Interviews and the Third World

I think I'm in the minority when I say that interviews just don't scare me. As a matter of fact I'll go as far as to say that my lack of nerves may have cost me a couple of jobs I didn't really want to land anyway. I always go in thinking I'm on the short list, whether I am or not I don't know, but for some reason I go in with the mindset that I'm the hottest candidate they'll be seeing that day. On second thought, maybe I actually am nervous. So much that I temporarily lose my mind when I cross the threshhold.

Last week I landed a job for which the interviewer and business owner told me over a hundred applicants applied. He told me he needed to hire me for the labor intensive job on the site first to see what kind of worker I'd be, but he was actually hiring me for another position in the future which entailed sitting in a temperature controlled office, sitting at the computer, making phone calls, dealing with the public and making upwards of 100K.

I bought it. And I accepted the job. The labor intensive one. Lucky for me my first day the fine people at the main office forgot to tell me I'd passed the drug screen and to go to work on Monday morning, and so when I finally got the call I arrived at the job 90 minutes late on my first day. This wasn't my fault at all, and they said as much, however since they kept talking about it I couldn't help but think in their hard-labor minds I should have forseen HR's oversight and contacted them to demand a start time.

Oh, but the fun was just beginning. Little did I know an intestinal ailment was about to befall me with vengeance, perhaps as a prelude to the Montezuma's Revenge I'll be undergoing next month. And I really didn't think about the record heat wave coming through rainy and cool Portland, topping out at 106 for my second and third days on the job.

Well, I made it through the first day. It was a slow day for them, but for me in my pathetic physical condition, bending over to clean something six inches off the ground, then applying most of my strength and effort in various strange physical positions for 8 or 9 hours, all in excess of 110F heat, began to wear me down. I barely had the strength to straighten back up so that I could sprint to the john to alleviate my other problem. I found that I was drinking a quart or more of water ever hour but still was unable to quench my raging thirst. And that was the first day. I drove home exhausted, wondering where it all went so horribly wrong, and hoping the cushy job for which I was hired was just around the corner. But no, it wasn't to be.

Day Two was more of the same but worse. It was hotter sooner. I spent much of the day in vehicles which were parked in the sun on a 106F day, sweltering with the windows up in 150F vehicles whose A/C didn't work. When I was able to get out I then had to immediately apply my flagging energies to this and that in yoga-like positions. I quickly began to imagine every step I took as my very own Trail of Tears, only the tears I was shedding was the sweat coming off me like Niagra Falls. Toward the afternoon, when the temperature peaked, I started to get dizzy, lurching about like I was my own Bataan Death March. I couldn't remember basic things, like what had I just done to this rig, which car is the Hummer, etc. Every minute I thought I might collapse, and with that came the terrifying thought that one of these times I'm going to need to make a dash for the bathroom and I'm not going to have the legs to get my intestines there. At one point I was surprised to feel goosebumps rise on my tortured flesh and found that I was no longer sweating. Somewhere in my mind I understood that this wasn't good, but luckily it was almost quitting time. I somehow was able to drive home, spending an hour under an ice-cold shower, then lying on the couch covered in ice packs.

Eventually the sun rose for Day Three. I could tell I hadn't really recovered. I was dizzy and thirsty when I awoke at 6 a.m. I broke my fast, guzzled a quart of water on the way to work, and arrived determined to blow their socks off with my enthusiasm for detailing cars in a make-shift kiln. The day started easily enough, it didn't break 90 until noon. I thought I was home free. Then the work started coming fast and furious, the mercury kept going up, and I spent my time lurching about from 110F in the lot to the 150F in the vehicles, all the while exerting all the strength and energy I could muster as fast as I could possibly go. I stumbled upon the dreaded Trail of Tears again about 2:30 and started my own rendition of the aforementioned Death March about an hour later. From then until 6 p.m. I was like living death, a little weakened by the battle raging in my intestinal fortitude but moreso afflicted by my physical condition, or lack of it, combined with the local thermometer freakshow. By the end of the day I vaguely wondered if I'd need an ambulance to get home, but I decided to risk driving. I kept the windows down in hopes the hot breeze blowing in would keep me alert, for my little car has no A/C. After an interminably long 5 minute drive I found the parking lot and parked the car. I lost my balance going up the stairs to the front door but skillfully recovered by grabbing ahold of the railing on the way down. All I could think of was getting inside to air that was below 110F. And that I did.

I briefly considered jumping in the ice shower with my clothes on but decided against it. Instead I just grabbed ahold of the A/C unit and clung to it. Three hours later my heartbeat was still over 100 beats per minute, I was still thirsty and I was still hot. Ice packs weren't doing it now and even though I stood under the shower until I thought we'd run out of cold water, my core temp wasn't coming down very fast.

And then it hit me: heatstroke! I had all the symptoms but the hurling, as it turns out. How close did I come to succumbing to the heat? I don't know, but I flirted with disaster, as Molly Hatchet put it once. Needless to say, I called in "sick" the next day, as I was basically a bag of human flesh spread out on the mattress, trying to congeal in time for dinner. The day after that I discovered that my services were no longer needed at the establishment, and for a second I wished I'd gone to the Urgent Care clinic and got a bit of Workman's Comp for my trouble. It was the perfect storm, really: record heat, hard labor, pathetic physical condition, and a little trouble with the G/I tract for kickers. I've done harder work in worse conditions (haven't we all?), but for some reason this time I wasn't up to the task.

But that's what I get for being a great interview, and I bet the Big Boss down there is wondering how he could have gone so wrong. I'm sure he'll find a Neanderthal soon that'll be able to swing it and, with any luck, that cro-magnon forehead of his won't be inundated with sweat due to a record-breaking heat wave. And he'll probably be half my age to boot.

But that was last week.

Obviously classes are over for the summer. I'm nervously awaiting my dramatic departure for the third world for some intense Spanish classes at the end of the month. If you are like me and only speak one language you probably have it on your Bucket List to learn a second one. Well, I've been picking away at Spanish for 25 years like a finicky kid in a high chair, carefully picking through the peas and carrots to get to the niblets of corn so highly prized by the toddler set. Basically I've just picked up a word or two here and there and excitedly tried them out on native speakers when I got the chance and, like a toddler, expected them to be equally excited by my progress. They usually weren't.

I've kept it up lo these many years, taking a Spanish class here and there and acing every one. Therein lies the rub, as they say in the Greek. Every single Spanish class I've ever taken prepares you to succeed at one endeavor: passing a Spanish exam. And I'm good at that. About the only exams that get the best of me are the more advanced mathematics, and by advanced I mean anything beyond Calculus 2. Other than that I find that my brain loves exams. So basically all the study I've done so far is get me to the point that I can prepare for and then pass a Spanish exam.

The prevailing wisdom among those who know, however, prescribes a totally different attack, that of immersion. And this I will attempt the third week of August going through the end of September. I will enter the world where English is the strange language, where the water you can't drink it, and the tortillas they are genuine corn. And the language classes, they are cheap. For 4 hours a day, one on one, you can learn this language and get three hots and a cot, all for the low, low price of 150 dollars per week. This little cottage industry keeps many an area in Central America going and, from what I've gleaned among the wise, they are good at it.

Some rules: don't bring the bling. Sure, it's a 25 dollar watch to you, but that's a month's wages to most in that area. If you must keep track of the time, keep it in your pocket. A laptop? Don't bring it. An iPod? Be careful. That's a dream gadget. Digital camera? Well, purchase some disposable cameras instead. Drink bottled water at all times. Don't go hiking alone. Don't go out after dark. Don't rent a car. Bring only what you are willing to be relieved of in a holdup.

Of course, there are the other rules, too. Make several copies of your itinerary and your passport and keep them in different places. Don't flash cash. Be polite. Make some effort to learn the social rules the humans live by in the area. The things I've picked up are basically to use a minimal amount of eye contact, inquire as to family health, and don't use first names unless you are invited to do so. It's also considered panache if you bring small gifts for your Spanish instructor and for the family with which you will be staying. Taxi drivers don't expect tips but you'd better get the price worked out before you get into the cab. Servers only expect tips from foreigners, not locals.

Of course I've gotten most of this from a small book with pretty pictures that I purchased from a Borders bookstore, but I've also frequented the sites which are themselves frequented by those who've gone this way before. Probably half of what I've read is nonsense and the other half is more true than I think. And then there's stuff no one's told me which will undoubtedly provide locals with a hearty laugh at my expense. That's OK, though. If they laugh at me I'll just snap a photo of them and steal their soul. I'll teach them to mess with such a formidable traveler as myself. I shouldn't be so hard on them because obviously they are fortunate enough not to have been marinating in the bleeding hearted liberal political correctness ideology which has been forced upon the populace of this fine country for the last 30years. They don't know that I, as a minority in their country, have a right not to be offended and that I can choose to be offended at any time for any reason that I so choose. Sadly, then, I can't expect them to walk on eggshells around me as a minority for fear of uttering something politically incorrect to which I might gleefully take offense.

And that's OK. Like I said, I'll just steal their soul. But if I really wanted to get mean I could sponsor them to live and work in the USA. I happen to know of a body shop that's hiring for a cushy job...

Rebooted

I did a bad thing. I deleted my former blog, www.excruciatinginertia.blogspot.com. It's not what you think, though. I always figured that it would be hanging around in the ether and I could reach down into the primordial soup to reclaim it at my considerable leisure. Alas, this is not the case, and the tech people at google seem to have way too much going on to do a few mouse clicks for me or for the millions of others bleating for their attentions for one thing or another.

So I re-rolled my character and here I am again. I still look good, I smell good and I'm still broke. And that's the way I like it. I like to run lean, live close to the bone. It's when the skin is a little too close to the bone, so much that my ribs start showing, that I feel like it isn't worth it anymore. I'll gorge on carbs and choke down some cow muscle, medium rare. I know how that game is played. All that to say this: it's time to eat again. And as every fan of Ronald Jenkees knows, ain't no reason to be riding dirty. But enough of that kind of talk.

I don't really have a whole lot to say about anything right now. I'm being battered from pillar to post by the hideous math classes I'm taking on top of an accelerated-3-times-faster-because-it's-the-summer-version 2nd year Spanish class. My reflexes are shot, my friends. My legs are gone. My eyesight is weak and I can't take it to the body anymore. My boxing gloves are nothing more than ornamental appendages, for I've thrown my best shots at these classes and they just keep coming. I'm punched out and looking for a warm place to fall. Then suddenly I hear it; the bell rings. Once again I've made it to the weekend, and next thing I know they are carrying me to my stool and breaking out the smelling salts.

It's the early rounds yet and my opponent hasn't broken a sweat. I can see down the hallway that he's mangled better men than me, left them as no more than quivering lumps of living tissue curled up in the dark recesses of the tutoring center. When it comes to Sunday nights and I'm tucking myself into bed I almost can't bear the thought of answering the bell again. What moves am I going to put on him that he hasn't seen before? On the other hand, every move this guy puts on me is the first time I've ever seen it. React, adapt, go forth and conquer, the professor says. He's got a PhD in Mathematics, the equivalent of entering the ring with an uzi. Calc 3 won't even get in the ring with a guy like that. But let him lay eyes on a guy like me and the next thing you'll see is a mathematical proof of the Pavlovian response. I'm the dogfood in this little comedy and Sir Isaac Newton has rung the bell. I have no chance, really. It's like taking square roots from a baby.

I'm a club fighter in this realm, stepping in with the champ every day. He's teeing off on me, playing target practice with my head. Oh, I've found ways to survive, to buy time. I've gone low once or twice. I'm not too proud to clinch. I've thrown an elbow, just to keep it real, but the champ keeps coming. Still, I won't give up. I won't. We've all seen this kind of story before. I just need a reason to go on, I guess. Fortunately, there's inspiration everywhere if you look. Profiles in pop-culture Courage; Never Say Die! Down with the sherry and on with the chase. When I'm feeling down I can always look to the ones with the Right Stuff, the warriors with true grit. The kind of folks who inhabit Robert Service's poems.

We all saw the moxie in Hillary going toe to toe with Obama; it didn't matter what the polls said, she was staying in that race until she crossed the finish line, even if the wheels had come off 40 miles back! If that don't move ya, then look to the moving picture, Grasshopper. For though he was in over his head on a whole lot of levels, Balboa kept coming against Creed, even when he could only see out of his left ear. And when it was all said and done, the Champ didn't want no rematch.

It kind of reminds me of that Schnauzer across the street, taking yet another run at the postman. That dog doesn't know the meaning of the word "quit". Every time he starts his shift you know that dog is thinking maybe today is gonna be the day. And no matter how many times he ends up nursing a crushed windpipe you know he's going to go for it again tomorrow. All out. That dog has a job to do and he means to do it. Nothing is going to keep him down. Not repeated failure. Not asphyxiation. And certainly not some rusty chain that somehow ends up being just a bit shy of the proper length every single cotton-picking day. Not to worry; the postman will be along tomorrow. The schauzer will bide his time. And at just the right moment, he'll make his move...

I don't know yet if I can go on with the fight or not. Some fighters, like the late Arturo Gatti, never quit. Those kind are always stopped by the referee, never by the opponent. But this isn't boxing, this is Mathematics. Maybe my case is more like Muhammad Ali, who still thought he could get it done no matter how late in the day it was. Maybe I'm like him in a way. In the end, he reached down inside himself and came up empty. He couldn't even fake it. Math is like that. You know the answer or you don't. I barely beat the count after the last mid-term. Maybe this is where I should get out. After all, tuition is going up another 7 percent next year. When the chips are down, they figure they can always soak the student. Heck, most students are rolling in dough, right? That's why they are in school, because they need a place to spend money. Who better to take it from? I might just take up golf instead. It looks like an old Master is taking them all to school on the links across the pond. Is it too late to take up golf?