Why I Will Be Unemployed Until the End of Time

I set up my very first informational interview about trying to get a job writing for TV today.

I had planned to wear my black slacks, because otherwise I pretty much have jeans. So of course the pants were wrinkled. Which I figured out AFTER I put them on and was about to walk out the door. I hastily ripped them off and attempted to iron the stupid things. On the floor. Which I haven't swept in roughly 18 million months. Thus, after I ironed the pants, I had to lint-roll them. Lint-rolling reintroduced wrinkles. But I was so late at this point that I put on the pants and my shoes to go.

So, my shoes. I noticed yesterday that my normal shoes were starting to look a little scuffed. Fortunately, I had another pair of shoes that looked to be in better shape. At least they looked in better shape in the flourescent lighting of my bedroom. Out in the light of day, I was dismayed to find them equally scuffed. If not more so. Plus, these particular shoes highlighted the fact that my nice black pants had apparently shrunk a bit in the wash. Where once they had reached the tops of my shoes, they now stopped just above the ankles.

But, like I said, I was late. So I went with it.

I couldn't even go directly to the coffee shop wherein this interview was to take place. Oh no, that would be too easy! Actually, it wouldn't be easy at all, since I had no money. The bank, where the money is, was five minutes out of the way. Since I was already five minutes late, this added a fun new dimension to my day! Fortunately, for the first time in the history of the universe, my beloved WaMu cash machine ACTUALLY HAD CASH ON A SUNDAY. Seriously, this has never happened before. I was fully expecting to have to go to another bank and suck up the many dollars of extra charges they would impose on poor little me. But something worked out! Yay!

Eventually, I arrived at the coffee shop in question. And it was only a block away from the address I gave my interviewee! (Never, ever trust Mapquest when giving directions to important people) At least I had gotten the name of the coffee shop right...

Since I was a little late at this point, I figured my interviewee might be inside. He wasn't. But approximately 4/5 of the population of the Upper West Side were in there instead. Took me three minutes to even get in the door to ascertain that not only were there no tables, there would probably not be any tables available before about 3 PM the next day.

I went back outside, where I realized that I might not actually recognize my interviewee. I then spent a fun 15 minutes staring intently at every male between the ages of 18 and 50 who had the misfortune of walking past. My interviewee was none of these men. He was instead, at that time, stuck on a dead train. It's the weekend, after all, so who needs public transportation to actually transport?

Thanks to the wonders of mobile phone technology, I did soon learn about the dead train and its deletorious effects on my meeting schedule. Yay for being a grad student who rarely has to be anywhere else -- I could wait some more!

While I waited, a colleague from my department spotted me from the sea of occupied tables and offered me a seat. Upon my news that I was waiting for someone, he shared some news of his own: he'd found a job. Kind of the ideal professor job -- teaching in his field, in a tenure-track position, at freakin' McGill University. Despite my desperate not-wanting to be a professor, I had to restrain myself from throttling the lucky bastard. I went with congratulations instead.

My interviewee, despite the best efforts of the New York City Metropolitan Transit Authority, did eventually show up. He did not seem particularly impressed with my choice of a coffee shop. Probably because he preferred establishments with enough room to actually sit. Some people are just so picky...

We decided to leave the shop that we could not enter. The interviewee indicated at this point that he hadn't actually taken nourishment (probably due to his unexpected confinement under the streets of New York) that day and would greatly appreciate a restaurant that had food.
You'd think that wouldn't be a problem. This is Manhattan, after all! There's a restaurant approximately every five feet! Except that apparently the restaurants in this neighborhood don't serve food between 3 and 5 PM on Sundays. Just for the hell of it, I guess, since the restaurant we tried was at least 3/4 full, despite having no food.

They suggested the coffee shop/swanky bar two doors down. I'd been there before, but only for pretentious and overpriced late-night drinks. But I knew they had coffee and brunch during the day. Brunch food worked for my interviewee, who expressed an interest in French toast. We even found seats after about five minutes of being ignored by the Worst Waiter Ever.

Granted, our seats were under the DJ. Seriously. UNDER the DJ. Because what self-respecting coffee shop doesn't have a DJ? The DJ in question was of course having a shouted conversation with another guy, who was standing next to us.

No matter. On to the interview! In which I was pretty much informed that I was totally not on the right path to become a successful writer in television. And that, if I were extremely lucky, I might just get a job as a production assistant, where I could fetch coffee and suck up in the desperate hope that a higher-up might take pity on me and consider my existence to be worthwhile.

Whatever.

Our food came! Well, my interviewee's food came. As did my chai. Now, I mentioned before that my interviewee wanted French toast. He found French toast on the menu. He ordered French toast. He got... ummmm... Something that resembled a chopped up and reformed muffin, with a pat of butter placed in its center. Drowned in a white sauce with black specks. Plus two artful dabs of a red gelatinous globs on the side.

This food-substance was placed on our table without a word from the Worst Waiter Ever. When we asked him what the food was, he condescended to inform us that it was the French toast. My interviewee requested some syrup. Actual quote from the Worst Waiter Ever: "We don't have syrup here."

Since he was feeling akin to a famine victim at this point, my interviewee proceeded to eat the food-substance, even having a go at the gelatinous red globs, once we had agreed that they were probably jam. The interview proceeded apace, with me learning that my interviewee had actually met this one person who one time actually managed to work their way up to being a writer after years and years of work at their production. (As far as I could tell, the other writers had sprung fully-formed from the head of Zeus.)

After about 45 minutes, we decided that we'd had enough of loudly-conversing DJs, gelatinous red globs, and my inane interview questions. Only about a dozen attempts were required to wave down the Worst Waiter Ever, who eventually brought the check, stopping only to give change to a homeless woman on his way to our table.

For your future dining reference, the food-substance with gelatinous red blobs costs $11.50. Plus the pre-added tip for the Worst Waiter Ever.

My interviewee and I said good-bye on amicable terms, despite his being ruined for all French toast in the future. He even said I could e-mail any further questions (presumably this was to stop me from ever suggesting more meetings in coffee shops).

He left to attempt a successful return trip on the subway. I left to walk home and ponder whether or not this afternoon foreshadowed a certain level of catastrophic failure in my career plans.

Then it started to rain.