As a newly-added member of the already bursting city of San Francisco, I can coolly say: finding a job sucks. Craigslist is my one and only friend, I get more sleep than an 80-year old and my boyfriend’s phone wont stop ringing with job offers and interviews. Yeah, it sucks.
Though I hear the tiny voices of reason in my head and my parents tell me “everything happens for a reason” and “you will find something soon” I still check my email approximately 3,000 times a day to make sure it’s working and call my own voicemail about half that number…just in case for some reason my phone didn’t ring that one time that a potential employer wanted to offer me a job on-the-spot just because he/she saw my amazing resume in their inbox.
Nonetheless, I am an aspiring writer that has some restaurant experience and I have resorted to the latter.
It has been exactly 51 days of unemployment and competition in this town is, to say it politely, ferocious. So, when the manager of a wine bar emailed me about an interview I was giddy. I had pictured myself wearing an apron and talking to guests about taste and time and chugging the wine as I worked and laughed about my previous (and current) situation all before I had hit the “reply” button.
I went in positive, got there 15 minutes early and wore the best interview outfit I owned. I left laughing hysterically at myself and looking desperately for the nearest bar. Here’s sort of how it went.
I walked in feeling immediately out of place with the amount of pretension in the air. I still managed a smile and asked for the guy who was behind the trendy bar sipping on some red wine and describing it to his employees. He looked me up and down, smiled and said I was a bit early but to sit in the corner by the window and wait. I did. He came over after his lesson was over and greeted me kindly. Our conversation began okay as we discussed why I had moved here from “paradise” (his word) and what my plans were. I answered as anyone looking for a job does. Something like, “To try something new and get to know a new city. And I plan to freelance as I work in a restaurant or bar to make some money while I get to know people and expand my customer service skills.” Or some bullshit like that.
He seemed impressed. Then it spiraled so wildly out of control. “There’s just a little wine knowledge test,” he says as he slides the paper over to me. I think, okay, I can do this. I’ve drank plenty of wine, I’ve been wine tasting like at least 12 times, I own a wine fridge for my whites and a wine rack for my reds and I love drinking…it can’t be that hard. Boy, was I wrong. The first question contained three words I didn’t know existed (and I graduated with a Bachelor’s in English) and the rest got worse. I answered about three of the 15 questions with sheer guesses and couldn’t even muster up a fake to the rest. He came back over about 10 minutes later and I laughed out loud as I handed him the paper. I think I said something like, “You can just tell me it was nice to meet me and I will be on my way…no hard feelings.” He proceeded to assure me it was “no big deal” and when he started at this job he knew NOTHING about wine, so I was better off than he was. I knew he was lying.
To his credit, and I still sort of admire the guy for this, he kept on going with the interview. He tried to like me. He tried hard. And after a couple more humiliating questions regarding varietals of wine, I actually blushed. Something I haven’t done since high school. I embarrassed myself with my own answers to questions. It was that bad. He ended with a stinger. “What kind of music do you listen to?” The truth is everything. And it really is. That is not just my way of getting out of the question. I love music. I love all kinds of music. From the Beatles to my friends’ attempts at bands to the no-one-admits-they-like country music. But instead of being a normal human being and saying any of that, the words that floated out of my mouth without a thought in my head were…wait for it…Kool and the Gang.
Keep in mind I am 24 years old. I don’t EVER listen to Kool and the Gang. At the time I didn’t even know what they sang. But I said it. He chuckled and said, “it’s okay.” We shook hands and I walked out literally laughing out loud at the last half hour of my life. And the words “Kool and the Gang” were laughing in my head with me. Or at me.
I drunk dialed my mom that night after an entire bottle of red to tell her of my afternoon. She informed me that Kool and the Gang was most famous for that overplayed-but-still-lovable wedding song “Celebrate.” I knew it. Of course that was what they sang, how could I have forgotten? It was the perfect ending.
I will always think fondly of that manager and the way he tried to make me a wine lover. He wanted me to work there. He wanted me to know about grapes and why they taste the way they do. But I was a lost cause.
And the search continues.
