PART TIME JOBS ARE EQUALLY HARD TO COME BY!

Sometimes I dream I am sat on the edge of the globe.

  It is like a balcony, and the vast never-ending blackness around me is the blanket that keeps me warm; the stars are the candles.

  It is so quiet out here. A time-warp. There is nowhere else to be, there is no-one else to see, there is nothing I need; I am nameless. The earth is my lover who doesn’t have a voice, the sphere is the other half of my heart that beats to a separate rhythm; we do not need one another, but, we know - we both belong.

  Here, on the balcony, is where I am at my most calm, where I can keep my eyes on all those poor souls that are slaving away on the end of a phone, working in their telesales positions and shaking with inexplicable shame  when their rude customers say ‘I’m not buying shit’ and hang up.

   Ah… you smile as you realise that that rude customer is in actual fact your old-fashioned Grandfather, the one that is pro-pregnancy but strongly against sex. With anyone. Ever. (Except if it is him who is the one that is doing it…. He certainly was a bit of a cheeky monkey in the prime of his days.)

   Here on the balcony he is making you proud. You pour yourself a large glass of cheap white wine, courtesy of the old man himself, ‘Raymond’ a diabetic who never fails to drink under three glasses a night. And you toast your future prospects –

Buggies, nappies and those cute little baby shoes that you always say you’re going to buy, save for the fact that the cost fifteen pounds for under fifteen centimetres of a square of fabric. And not even a rubber sole.

                                                                                There is just one little issue. As ever.

                                                                                                                                                               

……………………… Money.

Things are looking up!

 

 Today, you went to the job centre. You prepared a long lost of shit that you’ve been doing, you wrote out every single action that you have taken towards the path of respectable humanship – towards the past of self-worth, brain-building, cheek-flushing, absolutely self-rewarding self-fullfilling employment.  

(Que dramatic sounding, operatic music, bright sunshine, daisies and puppies rolling down hills like furry balls of happy fluff.)

Boy oh boy, have you been a busy bee!

The other day – after the dramatic failure of the telephone interview, in which Simon (and bless his soul I have saved his number; I have contemplated calling him on numerous occasions, during lonely hours, simply hoping for a chat and a nice few words about the concept of life.) Anyway, in which Simon rang you back and informed you  - (“Cool cool cool, Amber, I’m terribly sorry you haven’t got the job.)

(Amber, relieved)       Simon, that is no problem

(Simon)                        Cool, cool, cool, I’m guessing good news then.

(Amber)                       Yep. Feeling good about this.

(Simon)                        That’s really good good good to hear Amber. You’re a lovely girl, like I said, personality – off the charts. Right then. Totes. That’s nice.

(Amber, totes?!)         Sure is….  Wonderful.            

(Simon)                        You got it sorted, girl. Seriously. If ever you get a phone call from someone with a west-country accent trying to make a rap, you’re going to know it’s Simon from Ascent!

I feel like there is a very long pause on either end of the phone; are both of us equally as confused as one another?

(What? Did he? Did I actually imagine that? Or is he still talking to me?)

(Simon, still talking)    Yeah.. so… That’s nice.

(Amber, suddenly desperate) Simon! Will I ever see you again?!

(Simon, laughing)        Oh, Amber. I might see you cheerleading somewhere. One day.

(I suddenly realise how nice it was to feel that Simon had been there, like a blanket of hope dressed up in a suit with a teddy bear head and over-gelled hair. Even though he was only trying to get me a job because he knew he’d make money out of it.)

(Amber, weakly)         Ok, Simon.

(Simon)                        Good luck, Amber.

(Amber)                       You too.

You too?

(Simon)                        Bye, then

(Amber)                       Nice to meet you. Bye.

Hangs up.

Anyway.

He probably hung up, dropped the weird accent and swore under his breath ‘bloody bitch. Didn’t even try to get the job. After all the help I’d given her! She went straight for the self-sabotage.’

And believe me, I’ve found out, I’m not the only self-sabotager! You only have to go down the job centre and have a look round… you’ll see the youngsters with faces as though they’ve just been told their cat has died, looking at a computer screen and saying to someone that blatantly hates their own job and therefore wants to share the pain through their own paid employment,

‘no, I don’t think shelf-stocking is for me.’

‘What about paper-filing?’

‘Sales negotiating?

‘Marketing….’                                                                                     What even is that?

‘What about answering the phone in the hairdresses?’

‘What about working full time as a recruitment advisor?’                Fuck no.

‘What about cooking chicken in KFC?’

‘What about cleaning our offices?’

‘What about –

I was thinking something along the lines of maybe counselling work, or grievance services, you know, like… helping people?

‘You did geography. You don’t need a degree to work out that if you want to be a counsellor it isn’t going to be in this life.’

You’re sitting in the job centre and it’s like watching mass murder. Everyone around you is slowly dying, as though intoxicated by poisonous air.

Every individual in there is in there because they are cursing their choice of degree. Or lack of degree. Either way. A degree and a lack of are all the same things now.

So anyway, you’ve compiled this list of all the things you’ve been doing and you’re happy with yourself. And you turn up. And you sit down. And the lady says ‘hello’ and I say ‘hello’ and then she says, ‘sign here’ and I do, and then she says ‘you may leave.’

And I’m like, ‘what?!’

And she smiles like she’s a Goddess and she’s like, ‘you’re payment has gone through’ and I’m like… ‘don’t we… we don’t have to… talk, do we?’

And she says ‘no.’

And I leave.

Like Bambi. Who has been through a lot at a very young age but who is still resolutely enjoying himself. And I got away without even buying a car park ticket!

So, on the spur of good luck and unnatural positivity – Sarah and I thought it time to battle it out with our CVs and just apply for part time work in the meantime. So we jump in the car and have a drive round and eat chocolate biscuits and listen to music and hand in our CVs and we’re like ‘Yes! We are so being pro-active!’

Until we hit the Minnow.

We don’t even know how to pronounce the name. We have decided not to speak of it out loud. (Sarah still goes red with embarrassment.)  

We pull in. So far we have been successful. We have been in to some very friendly, nice looking places and we are smiling. The sun is shining into the car and a natural looking glow has formed across our foreheads and our eyes look bright and white.

The Minnow was Sarah’s suggestion. A last minute choice. Spontaneous. Pro-active.

We enter. It’s very posh. Black tables outside on black decking, with glasses of wine and beers and wicker chairs. It’s all very European. Reminds me of Spain. Inside there are pictures painted on the walls of Lobsters burning in boiling pots. A small frown forms on my forehead, but we proceed.

We stand by the bar. We joke about how obvious we are, holding our CVs and waiting for attention. A team. I am reminded of the film ‘step brothers’ and contemplate how I would feel if Sarah was to do a really loud, long fart.

The bar man calls the manager over. He says ‘we’re looking for employees, actually.’

The manager arrives. He is South-African. And angry looking. He looks like he deals drugs on the side but is really smart and hides it really well – you know, one of the really good drug dealers that deals for the more upper class customers.

He wears a shirt and tie, he has a trimmed beard that has a reddish tint; really deep intense eyes.

He says ‘Come this way,’ and we proceed to sit at a table where he formally introduces himself.

Sarah and I sit next to one another. I can feel her do a little tremble and I suppress a giggle. And he dives right into the interview.   

‘Have you ever waitressed before?’

‘How many hours?’

‘How many tables?’

‘Where was the restaurant?’

‘What was their food like, how much did they charge, what wage were you on?’

‘Are ready for the tough environment?’

‘Waitressing is hard.’

‘Tough.’

‘Minimum wage.’

‘TOP QUALITY SERVICE.’

‘Christmas day is a must. As is New years eve. There is no time off.’

‘Did I tell you, waitressing is TOUGH.’

‘You are required to treat the customers like gold. Like GOLD.

‘My guests are eating my very best food. They deserve the best.’

‘My food is the best, the service should match.’

‘My food is unbeatable. You won’t ever be able to afford to eat it.’

‘My waitresses are like slaves. They say little and do a lot.’

‘Are you going to get your roots done?’

‘You can’t be eating when you’re on the job.’ (Looking at our stomachs) ‘It’s for the best.’

The whole time I am staring at him, he is playing with the stubble on his beard. I am quite vaguely disgusted, though I aware this is hidden on my face. I do not hear a word he is saying. I know for a fact I do not want to work for this man. He keeps calling it ‘his food.’ But he isn’t the chef. He is the manager. I am confused.

He starts listing the requirements of the position. He suggests we get out a pen and paper. I have a pen and paper, but tell him I don’t. He ploughs on regardless –

‘Carrying plates blah blah blah…’

‘Serving drinks blah blah blah…’

‘Upselling blah blah blah…’

‘Wearing blah blah blah…’

‘Hairstyles blah blah blah…’

‘Rich and famous (yeah right) blah blah blah…’

I’m thinking what a waste of all our times. Sarah and I could be at home, applying for jobs. He could be in the kitchen, wanking over his lobster.

He goes off to find a router. As he leaves, I turn to Sarah and suppress a laugh, whilst mouthing ‘dickhead.’ I catch sight of her, pale and palid, covering her mouth with her hands.

He has scared the living fucking daylights out of her. I mean. She is shaking. And her nervous rash has re-appeared. It’s snaking its way around her neck.    

I start to laugh out loud.

She shakes her head; there are tears in her eyes. “Don’t! He might hear.”

(Amber)           Let’s leave. Shall we just escape, now?

(Sarah)                        He’s getting a router

(Amber)           Fuck it. We haven’t agreed to anything yet.

(Sarah tries to large double doors nearby. They are locked. She runs back.)

(Sarah)                        Fuck.

(Amber)           Chill. We don’t have to turn up.

(Sarah)                        I lied. I’ve never waitressed before.

(Amber)           It’s fine.

(Sarah)                        I can’t do it. I’m not cut out for this. He said it was really hard!

(Amber)           It’s stressful.

(Sarah)                        Will he know I lied?!

(Amber)           Let’s just leave!

(Sarah)                        Will I be able to hold the plates? Can you teach me? Show me how to do it?

(Amber)           Sarah, you got a first class honours.

(Sarah)            What do you do? So shall I say this? ‘What can I get you to drink?’ What about ‘would you like any coffee? I’ve never carries a tray full of drinks, either. I’m no good with balance.

(Amber)           Fuck, Sarah.

He returns.

He asks me when I am free for my trial shift. At the weekend?

(Amber)           I have a friend staying at the weekend.

(South-African)            What about Sunday?

(Amber)           That’s still the weekend.

(South-African)            Can you not take a couple of hours out?

(Amber)           She’s coming from Newcastle. Her mother and father are getting a divorce and I promised I’d look after her.

Bang, boom. Hello drama degree. Fuck you Bachelor of Sciences.

Sarah is not so lucky. She agrees to the shift the following evening and begs me to join her in a waitressing role play.

We leave and the sun mocks us. Sarah remains trembling. As we get out the front door we start to run, jump into the car and proceed a get-a-away drive, Sarah almost stalling at the junction in her haste. We then get stuck in traffic. And the evening becomes once again contemplative.