Chica Teasa

As far as job-hunting goes, Chica Teasa has been one of the most, if not the most, memorable company thus far.

The First Call

A couple of weeks ago, at around four in the afternoon, I was awakened from my dreamless slumber by a rather frantic Lali, our helper. "Mil," she goes, "may tawag para sa iyo. Tihicha ata." (Translation: Mil, there is a call for you. It's Tihicha, I think.)

I thought the Initiative was calling me, so I forced myself to wake up. Let me tell you now that this is no easy feat for me (a.k.a. hibernation personified). Batugan talaga ako. My head was spinning, my throat was dry, and a person whom I wanted to impress was on the phone. I shook my head to clear it and willed my voice to sound normal. In short, I tried to do the impossible.

"Hello Ma'am," I finally managed to croak out.

Unbelievable. More than sounding like a frog, I sounded like a Jessica Rabbit who was bent on seducing Roger. I cringed automatically but hoped that the person calling me was either slightly deaf or that my voice sounded normal to all but myself. The latter is actually plausible, as my voice supposedly changes when I debate or give presentations.

No such luck. She was laughing when she asked me if she had woken me up. I didn't want to lie to her, so I just laughed along. When I realized that she was waiting for a reply, I said "Not really" in a painfully perky tone.

And that's true, technically. Anyway, I made her laugh, and she gave me a testing date. Things could have been much worse.

The Test

I was running late.

Actually, I would not have been running late if the traffic had lended itself to even a little bit of reasonable predictability. But then again, why was I attempting to do what even Nostradamus could not have done?

During the decade that I was in the car, a poem popped into my head:

Marching to a soundless beat,

mushrooms crowding on a street

soaking backs, rebellious feet,

crowns that are no longer neat.

Mushrooms on a city street.

Tell me if you can figure out what this poem is about. But I digress.

As I was saying, I was running late. Specifically, I was half an hour late for the test. This turned out to be perfectly okay, thankfully, because I was the only one called to take the test anyway, and even the HR person had no idea about my schedule. She asked no questions, and I told her no lies.

Before I knew it, I found myself in a square room with a square table with a bunch of papers in front of me. The test was upon me. As far as that goes, I would have to say that it was not so bad. The Math part was easy, as was the English. But when I looked through the questionnaire and saw that I had around fifteen essays to write plus a sentence completion test and a personality test, I felt like screaming.

Must I sit through the same tests for almost 3/4's of all the jobs I apply to? Why can't they have a standard job test anyway? Why? Grrr. I sighed out loud and stretched in my chair. Just then, the silly notion that there was a camera in the room entered my head; so much did the room look like an interrogation cell. I straightened myself immediately and diligently went back to taking the test, making sure that my lips curved upward in an endearing little smile.

After writing my sixth essay of the day, I stretched again. And no, I was not smiling anymore. Very loudly and precisely, I declared, "This test is so long. It really is too long!!!" I made sure to twist my body to all corners of the room while I said this, so that the invisible camera could get clear shots of me from every possible angle.

Of course, I knew that I was being silly, and I ended up laughing at myself seconds after. But if I was right, and there was a camera in that room, at least I had expressed my sentiments about the test and, in that way, made this world a much better place.

When I finally got to the one-hour personality test, I found my patience, and not my personality, seriously tested. As was the case in the personality test administered by my University, I had to answer questions that were asking pretty much the same thing. I relieved myself by shading those tiny rectangles with such force that it was a miracle that my answer sheet was not ripped apart.

The torture was horrible while it lasted, but it too came to pass. In this ordeal, two people made me feel slightly better: the security guard, who was very friendly, and the nice lady who gave me toilet paper when the surprisingly clean restroom there had not a scrap to offer.

The Second Call

Just three days ago, my youngest sister was shouting that I had a phone call. I asked her who it was and she bellowed, "Cham, it's the Tihicha something advertising whatever... basta, just get the phone!"

I picked the phone up, all prepared to deal politely but curtly with whom I had supposed to be a telemarketer. To my suprise, I found that it was Chica Teasa calling. And, once again, the lady on the line was laughing. She was calling to say that I had passed the test and could now be interviewed.

Interesting.

Epilogue

It was my first interview two days ago. I think it went well. I hope Ms. Tak thinks so too. Well, I have done what I can. I'll just have to see how this whole thing unfolds.

But whatever happens, there is one thing about Chica Teasa that I can say with absolute certainty: it sure has been a most interesting ride.

* * *

To the best brother in the whole world: Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you! (And in the fast tune now.) Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you!

And I am singing this while I am typing it, so he probably hears me, as he just in the next room.

* * *

Marcos country, here I come! Comic and Cokelover, here's looking forward to a fantastic time!