Thursday, May 24, 2007

Background This, Beyotch

By the way, I just got a call from (the company that is wildly enthusiastic about hiring me) investigative arm (rhymes with: yeah, right.) The woman on the other end of the line informed me that she was unable to verify my high school graduation, so she was going to have to return the hire to HR as a negative. I asked her whether she contacted Albany or the City of New York and she said, no, only the school and she's getting voice mail and no call back, I suggested that she understand that such records were likely held by the Board of Education of the City of New York or the Board of Regents in Albany since I was a Regent's Scholar. She said she couldn't make any inquiries beyond what was reported in the application. Why not? Isn't she an investigator?

I was losing my cool, inside, but I asked her what the solution was. She said that typically, this would mean that there would be no hire since she couldn't verify my information. I asked her if she was able to verify my college enrollment, etc. She said yes, that wasn't a problem. I asked her whether she thought it was logical that a person enrolled in college and having graduated and subsequently gainfully employed for 30 years might in fact have a High School Diploma? She said that unless I could produce the actual diploma and FedEx it to her by tomorrow that she would have to return a no-hire in her investigation. I told her that it was thirty years ago and that I wasn't even disposed to locating by car registration this morning, let alone an arcane document dating back nearly to the dawn of Man. She said there was nothing she could do but that I had plenty of time to "look around, maybe in a desk drawer or something" as it was only around noon. I wanted to scream "I'm in New Jersey, you cum-swilling paper jockey. It's 3 here, for fuck's sake." Instead, I said that it seemed very unlikely that I would be able to accommodate the request. She said, "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Well, good luck on your job search." And then she hung up. Major WTF moment. Californians are fucked in the head. By the way, her last name, she said, if Wall. So, that's what I was talking to, literally, a Wall.

In the meantime, they got to touch my balls, by proxy, since one of the other bizarre requirements is a complete physical exam, and I mean complete. In fact, the doctor might have looked more at home at a Mexican abortion clinic. In addition, I went to a lab to pee in a cup to see whether I'm a major abuser of drugs and/or alcohol. What's next? Testing positive for Marsala Sauce?