It was a little more than two weeks ago when I had my first interview with Asshole and Associates.* At first, the people I interviewed seemed very nice. I liked them. I thought "I could work here, depsite what I've heard about Asshole and Associates having a reputation for being aggressive. These people seem nice. And I need a job."

I am rarely a good judge of whether or not an interview has gone well (I can judge when it's gone spectacularly badly, I suppose, but beyond that, it seems unclear). But apparently, it went well, because a few days later, they called to ask for a second interview. "Great," I thought.

Actually, what I probably thought was "I need a job." Because that is the thought that runs through my head pretty much 24 hours of every day. ineedajob ineedajob ineedajob. I wake up in an apartment I can't afford and spend the better part of my days watching daytime television and searching for jobs, because those things don't cost money. But anyway, an interview is generally a necessary step on the job-finding process, so I'm always happy to go on those.

The second interview was with the head of Asshole and Associates, we'll call him "Mr. Asshole." * * It didn't seem to start off on a high note, when Mr. Asshole asked me what I'd been reading lately and I mentioned Moneyball among others. He asked me if I was a baseball fan. I said "Yes, Red Sox fan, I'm from around Boston." He shook his head, not in a good-humored way, but in a "That's-no-good" way. Then he said "Hm. That's no good." Then I noticed all the Yankees memorabilia on his shelf.

He also made this awkward by repeatedly pausing to think to himself and refusing to respond to the continuous smile I was determined to project. After about 15 minutes of relatively conversation, it was over and I left somewhat unsure what to make of it all.

I go home and I wait. Well, I go on with my life, because one does have to do that. But all the while, needajob needajob needajob runs thorugh my head.

Following a dispute with UPS, who failed to deliver a package because they claimed, they couldn't find my address, I decided that after a month of living in the apartment, it might be time to fix the name on the doorbell so that it actually said I lived there.

In the two minutes that it took me to go downstairs and replace the label—a miniscule task that I'd overlooked for nearly six weeks—my phone rang. I returned to the room as my phone was just finishing the final bars of my voicemail ring. I pick up the phone and realize "Hey, Asshole and Associates!" I listen to the message.

"Hi Caroline, this is Mr. Asshole. Please give me a call."

I nearly jump up and down as I start dialing the number. Who calls to reject you and then doesn't do it to your voicemail? It must be an offer! Nobody makes you return a call to get a rejection!

A long time ago, when I was more optimistic, but realistic, I felt, I set a date for myself. September 15th. After that time, if I was still unemployed, I'd freak out. But not until then. (Constantly thinking "I need a job" is not really freaing out, I think.) And for a few minutes, I am absolutely elated that I have probably just made it in under the wire. Thank you, God.

My optimism is slightly sullied when I get the assistant. "I'm so sorry to make you wait," she says, "But he's actually just gone into a meeting." A meeting. At 6:54 on a Monday night. In my limited interactions with Asshole and Associates, I've come to learn "a meeting" means "another call" or "not here now" or any number of things.

So I hang up and I wait.

8:12 p.m., Monday: I try calling one more time, reasonably sure they've gone home for the evening, but I'd just like to check. Just voicemail. I resign myself to wait until the morning, when they will surely call.

9:12 a.m., Tuesday: I wake up, anxious. They start at 9:30. Just a few more minutes, and I will know my fate. Hurrah.

9:48 a.m., Tuesday: A... few... more minutes...

9:54 a.m., Tuesday: Perhaps he has not seen the message from me, so I will call.

9:56 a.m., Tuesday: He's "in a meeting."

10:30 a.m., Tuesday: I take my phone with me to the bathroom while I shower. Just in case.

10:48 a.m., Tuesday: The phone rings!! But shit, it's not them.

12:13 p.m., Tuesday: I call again. Now he's "out of town today" but I'm told they're emailing him his messages, so they'll send another one saying I called.

The rest of Tuesday and Wednesday are spent in a semi-paralyzed state, wherein my thoughts alternate regularly from neeedajob needajob neeeeedajob to WHY THE FUCK HAVEN'T THEY CALLED YET?

To spare you the gruesome and painful details of my waiting through the next few days, in which I am unable to stop checking my phone every 30 seconds or, talking about the situation to various friends and family members (sorry about that, guys), I finally, finally, finally(!) get a call on Thursday.

And, it turns out, they really liked me. They came very close to hiring me—so close, in fact, that Mr. Asshole had indeed called to offer me the position. But in the approximately two hundred seconds between calling me and my returning their call, a girl they'd been interviewing for another, slightly less-entry-level postion there had called. Now, this girl had been rejected from the job she'd initially applied for, but apparently, fallen in love with Asshole and Associate or somesuch thing, because, in the two minutes it took me to return the call, she called them and offered herself up for the assistant position.

So they gave her my job.

But, they said, we did really like you. So we'll let you know if we hear of anything else that opens up somewhere else.

And like an idiot, I just say thank you.

* Name changed to protect myself from being googled.

* * Not his real name, but maybe it should be.