The perpetual quest for the perfect job

Looking back over the not too distant past, it seemed I was on the perpetual quest for the perfect job.  I thought I had found it; a proof reader/editor position.  This job was perfect for me for I would be immersed in writing and the English language and I could work from home in my pyjamas. Actually Tony found the advertisement when I away from Cairns.  I told him I’d look at it when I got home.  

     He gave me the torn square of newsprint when I returned at midnight after nine hours of travelling by car, train then plane.  I was exhausted and quickly scanned the ad for the submission-of-applications date, 16^th February.  If tonight was Sunday, 8th February, the 16th was Monday week.  

     This was perfect because I could work all week and not have to think about addressing the selection criteria until the weekend. 

     Saturday arrived and I noticed, in the clear light of a summer’s morning and after a full nine hours of sleep, the submission date was actually Friday, 16^th February. Friday was in fact the 13^th. I panicked.  Was it Friday, 13^th or Monday, 16^th?

     I’d missed the Black Friday deadline so went with the Monday. When my brother dropped in a few hours later I showed him the ad.

     Stephen knows about interviews and applications. I asked him whether it was Friday 13^th or Monday 16^th?’

     He laughed.  ‘Cathy, it’s a trick question.’  I was perplexed.  ‘The job is for a proof reader/editor and you’ve missed the contradiction.  But go for it anyway.’

     So on Monday I emailed my application and within an hour I received a call to attend an interview at 3 pm the next day.  I could barely hear the woman speaking because there was a fire drill and the siren was sounding.

     ‘What time?’ I yelled.  ‘Three?’

     ‘Yes.  Three o’clock.’

     ‘Please email a confirmation and address,’ I said over the din.  ‘I can’t hear properly.’

     When I checked my emails that night, sure enough there was a confirmation for an interview at 2 pm on Tuesday.  Naturally I assumed I had heard the time incorrectly.

     I was excited.  I wanted this job and I arrived for the interview 20 minutes early at 1.40 pm.

     I met the two directors, friendly women and we chatted about writing and the Torres Strait for a few minutes.  They led me to a conference room and I sat opposite them at a large, polished wooden table. Each woman held two sheets of paper unfamiliar to me.  Interview questions, I assumed.

     ‘So I bet it’s cooler on the Tablelands?’ said the dark haired one.

     I wondered if this was another trick question.  ‘Apparently it is a few degrees cooler up there.  Five or six.’  

     ‘Aren’t you from Millaa Millaa?’ said the blonde with tense brows.

     ‘No, Cairns. Smithfield, actually.’

     ‘Aren’t you Jennifer?’ said the brunette.  Her chin had dropped a little.

     ‘No, Catherine.’

     They both gasped to me then turned to each other and gasped again.  They stood and rushed from the room.  Muffled conversation wafted from the adjoining office then silence.

     They appeared at the door.

     ‘Let’s start again,’ said the brunette.

     ‘Hi, I’m Catherine.’  I stood and extended my hand.

     They sat down and I noticed they were each holding a copy of my resume.  They talked about their company, their vision, my role and responsibility.  They asked some questions and I asked some questions.  The brunette's words became rushed as she advised the hours and the rate of pay.  The blonde, running her words together, asked if I could start on Friday.

     ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I am working-‘ 

     ‘Monday?’ said the brunette.

     ‘Possibly, but-‘

     ‘We’lltalkaboutthatlater,’ said the blonde.

     ‘Doyouhaveanymorequestions?’ said the brunette.

     ‘Um.’

     ‘Okay,’ said the blonde as they both stood and thanked me for coming in.  

     The brunette gestured towards the door the blonde had opened.  At the door, the brunette began to steer me with one arm, the other raised and holding the sheets of my resume, as if she was shielding me from something unpleasant.  The blonde appeared to be a human shield from whatever I wasn’t supposed to see. 

     I was pushed through the reception area to the exit … but not before I saw a woman seated next to the magazine table with a folder on her lap.  This must have been Jennifer from Millaa Millaa, probably wondering why her 2pm interview was fifteen minutes late.

     I laughed quietly to myself on the way home thinking about the comedy of errors; the application date confusion, the altered interview time, the wrong resume, the wrong town, the wrong woman.  I had more than enough chaos from my family. I didn't need more in my working life.

     I waited the appropriate few hours and then sent a polite email asking for my application (for the perfect job, dammit!) to be withdrawn.

     I would re-embark on the perpetual quest for the perfect job.