I am motioned to the chair in front of his desk. Mine is a leather-padded heavy wooden armchair, old-fashioned but still in good condition. His is a black leather swivel, probably more expensive than mine when they were first bought, but now flakes of worn leather are falling off in places. It is a windowless office and bare except for the table separating us and the chairs we are sitting on.
He becomes miffed when he notices me taking in the drab surroundings, from embarassment probably. He squashes his half-smoked Dunhill that was perched innocently on the ashtray, snuffing the life out of it prematurely. Looks at me with expressionless eyes as he does so. Collateral damage. Circle of life, reminding me once more how everything in life is interlinked and interdependent.
"So, you got any experience in this?" Obviously, he has not read my resume.
"No, but I am.."
He cut me off, "You got bike?"
"Not yet, but" and I fight to finish what I wanted to say.
So it ends up being "No bike then how" - "I have class 2B" - "Need to go out a lot" - "And I intend to buy" - "You know our line need to move around very fast" - "if I get this job"
And he says, "Ok ok, so you are going to buy is it?" before leaning back and picking up my resume for the first time. He flips through very quickly, not really reading.
"Yes," saying it purely so that I may have a chance to meet the mysterious lady again.
"Pay-wise, SGD1800 you ok?"
"Uhmm.." I was not expecting much, still...
"If you are good, I will increase accordingly". He smiles for the first time, in a lusty one-sided fashion and puts my resume back on the desk.
"Ok..lah I guess..what about-".
"Ok then let's start. Am a bit short-handed. Last guy went AWOL a week ago, so got quite a bit of stuff to do here". He profers me a cigarette.
I think about it: hey I could do the same, right, if I didn't like the job. Go AWOL.
"I don't smoke". Not asking for any favours here, you know what I mean.
He chuckles. "Didn't pick up in NS huh"
"No, didn't go through NS"
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Chapter 3 - (One Minute before) The Interview
I had almost finished with 'All in a Day's Work', 'Laughter, the Best Medicine', 'Kids Say The Darndest Things' and 'Life's Like That' before the door to big boss' office opens.
"My oh my, my boss is interesting," is the sly thought that creeps into my mind as the sight of the lady that walks out the office greets me. At 1.65cm, she is wearing a body-hugging red sheath dress (they all do), black stockings (only the tartier ones), black cloche hat (in Singapore weather you don't say) that partly obscured her and 3-inch black stilettos (to complete the femme fatale get-up). But then I see a portly gentleman behind him, and my hopes are dashed. Story of my life.
The alluring lady steps past me towards the exit without so much as casting a glance at me. I still could not see beneath the hat, but her scent (scent of a woman) is an intoxicating mix of Chanel No 5 and Virginia Slims.
I am rudely yanked back to reality by the fat man's gruff voice, "You're XXX?"
"Yes," I reply and strut purposely towards his office.
"My oh my, my boss is interesting," is the sly thought that creeps into my mind as the sight of the lady that walks out the office greets me. At 1.65cm, she is wearing a body-hugging red sheath dress (they all do), black stockings (only the tartier ones), black cloche hat (in Singapore weather you don't say) that partly obscured her and 3-inch black stilettos (to complete the femme fatale get-up). But then I see a portly gentleman behind him, and my hopes are dashed. Story of my life.
The alluring lady steps past me towards the exit without so much as casting a glance at me. I still could not see beneath the hat, but her scent (scent of a woman) is an intoxicating mix of Chanel No 5 and Virginia Slims.
I am rudely yanked back to reality by the fat man's gruff voice, "You're XXX?"
"Yes," I reply and strut purposely towards his office.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Chapter 3 - (waiting for) The Interview
The door had a once-clear glass panel to allow people to look through both ways. Now it is grimy and caked with dirt, so I cannot see inside the office while I knock.
Nobody answers, and after 10 seconds I try the handle. It is not locked, and I am greeted by the sight of a receptionist (late 30s likely unmarried, or if married, still flirtatious) sitting at a desk that faces the entrance to the office. She is yakking on the telephone, cradling the handset between her neck and shoulder while she types daintily on the keyboard. IRC or ICQ (the "uh-oh" is pure genius) or yahoo, MSN or some communicator, I guess. I forgive her.
She waves me to the sofa, mouthing silently, "Wait a while", while gesturing to her (presumably) boss' office. The door is closed and the blinds drawn. I settle down and take in my surroundings through 11.6% Amsterdam-enhanced faculties. It is sparsely furnished and looks like no touch-up has been done since they moved in in the 80s. Yes, there is an 80s vibe about it. Leather cushions on solid wooden frames for sofas and heavy crystal glass ashtray kind of 80s. And mosaic tiles! (I miss them). A ceiling fan, blades weighed down by years of accumulated dirt, rotates lazily, quietly. The open window behind the receptionist offered me a splendid rear view of a row of shophouses and a narrow alley, but I refuse to oblige. If the boss' office is indeed behind that closed door, I wonder where I will sit if I get the job. The receptionist's desk and guest's sofa just about occupies the entire area.
I squint, trying to peep through the blinds of the (boss'?) office, to no avail. I start leafing through the magazines on the rack. Ahh... Reader's Digest. Classic 80s. I check the cover - August 1983 (walaueh). I flip straight to 'All in a Day's Work'.
Nobody answers, and after 10 seconds I try the handle. It is not locked, and I am greeted by the sight of a receptionist (late 30s likely unmarried, or if married, still flirtatious) sitting at a desk that faces the entrance to the office. She is yakking on the telephone, cradling the handset between her neck and shoulder while she types daintily on the keyboard. IRC or ICQ (the "uh-oh" is pure genius) or yahoo, MSN or some communicator, I guess. I forgive her.
She waves me to the sofa, mouthing silently, "Wait a while", while gesturing to her (presumably) boss' office. The door is closed and the blinds drawn. I settle down and take in my surroundings through 11.6% Amsterdam-enhanced faculties. It is sparsely furnished and looks like no touch-up has been done since they moved in in the 80s. Yes, there is an 80s vibe about it. Leather cushions on solid wooden frames for sofas and heavy crystal glass ashtray kind of 80s. And mosaic tiles! (I miss them). A ceiling fan, blades weighed down by years of accumulated dirt, rotates lazily, quietly. The open window behind the receptionist offered me a splendid rear view of a row of shophouses and a narrow alley, but I refuse to oblige. If the boss' office is indeed behind that closed door, I wonder where I will sit if I get the job. The receptionist's desk and guest's sofa just about occupies the entire area.
I squint, trying to peep through the blinds of the (boss'?) office, to no avail. I start leafing through the magazines on the rack. Ahh... Reader's Digest. Classic 80s. I check the cover - August 1983 (walaueh). I flip straight to 'All in a Day's Work'.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Chapter 3 - Ten Minutes before the Interview
(I know there was a long lapse after the last post. I am not sure yet, but let's see, I may be able to explain later)
Stepping into 7-Eleven, these words play in head:
"Green light, 7-Eleven
You stop in for a pack of cigarettes
You don't smoke, don't even want to
Hey now, check your change"
That's right, I don't smoke.
Don't even want to. Smells bad and makes me choke.
And the way they're taxed in Singapore right now, whoever U2 is talking to won't have much change left.
I need something to calm my spirits after that harrowing near-death out-of-body experience.
Dutch courage, liquid courage... I need some of that. Would keep me cool for the interview too. I never liked beers, whichever country they came from. I step over to the coolers and just check one thing on the cans.
"11.8% alc content, sir," a friendly 500ml of Amsterdam calls out to me. Dutch you'd think, but the fierce 11.8% brute (which turns out to be a mf to drink, as I'd find out later to my detriment) hails from Toronto.
I set it down on the counter and wish they'd stop asking me this question.
"Are you above 18?" Yes, I reply, tired. And didn't bother offering to show my IC.
I exit the store and more and lean against a pillar. Style is important, was what was my varsity soccer captain once told us. Judging by our results, probably more so than winning. I crack (which is a more manly verb than pull) the tab and gulp down a big mouthful.
Gawd, the 11.8% is really a mf to drink!
Stepping into 7-Eleven, these words play in head:
"Green light, 7-Eleven
You stop in for a pack of cigarettes
You don't smoke, don't even want to
Hey now, check your change"
That's right, I don't smoke.
Don't even want to. Smells bad and makes me choke.
And the way they're taxed in Singapore right now, whoever U2 is talking to won't have much change left.
I need something to calm my spirits after that harrowing near-death out-of-body experience.
Dutch courage, liquid courage... I need some of that. Would keep me cool for the interview too. I never liked beers, whichever country they came from. I step over to the coolers and just check one thing on the cans.
"11.8% alc content, sir," a friendly 500ml of Amsterdam calls out to me. Dutch you'd think, but the fierce 11.8% brute (which turns out to be a mf to drink, as I'd find out later to my detriment) hails from Toronto.
I set it down on the counter and wish they'd stop asking me this question.
"Are you above 18?" Yes, I reply, tired. And didn't bother offering to show my IC.
I exit the store and more and lean against a pillar. Style is important, was what was my varsity soccer captain once told us. Judging by our results, probably more so than winning. I crack (which is a more manly verb than pull) the tab and gulp down a big mouthful.
Gawd, the 11.8% is really a mf to drink!
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Chapter 3 - Before the Interview
I took a taxi there as I was running a little late. The haircut had taken longer than expected (I was enticed to bleach parts of my hair gray. Guys: did you know bleaching takes hours?).
I got out in a half daze and surveyed my surroundings. It is a quiet one way street. A sign over the entrance to a staircase that led to the second floor told me I was at the right place. Directly to the left of the entrance was a 7-Eleven. I still had 5 minutes. I decided to check out the store and more.
The office is located on the second floor of a shophouse on a one-way side road along Changi Road.
I settled my fare hurriedly and opened the car door to my left. Good thing I wasn't too quick to get out, because as I swung the car door fully open, a motorcycle appeared from behind and smashed into it. At an estimated speed of 30 km/h, the impact caused the surprised rider to perform an unintentional rear wheelie that achieved a height of no more than 15 cm. Tempted as I was, it did not seem appropriate to applaud. And before I could decide whether to apologise or smack his face (which was safely nestled in his helmet), he back-pedaled his motorbike and sped off, without so much as a glance in my direction.I got out in a half daze and surveyed my surroundings. It is a quiet one way street. A sign over the entrance to a staircase that led to the second floor told me I was at the right place. Directly to the left of the entrance was a 7-Eleven. I still had 5 minutes. I decided to check out the store and more.
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