Pre-Occupational Hazards (Or How I Became a Beijing Garbage-Man)
I had a second interview today for the technical writer position I mentioned. The manager so much as offered the job to me, pending HQ’s approval of my salary request and a phone interview with “Team America.” Okie-dokie.
Since last interview I had wasted a couple bucks on a cab ride, this time I tried to take the economical 25-cent round-trip bus ride (which ended up being a buck fi’ty since I got off at the wrong bus stop and had to get a cab to find it anyways).
Pondering my next steps while waiting for the bus back to WuDaoKou, a group of horse carts passed, dragging bricks to a construction site. But other than the incongruity of horse-mobiles passing 21st century architecture, the street was devoid of activity, devoid of more than a handful of people. The bus stop was a great place to think. A great place to pace side to side. A great place to step backwards lost in the depths of rumination. “Whoah! Shit!” A fellow bus-waitee murmured a minute warning grunt too late to avert it.
Absent-Minded Foreigner + Open Manhole Sans Cover = Comedy Platinum.
Garbage was my salvation. I landed on my feet, my body halfway-plunged down the hole to the rat netherworld. Instinctively my right elbow had caught the edge, and I hiked myself right out not a second later, my only injury a scraped elbow coupled with a complementary sample of eau d’garbage cologne.
Metaphor-incarnate?
Since last interview I had wasted a couple bucks on a cab ride, this time I tried to take the economical 25-cent round-trip bus ride (which ended up being a buck fi’ty since I got off at the wrong bus stop and had to get a cab to find it anyways).
Pondering my next steps while waiting for the bus back to WuDaoKou, a group of horse carts passed, dragging bricks to a construction site. But other than the incongruity of horse-mobiles passing 21st century architecture, the street was devoid of activity, devoid of more than a handful of people. The bus stop was a great place to think. A great place to pace side to side. A great place to step backwards lost in the depths of rumination. “Whoah! Shit!” A fellow bus-waitee murmured a minute warning grunt too late to avert it.
Absent-Minded Foreigner + Open Manhole Sans Cover = Comedy Platinum.
Garbage was my salvation. I landed on my feet, my body halfway-plunged down the hole to the rat netherworld. Instinctively my right elbow had caught the edge, and I hiked myself right out not a second later, my only injury a scraped elbow coupled with a complementary sample of eau d’garbage cologne.
Metaphor-incarnate?
brainfart by Daniel at
8:52 AM
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