Tutor

The average rainfall during October in Los Angeles is .37 inches. That's less than the average quantity of spittle that's likely to make a daring exit from my mouth during the average job interview. Nevertheless, on October 13 it poured, misted, doused, came down in buckets, let up, then rained cats and dogs some more. Stubbornly, I set out on my bike enveloped in a mild mist, clad in a wimpy teal jacket and convinced that averages were on my side. It would in all probability be blazing sunny by the time I figured out which buses to take anyway.

Looking for a job in LA, I've started to artfully conceal my carlessness the same way some people dance around outright declarations of political affiliation or sexuality. It's the kind of personal fact that is strangely important to employers, many of whom want to know they can send you on totally personal errands without feeling guilty that you might break a sweat in the process.

By the time I crossed downtown and made my way to the harrowing far right lane of Firestone Blvd, I was drenched and cursing God quite vocally, with 10 or so miles still to go. All this moist blasphemy and duress wasn't even for a proper interview so to speak, but an “audition” with an after school tutoring program. Appropriately called Brain Hurricane, the steps for employment as put forth by the website were attractively simple: “After you (1) attend an audition, (2) are offered a position, and (3) complete the training, you will be ready to join the hurricane team.” 1. 2. 3. I appreciate concision. Straightforwardness.

Please. God. Anyone. Employ me.

I finally arrive at a small Pentecostal church in Downey, CA, decidedly worse for the wear. Smoothing down what went up and wringing out my entirely soaked apparel as much as possible, I enter a portable building behind the modest church, already populated by people of every age, race, and creed, who for all their differences all look like they probably drive earth-toned sedans. There are six tables with five chairs at each. 

There's something about this dreary assemblage that reminds me of a funeral reception for a corporate figure. Someone no one really knew, but still has to acknowledge no longer exists, even if only conceptually. The only distinguishing factor about any of us there is a sickly stale sense of desperation. We all rise. The team leader beaming with hollow zeal, her rayon pant suit rustling unwholesomely. We are instructed to form a semi-circle around the front of the room.

There are no refreshments. No snacks. Free pens though, and plenty of. 

“Okay Guys. Let's do a little introduction here.”

She turns to the person next to her, an elderly woman with a goiter on her neck, and says

“HiHowareyouNicetomeetyouGottaGoBye,” as one rising and falling and rising again word.

“Now you all turn to your neighbor and do this, saying  HiHowareyouNicetomeetyouGottaGoBye at the same time, while shaking hands. Good that's it. Now try to 'meet' as many people as you can in 45 seconds”.

Imagine a roomful of frenzied, desperate and confused adults trying to impress someone with their ability to “meet” as many people as possible before the time expires. Greasy palms graze my own, eyes skimming from one rigorously affected smile to the next, murmurs on top of murmurs on top of vain attempts to enunciate or even understand what is the point or if this is some kind of test and if so how how do I pass.

I can't remember how many people I met, but I know I took five pens home with me.