The Interview with Dick

My first interview with the bank went remarkably well. For whatever reason, I couldn’t stop talking. The woman was so friendly, even asking if I would be interested in upper management. I left the interview and my boyfriend and I went to the Pirates game. They lost.

The second interview was with my current manager. For reasons of privacy I will just call him Dick, because that is what he is. I walked in and he said, “Okay. I’m not good at this whole interviewing thing. So I guess, just tell me about yourself.” That’s enough to get me started. I started talking about my education because at that time, I had just graduated from college. I attended a small liberal arts college that was known in the area as being pretty prestigious. He interrupted my story. He said:

“You know, college graduates think that they are worth more than they actually are. They come to places like this and just expect to be paid good, like I am. They think they are something that they just ain’t.”

My ears actually started bleeding. Mostly because he was degrading my education and then throwing “ain’t” and “good” into his dialogue. He was an arrogant prick, the same age as me, with no education whatsoever. I felt like someone was messing with me. This Dick couldn’t be real. All of my life, all that I have known was that I had to go to college. Now this guy was slamming me for my education. Somebody dressed this bum up in a shirt and tie and slapped him with the title of manager and now he believes that this has given him superiority over the rest of us. Screw that. I left the interview pissed and was even more pissed when I got the job working in his store.

From the moment I started working he gave me menial tasks, like filing and shredding paper. When a new pretty blond was hired after I was, I realized that I was still being assigned these shitty jobs and I complained. Why should I have to shred paper? Is it because I have brown hair and brown eyes? He replied, “Oh Holly! You said that you like to shred paper and file.” As if I would EVER say something to that extent.

I needed out, but I needed money. So I discovered an internal internship program that would, I thought, rescue me from the madness. I was told by Human Resources that I was eligible after six months, but Dicky Dick claims that it is twelve and refuses to sign off on any papers allowing me to leave the branch. So I am stuck with this miserable Dick that thinks that his K-mart tie looks like Kenneth Cole and that “ain’t” is an acceptable word to use in public.