Work

Work

I have a job now. A job is like being a student except that you get paid and sometimes a big American man called Cliff makes you appear to have the mental capacity of a toddler in a meeting in front of some people that you don’t know very well and some that you don’t know at all*.

In my office there are at least five different companies at work. They are all run by a group of guys which is smaller than the number of companies. Thus, you will deduce that some of them are involved in more than one of the companies. If you imagine that there are six pies you are confusing matters by the introduction of baked goods. That was entirely unnecessary. Anyhow, this means that the hierarchy, rather than following the traditional pyramid structure, looks more like a spider web woven by a badger.

Despite this, everything seems to function rather well and it means that I get to do all sorts of different things with all sorts of different people and businesses. At the moment, I am principally working for a recruiting firm placing people in permanent roles mainly in finance. Nate (whose hair continues its retreat) also works with me on this. We also work with Alex, Christian, Marcos and Gianmarco who are in South America. We talk to these guys on Skype, sending them emoticons and links to videos of an agoraphobic cat. The boss man (not related to my vacuum) is Mike, who begins answers to all questions with ‘good question’, I like to think that I ask him silly questions to make him say it’s a good question but I don’t, because that would be silly.

Recruiting for me, centres around looking at peoples resumes (which in the US does not mean begins again but CV) and then calling them and asking them all sorts of challenging questions. This is actually quite fun and I enjoy talking to people. I also ask people at the end of our discussions if I could have done anything to make the interview better. They always say nice things because they want to be my friend, lover or get a job.

I have also been placed in charge of setting up a tutoring business in the northern New York Metro area using Yale postgraduate students. This is brainchild of David, who of all people, is at the top of Leonard’s (I forgot to mention the Badger is called Leondard) web. This is really cool because I essentially get to try starting up a business from scratch with someone else’s money. If it works out, it will look pretty pimpin’ on my CV/resume and if it doesn’t I will blame the market and it will look mildly pimpin’.

So all in all, the office life is actually pretty grand. Me and Nate often throw stuff at each other and no one really complains. Everyone is very relaxed about working hours which means that I often take work home with me. And whilst I have not fully acclimatized, I am growing increasingly used to fist bumping, being ‘super pumped’ about new clients and using exclamation marks in emails to make me look excited about stuff.

*The incident I am referring to occurred during a meeting on my first on site visit to our biggest client. I said something that was in fairness a little silly, fell into the old ‘just answer the question so someone in the room says something’ trap, and he responded as follows (I can’t remember his exact words but I shall attempt to give the overall impression):

‘Hey, stupid face! Yer, you, the one with the jacket. Why are you wearing a jacket? No one else in the room is wearing a jacket except for Kerry and she’s a girl. Are you a girl piss for balls? I thought not, because you’re a cretin. You have that dank towel smell that cretins have. Also the thing you said was really stupid’

But then he saw the bright red lining of my jacket and now we are BFFs.

Letter the first

Dear all,

As the Mayflower bore the founding fathers across the Atlantic to New England, Iron Maiden’s tour jet, ‘Ed Force One’ (see links at end) carried me on the second leg of my journey from Iceland to Newark. Where my historical trail blazers faced the wrath of the ocean and the threat of disease, I struggled with a lack of knowledge of the Icelandic krona's rate of exchange and thus no idea how costly a bottle of diet coke in Keflavik International Airport really was.

After successfully negotiating US border control, flying into an impressive, although entirely internal, rage at the idea of having to pay $5 (dollars are like pounds, only smaller in both stature and exchange value) to hire a luggage trolley, I boarded a public bus to my hotel. American culture lesson 1; white people do not tend to take the public bus. I did not feel in anyway threatened by my travelling companions, most of whom were returning from a day’s work at the airport through which I had just passed, but I did feel like a bit of a wally. This feeling became most acute whenever my mountainous collection of luggage inhibited fellow travelers attempts to alight or when my largest bag attempted to tackle an elderly Hispanic lady. And so it was that my arrival at the Penn Station Hilton was most welcome.

I tipped the bell boy (he was a man, but I feel it is important to distinguish him from a male campanologist, which as far as I’m aware, he wasn’t) $5 (see previous paragraph for explanation of ‘$’) for carrying my luggage to my room. This seemed quite a bit of money to give someone for a job that I was quite happy to do myself and took less than three minutes with most of the work being done by the elevator (an American species of lift). However, at this stage I was still very much at the beginning stages of American culture lesson 2: Americans tip for everything.

What follows is a brief aside. The US pricing system is baloney (both a kind of sausage and a synonym for ‘a sub-standard pricing system’). Firstly the tipping culture. I don’t feel it is necessary to tip a man 20% to use a bottle opener, if he should be paid more, increase the price of my beer so I don’t have to perform (granted basic) mental arithmetic in the latter stages of a night out. Secondly, sales tax is omitted from displayed prices. Don’t do that. It results in stupid change (another rant altogether, suffice to say the 10 cent coin is smaller than the 5 cent coin) and erodes some of the bonhomie that I have strived so hard to build up with vendors through mild flirting and disingenuous interest in their day. Enough of this…

Insert travel montage: Paddy buys ticket for train, Paddy sits down on train, Paddy spends entire journey trying not to stare at boy opposite who resembles a ginger chimp (not an orangutan, I had an hour and half to consider this, he looked like a chimp), Paddy arrives at Union Station New Haven. NB it is raining.

My first task in New Haven was to meet up with Ania (a friend from Cambridge for those who don’t know her. She has big boobies). She had been in the states for almost 2 weeks and I had arranged to spend her last 2 hours before her return journey in a coffee shop with her. This was nice. We both agreed Americans are silly and Yale looks like Disneyland Cambridge (‘the magic begins the moment you receive your acceptance letter’). Having dropped Ania off at the station, I am collected by Nate, my roommate.

Abandoning the strict, chronological structure that I have employed thus far, I would like to describe my roommates Nate (but that would fit perfectly into the aforementioned structure you say? Well, if you read the rest of the sentence…Jesus) and Chris:

Nathaniel Schier (Nate) is around my height (5’10”) and has a slight to medium build. He went to Pomona College, a small liberal arts college in Claremont California, where he majored in English. He also spent time studying abroad in Edinburgh and Beijing. He was recently in Hawaii where he taught old people English and did lots of surfing. Nate works with me and also plays rugby with me. He is losing his hair at an earlier age than he considers acceptable.

Chris Andreozzi is taller than me with a medium to large build. He went to Trinity College in Hartford Connecticut where I can’t remember what he majored in but I imagine it had something to do with psychology as he now works with children with depression in a local hospital. He also plays rugby with me. I like to think he sounds like a character in the Sopranos, but he doesn’t.

Now that is out of the way, it seems only right to describe the space in which we inhabit. 309 Humphrey Street, New Haven, CT, 06511 is a red brick town house (?) that has been divided into a number between 1 and 6, apartments. Ours is the uppermost, occupying the entirety of the 3^rd floor. This is nice because it means we have a lot of space and good light in the living room through two skylights located in between the whitewashed beams of the roof. This is nasty because the stairs are narrow and so we can only purchase collapsible furniture (read: futons). Our greatest achievement as a trio + Chris’ Dad was the successful de and reconstruction of a 47” rear projection television which now holds sway in the corner of the lounge. One of the previous residents was apparently a now-bald Asian lady, and thus the war against her all present legacy is a daily routine. Unfortunately, what should be our greatest weapon, our vacuum cleaner, sucks like (insert easy joke here). The fact that the pathetic, yellow failure of an appliance is called ‘Whirlwind: THE BOSS’ adds insult. So we are left with the joyous task of picking dark, strands of lady hair from every nook, cranny and niche (the Americans pronounce this nitch. As previously mentioned, they are silly) by hand.

Well, my fingertips are well worn and I can’t feel my feet (General life lesson number 1327: do not write 1071 and counting words sitting on a toilet) so I will sign off. In future I will compose something equally banal about my office, rugby and other things what are here. You would have to be literally entirely chuffing mentile to miss out on that.

All the best,

Paddy

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