Yesterday,
at 6:30pm, I had an online Skype interview with a tutoring company located in
Beijing. The questions were pretty pedestrian, and there were a few issues with
language between the interviewer and I, but nothing major went wrong. I
answered questions about my background and academic experience, teaching and
education, and then taught a simple sample lesson, regarding English terms for
the parts of one’s face, to the interviewer. Although she was rushing me and
admitting to having many more teachers to interview, she complimented my smile,
attitude, teaching method, use of slow and methodical speech patterns for the
potential young student, etc. I was told that I would be informed within twenty-four
hours of my employment or not with the company. When I finished, my roommate and
I packed into the car to go out to eat…I think she was seeing it as a “celebration”
for my interview, and, to be honest, I found myself very optimistic about
getting the job.
We
could not decide where to go, and I think she wanted some cheap steak—we were
initially going to head to Atlanta to eat at The One-Eared Stag, but that was
putting a potential hurting on the pocketbook. So, we opted for what I call “the
trough”—the cafeteria style smorgasbord buffet extravaganza known
euphemistically as the GOLDEN CORRAL.
I
have often thought that the creators of this moniker for this restaurant were
overtly making fun of its frequenters. In other words, they are directly referring
to us as the cattle to be fed. However, it is true enough; people were packed
into the place, and the bustle of cutlery ringing, dishes clattering, and the
general din of conversation provided the public ambiance of the marketplace. I
overheard several conversations of the tables around us—the couple behind me
was speaking of a disgruntled alcoholic relative who “just can’t straighten out”,
one toddler was screaming bloody murder through most of our meal, and two kids
philosophically contemplated the existence of the chocolate fountain and all
that could be dipped into its dark disgusting undulations. I had a bit of
steak, salad, and steak frites on my "first" plate. I washed it down with about a half gallon of
diet Coke. Our waitress was a salty old grandma who had the feel of a Marlboro ad from a seventies magazine. At one point, I went to go get another small piece of steak—the guy who was there initially was gone—a lady walked up to get my cut—I said medium, and she quickly hacked off a well-done burnt end and slapped it on my plate and turned and walked off. A cobbler couldn’t have done anything with that piece of leather, let me tell you. The A1 sauce concocted in hell couldn’t have softened that hockey puck of “beef". Basically, I felt pretty awful by the end of it, but I was full.
Yes, I had bellied up to the corral. The place is definitely a microcosm of the
humanity of Douglasville—primarily African-American, Hispanic, large families,
and seemingly working class folks filling their plates with every eclectic
offering you could imagine, from fish tacos to deviled eggs.
We
got back home close to 9pm, and I just had to check. I felt compelled. Sure
enough, I did not get the job. It only took them under three hours to decide. I
im’ed my interviewer to ask if she could illuminate to me why I did not qualify—after
a long pause and staring at the dancing ellipses, she replied that I was
over-qualified in many areas, but that I was under-qualified in teaching young
children. Well, in their proposal for job eligibility, they never specified
this issue. In any case, I was a bit disappointed and should have at least
waited until morning for the news, but I am just neurotic that way.
So,
I slept a few hours with the TV on and woke around 3am. I got into bed, but
could not fall back asleep, just running with the marathon of anxiety in my
mind. More like a triathlon, I’d say. I put on one of my favorite podcasts, and
the most recent offering was about aboriginal Australian tribes and their genetic
origins and mitochondria. The interview began to discuss the Pleiadians, alien
migrants to earth from the Pleiades star system who appeared Nordic and could interdimensionally
travel. The episode’s host and guest basically came to the conclusion that
those who question things and who are “different” most likely have Pleiadian
DNA in their systems, causing them to nonconform or to generally not fit into
current ideas of civilization.
I
started wondering how many Pleiadians were with me at Golden Corral—or, was I
even one of them? Did I not get the job because I was a Pleiadian or because I
was not one? Are the children I would have been tutoring Pleiadians, so they
require more than I can offer? Could I cop out and just blame all of my life’s
issues and failures on the fact that I was of a superior alien race and thus
was never meant to fit into this society anyway? Do Pleiadians eat deviled eggs
and drink from chocolate fountains? Do the seven stars apply their gravity to the soda machines, pecan pies, mashed potatoes, and baked spaghetti of the Golden Corral? Perhaps the drunk relative who can't straighten out is mourning his separation from his Pleiadian intergalactic true home?
In
any case, I am stuck in this star system for now. Applied for four more jobs
today. Graded papers online. Then wrote this to you.
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