I got a job at the school I like. Here’s how it happened.
I mentioned in my last entry that my friend’s place doesn’t have Internet, so I’ve been lugging my laptop to various free wifi hotspots. Well, it turns out the baseball stadium, which is right around the corner, is such a hotspot. The coverage extends to the waterfront, where I’ve taken to sitting on a bench under some trees, looking out on the moored boats—not far from the fishing pier I mentioned last time, although the pier itself is just out of range.
It’s a pleasant spot, except for one inconvenience and one nagging concern. The inconvenience is that my screen is all but unreadable in direct sunlight, forcing me to take shelter under those trees. And the nagging concern is that the trees also shelter some avian bombardiers who’ve given the area a real blitzing. It looks like a monochromatic paintball range, and every time I open my laptop out there, I run the risk of getting guano in the keys.
The cell phone situation is likewise problematic. Either because my friend’s place is in the interior of the building, overlooking a courtyard instead of the street, or because my carrier isn’t the best, I can only make or receive calls if I sit right by the window with the phone plugged in. The signal doesn’t reach the bedroom area, where I use the phone as an alarm.
This got me into trouble two Fridays ago. I had set the alarm for eleven, and when the phone rang at about that time, I fumbled with it and resumed dreaming, go-getter that I am. A few minutes later, the phone rang again, which was, er, alarming, since I hadn’t hit snooze. It was now eleven on the dot. So this was the alarm, and the earlier, false alarm was a call that had somehow gotten through. A call that I had hung up on. Was it the school I was waiting to hear from? One of the other schools I had contacted? A potential housemate? Finally jolted awake, I tried to recover the number, but apparently my phone only logs missed calls, not ones that are outright rejected.
I could have called the school to check in, but I was already planning to visit in person (as part of the “stick to them like glue” strategy I enunciated last time), and I figured it would be better to turn up first thing on a Monday rather than last thing on a Friday. When I woke up Monday afternoon, I decided that first thing on a Tuesday would suffice. And by Tuesday afternoon, a pattern was beginning to emerge.
Wednesday afternoon, I was again sleeping late and feeling like an egg in an incubator, when a beep from my cell phone roused me. Someone had left me a message early that morning, and the alert for it had just reached my phone, several hours later. Perhaps it had been butting against the window trying different spots, like a bug. The message wasn’t from the school I was most interested in, but rather a more businesslike academy that I had contacted before I flew out here. They hadn’t responded right away, and I had written them off, but from the sound of it, they were in urgent need of a teacher.
This was a welcome development, but one that required a little finesse. I was more interested in working at the school that hadn’t yet contacted me than the one that had, so I wanted to get in touch with them first. There was also another school, which I had just emailed the night before from my spot outside the stadium. Only, I wasn’t sure the email had gone through, because literally seconds after I hit the send button, my computer ran out of juice and shut down. I wanted to check on the status of the email, which meant heading back out there to get online. And I was under some time pressure in all this, because it was getting on towards close of business. The most pressing concern of all, however, was getting a cup of tea in me, since I was way too groggy to make good decisions or impress potential employers.
After a quick cup of English breakfast, feeling considerably sharper, I trotted over to the stadium and took up my position in the shade and faded splatter. I got online and determined that my email to the third school had gone through (or at least it was in my sent mail folder), but I hadn’t received a reply. One down, two to go.
Next, I called the school that I had been waiting to hear from. When the director came on, he began, “The reason I called you . . .” So he had called me. The Friday before, when I had accidentally hung up on someone? Or more recently, while I was unreachable inside the apartment? I didn’t ask, not wanting to sound quite so unprofessional. The important thing was that they had a class to offer me. We agreed that I would come by the following afternoon to iron out the details.
Finally, I called the school that had left the message. I apologized for the delay in getting back to them and said that I was interested in the class, but if it was in the morning, I already had a commitment (as of a minute before). It was indeed a morning class, but we agreed that I would come by the next day so we could meet face to face, in case something came up down the road.
Which I did, and while it certainly seemed like a respectable place, it didn’t seem like my kind of place. Too formal. I could tell that work there would feel like, of all things, work. (Keep in mind that I don’t get paid much. I consider actually enjoying what I do to be part of the compensation.)
Later, I met with the directors at the other school. (It turns out there are two.) From the phone call the day before, my understanding was that I pretty much had the job, but we conducted an interview anyway, and actually, it was a lot more comprehensive than the chat that had gotten me in the door the first time. Still relaxed though. The only tricky part was communicating my philosophy of teaching and work without sounding like a total slacker.
And, well, I got the job. Afterwards, I paid my first visit to Japantown, feeling triumphant and at the same time reverent, like I was actually in a foreign country, and a tranquil one at that.
I got home pulverized from walking all over town (and operating on very little sleep, since I had gotten up at a reasonable hour) and put on some celebratory Sam Cooke.
Oh, my baby’s coming home tomorrow
Ain’t that good news
Man, ain’t that news
And then, after taking a short while to rest up, I went back out to my “office” to get on the Internet. It didn’t take long for a bird to shit right next to me. I actually consider this the last in a string of successes and lucky strikes, since I only got a bit of spatter on the computer, in easy-to-clean places, and it so clearly could have been worse. But I did take it as a sign that my time in that office is done.
