looking for work

Oak Street is a hotbed for random social interactions. Walking out of the lake merritt bart station, I'm worrying about finding a job. Standing at the corner waiting for the light to change and the girl standing there peaks around the light post. Excuse me, do you have a cell phone? It's been over a year, but I remember her. The last time she asked me if I had a cell was at the 19th street bart station. She must be fifteen and not too friendly, but cool. I say, didn't you use my phone before. She looks at me and laughs. Oh yeah, you remember faces. Well you're the only one whose ever asked. She says thank you after she's done talking and I say you're welcome. I wish I would have said what's your name, see you next time. I go to an interview on 14th Street, just a few blocks from my apartment. It's with a IT recruiting company, I think. Even after the interview I'm still not sure what they do or what the position entails exactly. An ability to surf the web is one of the main requirements, as is familiarity with microsoft word. I feel myself shutting down as soon as I walk in the office. It's all plastic and fake. It's a large office, but there's no one in there. I keep wondering if its all a scam. It only pays $8 an hour. She wants me to tell her about myself. She wants a real interview, but she can't really tell me about the position. She wants me to explain what Humanities is. Lady, I don't have a clue! Look it up in the dictionary and let me know. All I know is I can't spend another second in this office. Interviews are a form of torture in which you have to pretend to be happy. No, it' not going to work out because yes I'm into art and culture and not low-paying fake positions with fake companies. I could never work here no matter how broke I am. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I have this other interview for a phone canvassing position with an environmental company. They're always hiring, but who's giving them money in a recession? It's in Frank Ogawa Plaza. As I'm rushing there, I'm thinking I don't really want this job either. Calling people and asking for money even if it's for a good cause is mind-altering torture. I finally find the building with two minutes to go before I'm late. I'm trying to decide if I should go in or just go get some coffee. I opt for the coffee. Waiting for the light to change in Old Oakland, a man coming towards me is yelling at everyone he passes. I'm trying to go wherever he's not going. I don't make eye contact. I think he does call me a faggot, but it feels different because he's obviously not well. He's making everybody scared even the middle-class white dads on their lunch breaks. They've stopped on the sidewalk, waiting to see what he's going to do. He calls them faggot. That's weird, I think. I wonder how they process that one. I wonder if they've ever been called faggot before.