I started my first day on the new job by taking the wrong train. I was kind of pleased to catch an early train when it pulled into the station, completely missing the announcement that it was an express train. Oog. I watched my destination go by with genuine shock, and had to jump off several miles up the line to wait for a returning train. Boy, is San Mateo station a pit. I was a bit leery of some of the locals whom I had to push through to get to the phone. Real methadone clinic types.
Naturally, I was flustered at having to call in on my first day and tell them I'd be 20 minutes late. I used the F word, as in San Fucking Mateo. Minutes after hanging up I felt my stomach sink. Great. I was late and I'd been remarkably Anglo Saxon. Strangely, though, I didn't feel like the day was a disaster. All along I've felt unusually good about this place. Of course, I wished I'd been able to comprehend the train schedule adequately. If you'll recall, I'd been quite late for my interview, too. No matter how you sliced it, I knew it wasn't a really smooth way to start off.
Well, they laughed their heads off when I walked in. Apparently, my use of the F word in my phone message relieved them of any worries that they'd have to watch their language around me. Everyone was immensely easy-going and cheerful. The assistant manager was wearing purple tennis shoes. The manager was busy putting stickers on her computer. Hoopla occured throughout the day. And yet it was a productive, busy office. I am going to like this job.
