I’ll never know what might have happened had I taken the job (apart from, you know, sheer misery). The message Jerry left, well, I didn’t hear it until a couple of weeks later. And I figured that calling back so long afterward wouldn’t reflect well. That I’d only be making a fool of myself by reaching out now. After all this time. So unprofessional. But then, what about me could have possibly said “professional” to Jerry? Maybe this was all on him in the end…for thinking—even for a moment—that I could be something like “responsible.” Believing this is what had set him up for disaster in the first place. The disaster of hoping that he could count on someone to work the shitty job he was offering.

I’m not sure how I failed to notice the voicemail notification so long after it came through. Apart from the fact that, not so deep down, I didn’t want the job at all. Had only pursued it because I knew that few others would want it, thereby making the usually stiff competition I had to face over any job much less intense than usual. At the interview, Jerry, the supervisor in question, looked me up and down unabashedly. Not in a sexual way (or at least I don’t think it was), but rather, in a more clinically appraising way. A way that seemed to question, “Does this woman really have what it takes?”

His roving eyes were only part of what had unnerved me during that interview. It was also that, for a few minutes there, I was forced to picture what my life would be if I was actually hired. And what it would be—what it would mean—is this: a nonstop banality horror show. Every day, week after week, year after year, I would be spending most of my hours in the dark, dank basement of this dim sum restaurant. A restaurant that time and God seemed to have forgotten. The main reason I would be in the basement for most of my shift was because that’s where the business’ own personal, industrial-strength washer and dryer were located. And the crux of the “role” (that word designed to make a job sound so much more “twee” than it is) would be, in essence, doing laundry.

When I wasn’t doing that, I’d be upstairs in a cramped corner of the kitchen washing dishes (and bamboo steamers). So no, I suppose I couldn’t really blame Jerry for studying me so scrutinizingly. Because even I had to wonder if I was capable of this. Especially in the long-term. He was asking for a minimum one-year commitment, after all. Which was a lot to expect for a job as soulless and low-paying as this—if he was, in fact, genuinely presuming that anyone who agreed to it would keep their promise.

As for me, I was the kind of person who kept their word. And that’s probably why I was already taking the weight of this job so seriously. Even though I didn’t have it “in the bag.” If I really did get it, I could envision how my life would start to slip out of my hands, slowly but surely. And yeah, a lot of people would probably just tell me that was the nature of working in general: losing your life. But no, I refused to fall prey to that “logic.” There were people out there—maybe not legions, but a few—who actually enjoyed what they did. What they do. And if enjoyment is too much to ask, then it could still be said there were people out there who, at the bare minimum, didn’t hate what they did. That was all I was really asking for.

God, how had it come to this? I had big dreams once, and now all I can aspire to wish for, evidently, is not hating the place I might potentially have to be and the things I might potentially have to do for eight hours a day. Though, really, it’s much more time than that when you factor in the commute and the “odds and ends” tasks that are done before and after a shift starts.

With this terribleness, this torture in mind, why was it so difficult for people to understand where I was coming from? They so often looked at me like I had three heads when I complained to them about the shitty “options” of this existence—which were ultimately no options at all: work or die. Some fuckin’ choice. Jerry didn’t appear to notice or care that all of this was running through my mind as he painted a picture of what my shift would be like each and every single day. Described, too, in that droning Ben Stein manner that only served to accentuate how monotonous it would all be: “You’ll come in, empty the dryer, sort the linens by size and color, fold the items, stack and stock them in their designated cabinets and drawers. You’ll then take what you need upstairs to start putting fresh linens on every single table in the dining hall. It doesn’t matter if the tables already have linens on them from the day before, no matter whether it ‘looks clean’ or not. This is all part of our standard for excellence. We’re the best in Chinatown.”

It was all I could do to resist retorting, “If it’s so goddamn excellent, why does this place look and feel like a tomb?” But, naturally, I bit my tongue. Just like I always do. More societal conditioning. Including the conditioned belief that working is everything. But looking around that sorry joint as Jerry walked me out, I knew it couldn’t be. And maybe that’s why I “didn’t get the message” until two weeks after he had called to tell me he wanted to talk about my start date. I listened to it in full, in total disbelief that he could want to hire me after observing how obviously I radiated total disdain for the “role.” For the environment. Yet there the message was: “Hi Claire, it’s Jerry over at Madame Butterfly Dim Sum. Just wanted to talk to you about some potential start dates. Looking forward to having you on board.”

“On board”? Ha! I’d rather walk the plank and try my odds there. Besides, I imagine he found some other simp, some other patsy in between now and the day he left me that phony baloney “welcome.” He would have welcomed anyone. There’s always someone willing. Some unfortunate sap without the “luxury” of saying no. And that was the other thing about me that no one could sympathize with: my ability to be all “la-di-da” about getting a job, no matter how thankless, how underpaying. But I didn’t see them being ready to take to sleeping on the streets in order to prove how committed they supposedly were to their principles. In any case, at least I clocked how to sneak into the restaurant after hours to add a new location to my list of “places to crash.” Certainly not places to work.