We Were Expecting…

The calls came in. Two or three of them, but all I needed was one job offer. I’d accept almost anything that paid more than minimum wage and didn’t involve me explaining to large women that we sold junior sized clothing and maybe she’d like to try a XXL? [I, myself, as I always pointed out, was wearing a large.]

I had my first real job interview. It was in the business side of town, in a tall building. The interview was as a phone and computer operator for the Hawaiian telephone company. I wasn’t sure what the job entailed, but it didn’t seem too hard and I was happy that I had this interview.

I was excited as I wore slacks and a button down shirt, riding the bus downtown. (I ditched the bike so I wouldn’t arrive all sweaty.) I entered the building and the receptionist pointed me into the waiting room. I sat on a chair, feet firmly on the ground, hands in my lap, trying not to fidget too much. I waited. About five minutes later a woman in her late thirties or early forties came into the room. She called my name. [Here's the part where I mention that I've got a guy's name. In Israel, it's unisex, but somehow in the states, it's exclusively a man's name.] I stood up. She looked around the empty room and called my name again. I said “that’s me.” She looked at me and I repeated my name, reassuring her it was I she was looking for. “Oh,” she started to stammer, glancing down at my resume, “we were expecting a… uh, someone taller.” Her face flushed and I knew she meant “a man”. “I’m very tall,” I reassured her, “especially when wearing heels.” I joked at my own expense. I’d need really high heels to be taller than my 152 cm [5'1"] allowed me.

A few days later I got a call that they were interesting in continuing the hiring process and sent me to do drug tests. I wasn’t all that crazy about the company and the first woman’s lack of tact, but I went and did the drug test as requested. I still needed a decent paying job. Long hours at the store, knowing it really wasn’t worth the effort, wasn’t doing me much good.

Before I got the results from the drug test back, I got called into another interview. This one was at Decision Research Corporation and they were a small computer company. They were looking for a database administrator when they saw my resume. During the interview, they seemed pleased with my knowledge of SQL and Oracle and the fact that I served in the IDF’s intelligence unit. I was hired on the spot.

Next time the phone company called, I rejected their offer, telling them I had already found employment elsewhere. They seemed mad at the fact that I wasted their time and money, but I didn’t feel too bad about it.

I started working at DRC almost immediately. I was left on my own most of the time. It was a strange feeling of independence, mixed in with the fear that I would somehow screw things up and prove to be a bad employee. I kept the job at the store for a few more weeks, only working weekends. I didn’t want to burn my life line in case DRC decided I was a fluke.

Within a few weeks I was starting to feel more confident with my job at DRC and I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be firing me soon. At the same time, I was still working weekends at the store, getting irritated by having to serve fat customers who wanted me to tell them how great that t-shirt looked on them and trying to convince them to buy more. One Saturday, an extremely large woman came into the store. As Kim, the other sales chick, was already busy with another customer, I tended to the large woman, explaining that we probably don’t have shirts that would fit her, but our shirts do make lovely gifts. She kept on insisting that she wanted to see so and so shirts in a medium. No way in heaven or in hell would she fit into a medium, but under Kim’s glare of “give the customer what she wants”, I gave her the shirts she requested. As she tried them on in the tiny fitting room, I could hear her grunts as she tried to wedge her way into the small shirts. Eventually, she came out, shirts fully stretched, the graphics distorted and said “Your shirts are shit. Look at this crappy quality.” I looked at Kim. She was dealing with a customer. “Our shirts are great quality,” I started. “We sell JUNIOR sizes! If you weren’t such a fat cow, you might be able to fit into one of our shirts, but you even refuse to try on a larger size – so what the hell do you expect?!” I found myself raising my voice until I was almost shouting. Kim had turned away from her customer and was glaring at me. I knew that look meant I was fired and so I just walked out of the store. Three days later I got a call from Kim, telling me I was fired and that they would appreciate it if I would stay away from the David & Goliath chain of stores. I could pick up my check at the end of next week, just don’t forget to turn my sales chick shirt in before I do.

I never did hand in my sales chick shirt. I did pick up the last paycheck, though. I also stole a bunch of buttons and stickers before I left. Nothing really expensive, but it was fun. They had a tank top that had two coconuts on the chest and said “Shake Your Coconuts!” (see my logo!) I really liked it, but I never did buy it. $20 for a tank top seemed a bit pricey, especially when workers don’t get a discount. Besides, they fired me, so I shouldn’t be giving them back my money, cause if you do the math, I would have had to work almost six hours in order to pay for the damn tank top! So not worth it.

Kid, Why Don’t You Get A Job?

Ok, so I needed money. Part of living includes rent and paying bills, things I’d soon learn. But in the mean time, just living was costing me more than I had and in order to sustain myself, I realized I’d have to get a job.

After high school I was drafted to the army. With military service being mandatory, we made but the smallest stipend, as uniforms, food, lodging and transportation were all inclusive. During those two years, every cent I made was available to spend or save as I wished. Now, a few thousand miles from mom’s generous wallet, I was on my own. My money had gone to pay for the ticket to Hawaii; I had $97 to my name as I landed.

My job search started with a stroll down Waikiki. The worlds largest shopping mall (one and a half miles long by three blocks wide!), the peninsula was home to many shops and restaurants where one could find a minimum wage paying job. I started to notice the signs in the window, requesting help and bus boys and sales girls. I filled out application after application, names of references, previous work experience, education, etc. Job after job, I got rejected. Restaurants didn’t want be because I had never worked in the food industry. They were unsure I would be able to handle customers and plates full of food. My lack of experience was my weak spot, as I explained that I was social, sweet and could carry a 16 kilogram pack across a three kilometer path – I could definitely carry a few plates from the kitchen to the dinning hall. Besides, I serve my family at dinner… But, to no avail.

Stores didn’t want me, either. Again, my lack of experience was not in my favor as bosses looked at me with a questioning eye, seizing me up before deciding that I wasn’t a good enough sales person to represent their products. You could think that selling junk to Japanese tourists was all that hard. If it was kitsch, they’d buy it.

After so many failed interviews, I started to feel dejected. You’d think one would need a degree in order to sell t-shirts or at least be a failing movie star in order to waitress. In the town of tourists, service was of utmost importance and no one wanted to hire if you couldn’t claim previous experience. Eventually, I realized I’d have to lie. Instead of telling employers about my military service, I told stories of the restaurant I waitressed in back home. I told stories of selling clothes at designer shops. At one interview I even claimed to have sold ice to the Eskimos. Employers started eating up my stories, amazed that I had worked for two years at the same store. Still, no one offered me a job. Inquisitively, I asked one employer why she had decided not to take me on. “Honey,” she started, “you’re new to the islands. Life here is hard and nine out of ten chances are you’ll be eaten and spit back home faster than I can train you. I need someone I know’ll be around and you just don’t look like you’re cut out for it.” Again, I went back to Randy’s apartment, feeling dejected.

Eventually, someone did hire me. Apparently I had impressed her with my extensive experience, working in two posh stores back home, staying with each for over a year. I told her I loved Hawaii and had moved here to live with my Navy fiancé. We’d be here for at least a few years. Two weeks after the initial interview, another one and a few phone calls, I was handed a contract. Minimum wage to sell t-shirts at the David & Goliath “Stupid Factory [Where Boys Are Made]“. Actually, I didn’t even have to do much. The t-shirts were really cute, sporting funny sayings like “Shake Your Coconuts”, basically selling themselves. Tourists couldn’t get enough of them and were buying them by the suitcase full. Unfortunately, my salary was not commission based, so I couldn’t give a damn less if I sold one shirt or one hundred shirts.

At first I worked at the store six or seven days a week. I was eager to make a good impression and prove myself a worthy sales chick, as my work shirt proudly read. This ambition didn’t last more than two weeks. Then I recieved my first paycheck. It was pretty amazing. I was proud of all the hard work I had done and was sure I’d be getting a decent sized check. You can only imagine my surprise when I opened the envelope, only to find a check made out for much less than I expected. I started to read the page that came with the check. I had logged in over eighty hours in those two weeks, not taking unnecessary breaks or too long on my lunch breaks. I folded shirts to perfection. I organized racks. I worked hard. And Uncle Sam and the state of Hawaii both appreciated my hard work. They appreciated it so much, they felt it was their right to dip into my paycheck, before it ever made it into my bank account and take out their share. Their share of what?! What did I get from anyone that my minimum wage salary was suddenly being dug into, until I had almost nothing left to work with?

I cashed the check. I cashed it for fear that if I didn’t, it too, would disappear. G-d only knows it certainly wasn’t much, but it was definitely a start and I needed it. With new determination, I set out. Not to keep working at that lousy store, but to find a job that would pay a salary that I could live with, even after all had been said and done. Only this time, I was equipped with knowledge.

And a resume.

I suddenly thought of my years in the military. Did I not do something important there? I worked with databases and computers. I knew how to restart computers until they’d surrender with their irritating error messages and start working again. I set out to find a job working with computers.

At first, it was hard. Almost impossible. There are almost no hi-tech companies in Hawaii. Furthermore, the few that are, weren’t hiring. Or at least not advertising jobs in the local paper. I started to attend the monthly “Cyber Pizza” and “OS Pizza” meetings at the nearby university. With my charming smile and resume in hand, I was sure people would be kind enough to help me network and branch out. And so it was. Over coke and pizza, I handed out my resume to my new acquaintances, asking them to pass it on, as they see fit.

Within a few days, I had started to receive phone calls….

Waitress, More Champagne Please

Two days elapsed before I had slept off the jet lag and gotten used to Hawaii time. I headed out for a bit of shopping only to realize that I needed money. In order to get money, I’d probably need a job, as robbing banks wasn’t up high on my list of things to do. With the thought in mind, I decided to postpone the search for another day.

In the meantime, Randy invited me to the opera. He was first violin in the Hawaii Philharmonic Orchestra and they were just starting opera season with Puccini’s “Tosca”. He got me into standing room for $10 and I shmoozed my way up to the third row center where some couple decided not to show.

Fresh off the boat, as they say, I didn’t have much clothes but what I had come with from Israel. After two years of wearing military uniforms day in and day out, my closet wasn’t the most fashionable place to go for evening wear and I opted for black pants with a button down black shirt. As I waited in line for the tickets, I felt oddly out of place as I noticed women in evening gowns, draped in expensive fabrics, dripping diamonds. I tried to be quiet and stay close to the walls as much as possible. Little did I realize is how out of place I was. It was only during intermission that I really got a taste of snobbery. During the first intermission I headed out with everybody else. I wanted to enjoy the cool evening air and the night sky. I was watching couples sip champagne and eating tiny finger foods, dressed up and served on silver trays with colorful toothpicks. As I was minding my own business, an elderly woman, in her late fifties or early sixties, turned to me and asked me to get her and her partner another round of champagne. “I’m not a waitress”, I stated, to which she simply scoffed and complained about the service and how it’s not what it used to be. I headed to the outskirts of the people, hoping no one else would confuse me for a server. I faced no such luck as one of the other servers offered me a cigarette and asked me if I was new. I declined the offer and told him I didn’t work here and just came to enjoy the opera. He seemed to find this funny as he noted to the fact that I was bringing down the average age of the audience. I simply smiled and turned away.

During the second intermission, I went to the bathroom, but decided to stay in my seat, for the most part.

After the performance, Randy had some stuff to rehearse with some of the other musicians, so I decided to wait for him at the restaurant across the street. I walked into Friday’s with a smile as the cluttered memorabilia reminded me of birthdays when I was younger, going with my family to eat at Friday’s and the silly birthday songs the waiters sing. This was no different and in less than five minutes a group of waiters was heading towards the tabel adjacent to mine with candles and song. I couldn’t help but smile.

When they were through with their song, I was sure one of the waiters would approach me, ready to take my order. I was ready. But no one came. Eventually, I managed to make eye contact and as I waved him over, he asked me if I would like to order anything to drink while I waited. While I waited for what, exactly? I suddenly understood that he didn’t understand that I wasn’t waiting for anyone. I started to explain that I’ll be dining alone. This seventeen year old waiter stammered an apology as he took my order as fast as he could.

It wasn’t until a few hours later when I was home at Randy’s house did I realize it was February 14th. Valentine’s day. Probably not the best day to be dining alone. But, I am woman, hear me roar. I don’t need a dinner companion. I am strong, confident, independent. (Things  probably would have turned out different had I known it was a corporate holiday reminding us of the importance of celebrating our relationships by giving gifts and spending money.) But for the most part, I’m happy things turned out as they did. And yes, I’d dine alone again. I actually do, on occasion. Why can’t I treat myself?

Shake Your Coconuts!

I should probably explain why I took this as my blog title, aside from the obvious sex appeal theme…

Living in Israel means that upon your eighteenth birthday and having graduated from high school, you join the Israeli Defense Force (IDF, from now on) for a period of two years for females, three years for males. Upon completion of our military service, it’s very popular to take a long trip to South America or Australia/New Zealand. I did neither of the sort, yet opted for something slightly different. Being an American citizen (born and bred!), I decided I’d find work in the US. Using the internet, I started searching for jobs in Alaska. I’ve always liked the cold and Alaska seemed right up my alley. I sent resumes, hoping to get a job as a salmon fisherwoman or something along the lines of. Rejection letter after rejection letter flooded my mail box, claiming that as a female I had nothing to look for in Alaska unless I was planning on working as a stripper or getting married. Apparently they have a 4 to 1 male to female ratio and men were looking to get laid or married. The employers who sent me such letters weren’t doing much to help bring more women to Alaska, that’s for sure.

With less than a month left to go until the end of my service, I was getting antsy as I was still jobless and ticket-less.  And, just as I was about to give up, Randy, an old family friend, offered that I come visit him in Hawaii. Suddenly, I had a new plan. Get to Hawaii, find a job, find an apartment (I couldn’t stay with Randy too long…) and learn to surf. Now, not to keep you in suspense or anything, in short, I found a job, found an apartment and had quite an experience… A year of sin and fun in the sun.  But, Hawaii isn’t Vegas and “whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” just doesn’t hold the same water with Hawaii. These islands have equipped me with many tales and adventures to share with the world and it wouldn’t be fair to deprive the world of my swashbuckling stories and tall tales, mixed with much truth, a bit of flamboyant flair and twists and turns at every corner.

So, with this we begin.

Four days out of the army and I had my bags packed and a ticket to Hawaii. Without any concrete plans, I decided to look for a job doing anything. A few white lies and a month later, I found myself working at the David and Goliath Stupid Factory (Where Boys Are Made). Basically, a touristy, overpriced store selling juniors sized tank tops and t-shirts with funny sayings like “rock killed paper” and, my personal favorite, “Shake Your Coconuts!” Pissed that I didn’t get a workers discount, I never did buy anything at the store, although I did enjoy a five finger discount. My fingers found their way around postcards (we weren’t selling them anyway, just giving them out to customers who bought something), stickers (only the ones that weren’t really sellable),  buttons (ok, no excuse for this one, but I have a long-standing habit of stealing buttons and they had so many cute ones…) and when I left, I took my “sales chick” t-shirt with me. What did they expect if they paid minimum wage, didn’t give any benefits and by the time the government got a hold of their part and handed over mine, I was lucky if there was anything left to enjoy. I don’t know how anyone can live on such a salary.

That crappy job, as short lived as it was (not nearly two months), was a very significant part of my experience and later on I couldn’t get that shirt out of my mind (still kicking myself for not having bought it), especially since it would make a great title for my Hawaii memoirs.

So, here, mostly past, mixed in with a bit of the present, is “Shake Your Coconuts!” – a memoir.