Interview Number 1

I haven't been on here for a while. In all fairness nobody wants to read the rants of a slightly neurotic type-A who has not been gainfully employed for a while, least of all me. Accepting the old saw "it's darkest before the dawn" and contemplating that there really is something waiting over the horizon despite the past few months of unemployed hell, here I am. Either that's a pink tinge of sunlight over yonder or someone poured gasoline down a toilet and threw a match into the septic tank.

I went to my first lawyer-job interview today. True to form I was a little tired, well-dressed and had my resume, writing sample and application forms neatly lined up in my shiny new leather portfolio. Having not slept much last night and prior interview experiences ensured a distinct lack of nervousness, and I arrived at the station with 15 minutes to spare.

I found the Nixon-era high rise that housed my potential employer without much problem. After waiting in a dingy lobby for ye olde lift, my newly polished shoes carried me into the well-padded service elevator. Ears popping I landed on the right floor and went in search of a ladies' room. Women's bathroom, locked and combo'd. Men's room, push to open. I'm not above using a men's room in an emergency, but a quick check with my bladder assured me that this wasn't really a necessary risk to take.

Not being in high panic mode nor being desperate for facilities gave me the opportunity to leisurely take in my surroundings. A few minutes of this observation exercise made me suspect this turn of events may be the glow of a lit septic tank after all.

I located the office just a few fluorescent-lit steps away from the locked bathroom. The door opened to reveal a small square room straight out of a dime-store crime novel. Poor lighting revealed a stained mustard-colored carpet, a broken water cooler with plastic cups stacked on top of the water tank, secondhand office chairs that complemented the floor, and an ancient table virtually sagging under back copies of the Washingtonian.

This place, fit for a washed-out, bulbous-nosed, chain-smoking PI is actually not a law firm. Surprise. It's a contract agency, which basically provides temp work for lawyers. Thankfully the tall, elegant ebony-skinned woman who greeted me was not the gum-smacking, aqua-netted, tight-skirt-wearing receptionist I was half expecting.

The interview itself went okay. There are some colorful illustrations I could draw out for you about how things went, but in the interest of fairness to my interviewer I'll restrain myself. I will say that after nearly an hour of her describing the horrible conditions of temp work - you may not be able to enter and exit the same doors as the firm's employees OR eat in the same cafe, and don't expect any pats on the back as there are NONE to be had for temp scum - I spent 10 minutes explaining how I didn't mind any of those things and I would work anywhere, 'cause you gotta pay your dues, right? Yeah, I can be pretty convincing.

Interview complete and back down into the subway I went. I did a bit of daydreaming on the way home, but curiosity kept my eyes wandering. At one point a huge man in uniform toting a box labeled "Human Blood- Keep Refrigerated" crossed my vision as he walked down the bus ramp in front of the Pentagon. I've seen some random things around DC, so not much is fazing me these days, but the camo-wrapped hulk's blood box did start me wondering if donating plasma for funds is still legal...