Images in Chrome and Glass

Well, I had that interview today.

At the website company that was looking for a staff writer. You'd like to know did I get the job?

Well, let me explain to you what happened: It all begins with me at the library, and I leave for the 4:00PM appointment slightly early at 3:00PM this way It'll give me a chance to find the joint, because all I got for directions is that it was on Wall Street. I throw my gear on my back as I have done a million times before and this time it catches on my watch and threatens to strangle me with my own arm. Fuck, is this how the run up to my interview is going to start? Me acting like a fucking klutz?

That wasn't all. As I hit the Way, the number six pulls into the station. When I get to 14th Street, the number five pulls into the station. I'm on Wall Street, I look at my watch, 3:05PM. Some shit. Now I have an hour to kill. My plan? Nothing. I stoll towards the money making street which is packed with tourists. PACKED. So little space was there that the majority of the people were moving about to and fro like penguins. That side to side step because you have no room to walk normally.

As I fell into lock step, I passed a peanut vendor and stopped for some. Then I walked around Wall street, still killing time. After my first pack of cashews, I had bought three, I looked at my watch. 3:05PM. Great I have an hour to kill. Then something in my head hit a stone wall. Take a look at the second hand. It was stopped. I pushed in the finger crank and it started again. No doubt when my bag hung on it, it pulled the finger crank out, stopping the watch.

Now I needed to know what time it was. It's funny, with a city full of people, there is a reluctance to stop someone and ask for the time. But I couldn't. I was discombobulated. I soon found a police officer and asked him. To my relief he tells me that it's ten to Four. Whew. I walk back to the building, an impressive behemoth of stone and brass, and enter into a vast hall with a wide reception desk of polished black rock and guard. Jeez. And I was hoping for something like a three story walk up. I should have known better because I was told that they were on the twentieth floor.

I am phoned in, allowed to pass through the security turnstiles and into the elevator to the 20th floor. I slipped my gear off my back, batted the cashew dust crumbs from the corners of my mouth, check my breath with a hand and the collar of my shirt, and also tucking away my MP3 player. The doors open onto a chrome and glass heaven, carpeted floors, with dark wood paneling and ensconced lighting. Behind a dark teak desk sat a fine specimen of a woman waiting for me. I tell her that I'm there to meet Daniel. She has me take a seat. Suit and tie types walk by talking amongst each other and I look down at my casually dressed denim slacks and white shirt. At least my retreads looked clean. Maybe not the ring around my collar, but it could be worse.

Daniel, tall, dark, clear eyes, sharply groomed comes out from around a corner. "Hobobob?" He extends a hand. I return it. Shake. "Follow me," he turns and I follow through a maze of halls until we reach a very clean, pristine office. Another shirt and tie is there to greet me. Heavyset, with an authentic smile. He shakes my hand firmly. "James, Hobobob, take a seat." I do. All I can think of is that these two guys names are bible characters. A prophet and an apostle. That's how my mind works when it comes to stress.

"Well G..." James begins. And that just about sets the tone of the interview. Many laughs, laid back and informative. These two gentlemen were earthy, not noses up in the air just because their office was on the twentieth floor of some ritzy building. I found myself instantly amazed and comfortable with them. And they made me feel that I could do no wrong. I had the position. I know, it doesn't pay anything, and who cares if the interview went South. But I WANTED this opportunity, and I didn't want to fuck it up.

I left two feet off the ground, and also heavy with the respon- sibility of leaping through perfor- mance hoops in the coming few days. I'll have to come up with my first story fast. This, my friends, is daunting already. I am clearly slightly out of my depth, but wanting to swim so desperately, wanting something to do so fucking badly. I NEED the added pressure in my life, and the experience. This is where I kick my ass in the balls. I have a job.

This is Hobobob under pressure.
This is Hobobob at his personal best.

Hobobob