Hunting Out of Season

Deer hunting season was not a concept I was familiar with until my freshman year in college when I walked into Rall Hall room 209 and saw my roommate's desktop background - a photo of a massive animal, gutted and hanging from it's hind legs.

My first reaction was to exit the room immediately and seek refuge in a room down the hall. Having grown up anywhere but the boonies, I could only assume that my roommate was deranged. Although that still may be true, she assured me that she was only displaying that picture because where she's from, deer hunting is a really, really big deal.

And it's true - to some people, deer hunting is just another part of the holiday festivities. Hauling out the ol' .22, donning bright orange vests so no one gets shot, and hanging bleeding animals from garage ceiling rafters are just as important as Christmas tree decorations, apple cider, and the mistletoe.

But the truth is, all of us can relate to this strange and festive custom. Oh, we hunt. We certainly hunt. Just not for deer. We hunt for jobs.

Now picture this: 9.1 percent of the U.S. American labor force, crouched low to the ground, behind nearly every tree, hiding, watching, waiting, and, of course, armed. And these folks don't wear orange vests - no, no-o-o. Friendly fire is fair game, and unlike deer, jobs are always out of season.

Yesterday, I thought my hunting days might come to an end when I received a phone call about a job opportunity at around 12:20 pm.

"Hey, is this Grace?" A quiet, mumbling voice asked. "My name is _______. I'm calling because one of my employees said you might be interested in working here at ___________. Would you be interested in interviewing for the position?"

To be honest, it was my day off. I was in an unshowered, pajama'ed haze, and it took me a moment to process what he said, but I answered sure and asked when would be a good time to meet.

"12:30?"

My eyes bugged out at my laptop screen. "In ten minutes?"

"Well, yeah."

My first instinct was to leap into the shower, throw on a pair of dress pants, and Cruella DeVil it down to...wait, where was it?

"Where is it?"

"Uhh...I don't really know."

I suddenly became very unimpressed with this man. "No, I cannot make it in ten minutes. I will email you my resume, and if you'd like to meet me at three, let me know where." That's right. Don't mess with me when I'm wearing my greasy-hair-headband.

He complied and I felt victorious as I meandered around my room and then down to the kitchen for a bite to eat, not rushing to get ready.

Later, we agreed to meet at three. At two-forty-five, when I was nearly there, my phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Can we push it back to four?"

I was silent for a moment, gripping my bright red steering wheel to compose myself. He realized I was already en route, and we agreed to still meet at three in the restaurant. Which turned out to be closed.

After more confusion, we finally sat down and began the interviewing process. He seemed like a very nice man with a good vocabulary. But when he couldn't find an application because his briefcase was really a canvas duffle bag full of loose papers and when he explained to me that the position would only be temporary and perhaps only as-needed, I knew in the back of my mind that I would let this deer go.

Even though I'm a fairly new hunter, I've learned a major trick of the trade. So long as you are not financially bound to accept whatever is offered to you first, do not accept a job offer when you know you could perform your potential boss's duties better than him or her.

Unless you plan on taking over the company one day.

And I have no such plans. So Imma get my rifle.

EDIT: My freshman year roommate is not deranged - maybe a little kooky, but not deranged. I'm sure she won't mind me saying so.

My New '92 Licks Route 66

Route 66 gas station, pump number two. It was only my third time pumping gas into my new car. The first time - at the same location, in fact - was a disaster, so I thought my folks at the double six would cut me some slack.

Pulling my hood over my head and clutching my keys in my fist, I scrambled to the trunk. Yes, I have to open my trunk to open my gas tank. Thank you, Mercury Topaz '92 manufacturers. After finagling with the little black gas tank lid (Lid or top? Little black gas tank top sounds like an article of clothing from Candies), I swiped my card and hopped up and down to keep warm until the screen read "zip code". I punched in the digits, but the buttons did not work. 

I tried again. I tried using my thumb. I tried using my finger nail. All of my weight concentrated into my right hand as I pushed so hard I thought I would give birth to those five little numbers.

I marched into the gas station, keys and card in hand. I stood in line behind three burly looking men buying lotto tickets and Marlboros, and then I approached the counter.

"The buttons at pump number two aren't working, soooo...What do you want me to do? Is the pump broken or can I just pay in here?"

"Yeah, just pull up to one."

"I already did...It's not working," I ventured, confused about his unfriendly demeanor.

"No. Pull up to number one," he replied, stressing his p's and b's.  He lifted his pointer finger as he spoke and looked up at me as his chin rested against his neck which was similar in diameter to a can of Folger's Coffee.

"Can't I just pay here for pump two?" 

"Hey, you asked what I wanted you to do." The overweight gas station man in the white a-shirt with who-knows-what-stains looked annoyed.

"Right, but I don't care what you want anymore." I all but put my hand over my mouth after that one, I couldn't believe I'd actually said it.

Folgers made that scraping noise in the back of his throat that people make when they're peeved, but he swiped my card. I pleased and thank you'd my way out the door since I was cringing with guilt and can be more than a bit of a fake-o sometimes.

But he was pushing me around. And he did have an attitude. So I zipped back to my car, wondering whether it was better to speak my mind, since it got me what I wanted, or to remain polite, since it would leave me guilt-free, even if it was at the cost of my pride.

My Topaz sounded a childish "pbbbttthhh!" as I drove away. I like to imagine it was compensating for my fake politeness by farewelling Coffee Can Neck in precisely the way I wish I could have. Thank you, Mercury Topaz '92 manufacturers.