a ‘bitch’…’a prick tease’…and my personal favourite ‘a not very nice person’.
But the kicker was, he got up and stormed out – fitting me with a $270.00 bill + tip, a broken phone, not enough money to take a cab home and a really embarrassing tear in my stocking and not to mention a fucking awful pink card with my face superimposed on it, over his – creating a ‘perfect unison’.
The dish pig in the kitchen was lovely and kind enough to give me a lift back to town, and oh what fun we had as he told me he’d never met such a pretty girl on his day-release program- and no need to worry, he was was heavily medicated – and with that we cracked open another beer.
