“Hi, Cecelia,” says the voice on the other end of the phone.
It’s the manager at the coffee store, part of a very huge and green labeled coffee company, who had interviewed me a couple of days
earlier. “I wondered if you’d have time today to go meet the manager at another
store. I think it’s the right fit for you.”
“Sure,” I answer in the most sparkly bright voice I can
muster at 8:30 on a Saturday morning.
She tells me to see William at 2:30. She had told me at the end of my interview (the 2nd
interview) on Thursday that she was delighted to offer me a position but wanted
to check the other stores in her district to see who had the most urgent hiring
needs. Remember you can’t wear nail polish when you work at *Coffee Giant*. You
might want to make sure you don’t have any on when you meet William.”
I walk bare-nailed into William’s store at 2:25 and see a
man who doesn’t really look like he works there leaning in close to a young
female employee. I figure he’s her boyfriend, but she’s looking uncomfortable.
I surmise that perhaps he shouldn’t be bothering her at work and she knows it,
but then to my surprise, he leaves her and goes over to another female
employee, invading, rather inappropriately, her personal space as well, leering
at her cleavage. The first girl notices me and asks what I’d like.
“Oh. I have an interview with William at 2:30.”
The creepy guy looks up at me and straightens his posture.
“I’m William,” he says. “Get yourself something to drink, then come sit down at
that table over there. I’ll be with you in a minute.” He points to a table in
the front of the store, then goes into the back room.
“Okay.” I order a plain old ordinary coffee, even though
whatever I want is on the house. I go sit at the small round table and wait for
William, probably twenty-five years my junior, who arrives shortly with papers
and a pen in hand. I recognize the forms from the previous two interviews I’ve
had. They are full of behavioral questions followed by blank lines for the
manager to write something about my answers.
This is my third interview for a barista job that pays $8.35
an hour. I’m kind of sick of these stupid questions. No - I’m REALLY sick of
these questions, but I’ve gotten fairly adept at answering them.
“Tell me about a situation where you had a customer who wasn’t pleased with
your service,” William asks. “What happened and how was the situation
resolved?” I’ve answered this question twice already with two previous
managers, so the answer I’ve fabricated and embellished rolls off my tongue. He
nods, writes, and fires three more similar questions. I answer. I smile. I talk
about how much I love serving customers and getting to know them. I tell him
what a quick learner I am and that I enjoy fast-paced work. I don’t have to be
told what to do. I find work that needs to be done. I want to tell him that
I’ve been around the block a few times, I have a master’s degree and 35 years
of widely varied work experience, I know how to count change back to a customer,
and he’s not going to find a
better employee than me, but I don’t say any of that. I smile. I’m pleasant.
Then William asks me what my favorite drink is at *Famous and Huge Coffee Store*.
I tell him I like the passion iced tea and the skinny mocha latte, but that
most of the coffee I drink is at home. I tell him how much I love the new
*Monstrous Coffee Company* mocha ground coffee.
“*Huge Coffee Company* does not sell flavored ground coffees,” he retorts adamantly.
“Yes they do. I buy it at Target.”
His eyes flare at my indignant response. “I assure you, we
do not.”
“Okay,” I say, “but I’m pretty sure it was *Coffee Store You See on Every Corner* coffee.
Maybe Target has a proprietary blend only sold at their stores.”
“Yeah,” he says, stacking his forms, tapping them on the
table. “Maybe they do. Anyway, I’ll talk to the other manager and we’ll get
back to you in a few days.”
“Great,” I say while extending my right arm toward him. He reluctantly shakes my
hand and disappears from the front of the store into the back room. I get in my
car and go home.
Five days go by with no word from *Coffee Store I No Longer Patronize*. I call the
manager from the second interview who had told me she was offering me a
position as a partner. I ask her if she'd heard anything from William about my interview with him.
“William didn’t call you?”
“No.”
“Oh.” There is an awkward silence. “He was supposed to call
you. What we’re looking for is someone with more consistent availability.”
“My availability is consistent,” I say. “I’m always
available the same hours, and you've known what those hours are since the first phone call you made to me four weeks ago.”
“But I mean,” she stammers, “We need someone who’s available
every morning or every evening.”
I don’t press it. She’s a kid. William’s a kid. They think I
don’t know bullshit when I hear it. William was threatened when I told him
something he didn’t know.
I accepted a different job at a lovely place where I can wear fingernail polish.
And I’ll be damned if I ever buy anything with that Green Goddessy Looking label on it again - not even at Target.
Once in the back of a car at a forest preserve because I’m
soooooo experimental and thrive on risk-taking.
