“If you would like the job at Lucca’s it is yours, you just need to come in and interview with Ken” Jasmine told me over the phone. “I need to know if you want it by the time I am off of work tonight” she continued, “I have to get back to work, see you at eight when you pick me up.” Do I want to work at this restaurant? For Ken, the guy who keeps Jasmine late and calls her at the last minute? The guy who never gave her the raise? The guy who never cares about requested days off? Why would I choose to work for a place that I have heard countless awful things about? Despite my anxieties, I had never had a job, so this was exciting. The possibility of having money sounded especially enjoyable, I could imagine myself driving to Chipotle to buy
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In my panic this did not help one bit, I hung up the phone and tossed it on my bed next to black jeans which seemed to be my only option for pants. As I gazed around the room, I realized it had become a war zone. The clothes that were obviously not appropriate for a job interview were lying lifeless on the ground similar to fallen soldiers and, the candidates that did get as far as my bed looked like the wounded waiting for the attention of a nurse. As I walked over assessing the damage done and the few options that I had left, I glimpsed out of the corner of my eye an untouched skirt hanging up in the closet.
I walked over, took it off the hanger and held it up to my body and glanced in the mirror. The black maxi skirt went down to my ankles. This is perfect! It’s conservative yet it didn’t seem like clothes that my grandmother would wear. I examined my bed there a white long sleeve shirt that had an elephant on it. The shirt would work with the skirt so I threw it on and headed out the door for the …show more content…
He is tall enough that I have to tilt my head back slightly to make eye contact when we speak. As I look him in the eyes, he appears tired and one of his eyes is droopier than the other. He has thin blonde hair; he almost looks bald. He has broad shoulders that took up a majority of the hall we were in. He put thought into each of his movements. There was a familiar smell in the air as he approached that I couldn’t quite place. As I shook his hand, I focused on giving the perfect handshake that is always stressed by every professional, not too firm yet not too loose, not too long but not too brief, his hand was freezing and rough. By now Ken was asking questions and speaking slowly; I answered the questions intelligently fearing that he thought he should slow down his speech because I couldn’t keep up. Does my outfit not say that I know what I am doing, even though I don’t have a clue? I hope that I come across as presentable. After about two minutes of us talking, he began to lean up against the wall. Don’t lean up against the wall Cheyenne it is unprofessional, no matter how tempting it
In my panic this did not help one bit, I hung up the phone and tossed it on my bed next to black jeans which seemed to be my only option for pants. As I gazed around the room, I realized it had become a war zone. The clothes that were obviously not appropriate for a job interview were lying lifeless on the ground similar to fallen soldiers and, the candidates that did get as far as my bed looked like the wounded waiting for the attention of a nurse. As I walked over assessing the damage done and the few options that I had left, I glimpsed out of the corner of my eye an untouched skirt hanging up in the closet.
I walked over, took it off the hanger and held it up to my body and glanced in the mirror. The black maxi skirt went down to my ankles. This is perfect! It’s conservative yet it didn’t seem like clothes that my grandmother would wear. I examined my bed there a white long sleeve shirt that had an elephant on it. The shirt would work with the skirt so I threw it on and headed out the door for the …show more content…
He is tall enough that I have to tilt my head back slightly to make eye contact when we speak. As I look him in the eyes, he appears tired and one of his eyes is droopier than the other. He has thin blonde hair; he almost looks bald. He has broad shoulders that took up a majority of the hall we were in. He put thought into each of his movements. There was a familiar smell in the air as he approached that I couldn’t quite place. As I shook his hand, I focused on giving the perfect handshake that is always stressed by every professional, not too firm yet not too loose, not too long but not too brief, his hand was freezing and rough. By now Ken was asking questions and speaking slowly; I answered the questions intelligently fearing that he thought he should slow down his speech because I couldn’t keep up. Does my outfit not say that I know what I am doing, even though I don’t have a clue? I hope that I come across as presentable. After about two minutes of us talking, he began to lean up against the wall. Don’t lean up against the wall Cheyenne it is unprofessional, no matter how tempting it