Graduating from college was one of the most depressing times in my life. Or should I say, it was the culmination of a six-year brain fart, and I was depressed. I had no idea of why I was there, why college mattered or where I was going next. I had not lined up any internships and grad school was definitely not an option. I thought that just having a degree in hand would magically open doors and lead to a lucrative career. Well, bullshit. I was using my diploma as a placemat in a one-room apartment with no heat. I had sent out my resume (Employment Goal: Anything!) ages ago and had been greeted with a resounding silence.
Then, at long last, the phone rang. It was Flip Joseph, who introduced himself as the recruitment specialist from a certain group home, which was one of many programs run under the auspices of a certain religiously-affiliated organization. His Ebonic accent was so thick and he spoke so fast that I had to stop him several times to get him to repeat what he was saying. He said he was impressed with my previous work as a camp counselor and was wondering when a convenient time to set up an interview would be. I told him that any time around right now would be convenient. He said, "I'm impressed with your flexibility. See you this afternoon."
I now know that when Flip Joseph tells someone he is "impressed" with them, he really means that he is desperate for a body to fill an open shift. Anyone who can help the agency fill the minimum legal ratio of staff members to residents will do. The rate of turnover is so severe here that people are quitting at the same rate as they are being hired. Flip Joseph needed someone who could meet the agency's exacting standards, which apparently are being able to breathe and stand up. Even if I did know this at the time, I wouldn't have cared; I was desperate, too.
Unaware of the agency's disturbingly low standards for qualifications, I was busy congratulating myself for impressing a prospective employer. Twice in the same conversation. I searched my closet for my best interview clothes, which at that point was a denim long-sleeved shirt and some khaki pants with a coffee stain on the crotch. No matter! There were kids to save and I felt needed already.
During the interview, Flip Joseph (everyone, including himself, calls him by his first and last name) asked me all the usual questions: experience, education and the like, but then the conversation took an unexpected turn.
Flip Joseph asked me, "Can you tell me what you'd say to a kid about your personal drug use?"
The answer, I thought, was easy. Take the high road. "Of course I'd tell him not to do it. Say 'No' to drugs..."
"No!" Flip Joseph pointed at me. "I want you to tell me about your drug use. You must've smoked a few joints in your day, right?"
I was taken aback by the question. "Uh, college presents a student with many challenges..."
"No!" He probed deeper. "You like to get drunk, right? You get high, right? Tell me about it!"
"Um, well, everyone makes mistakes..."
"No!" The motherfucker kept interrupting me. Why wouldn't he just leave this alone? I thought interviewers weren't supposed to ask these kinds of questions. I couldn't tell where he was going with this. Is he going for a bonding moment or is he trying to weed me out?
He continued with his assault. "I'm really curious because I like you. I bet you smoked a lot of weed in college, right? You seem like you smoked a lot of weed."
He was pissing me off now. What the hell does that mean, 'You seem like you smoked a lot of weed'? I wanted to tell him to kiss my ass, but I needed a damn job. I decided to give in a little, give him what he wanted. But Jesus, couldn't we get off of this subject?
"I guess there's a time and a place for everything, but of course I would never let it interfere with my work performance. I'm always very punctual..."
"No! Goddammit, I want to know if you like smokin' weed! You got a bong at home? You get high and listen to Dark Side of the Moon? Led Zep? I know people like you. You smoke pot, right? C'mon, boy, tell me what you'd say!"
That's it. This dude's an asshole. He can take my bong and shove it up his ass. I don't need a job this bad, and I don't need to work for a pushy, intrusive dickhead.
I snapped. "I'd tell him it's none of his motherfuckin' business, just like it's none of yours!" I stood up to leave, thoroughly pissed off. Flip Joseph stood up too, but to my surprise, extended his hand.
"I'm very impressed with the way you set limits. You're going to use that a lot here. When can you start?"
What the hell just happened? What kind of sixth-grade psychological bullshit was that? I had just gotten a job but I was pissed off at the guy who hired me.
Little did I know, this was just the beginning of a long career filled with not just anger, but frustration, violence, insanity, and, at times, great joys and triumphs. A career where I was to discover that somehow, I am one of those rare people who possess an infinite reserve of patience.
Now, what the hell is a "group home" again?
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