The Misdeeds of an Immigrant Labourer
They say that immigrants are the ones who get forced into the unwanted jobs and get hated on for taking all the jobs. This is one such story.
Prelogue:
In my quest for money for my student future, I have signed up to several temping agencies. The way they work is, they work for certain companies in finding people to work for them. It is a good system that allows the companies to delegate finding workers, and it is helpful for unemployed bums like myself because I don't have to go to each company or call each job advertised in the newspaper. Also, the temping agency can look at the strengths and experience of each prospected worker and put them into a fitting job. Everybody wins- and the temping agency gets a generous slice of the pie.
That is the theory. First of all, I have no strengths or experience that is relevant in the job market, and I am only looking to work until February. I'm not educated enough and Dutch literate enough for a white collar job, and I'm too inexperienced for a blue collar job- and too educated.
Another problem is that there are now so many temping agencies, that they are constantly fighting each other for lucrative contracts with companies, and they are spread so thin, to the point that the entire inner city of Rotterdam appears to made up entirely of temping agencies, and I suspect that all they do now is find employees for each other. These agencies are looking for talent. Fresh, young, healthy, nubile minds and bodies. Many of them tell me to go away. They say, "I'm sorry, there are no jobs, for you. Good luck finding a job."
Also, there is this little thing that you may have heard of called the "credit crisis". Now, I don't believe in imaginary concepts or value having a true impact on my life. In other words, I don't believe in credit or Christ. Certainly, neither is helping me get a job.
I haven't been totally without success. You may recall a few weeks back the story about the day I worked in a factory putting pieces of metal onto a table, and putting them back onto a rack, for which I was told this wasn't the job for me. What is the job for me, was the question I began to ask myself.
Part 1 (Apart from my stint working in the factory)
One of the semi-successes was writing in at a temping agency that specialises in catering. Now, this is something that I could- in theory- do, since it does not require a high standard of written Dutch. Perfect. Right? No, not really. It is on a on-call basis, and usually they only ask people to work a few hours each time. Second and thirdly, I have no experience in the field of catering, and I didn't exactly look the part.
See, the explanation meeting talked about self-presentation. Black shoes, socks and pants or skirt, with a white shirt. Also, long hair must be tied back. My hair was long, having successfully evaded the hairdresser for 8 months, and I was starting to look the part of an unemployed man. I have a terminal fear of hairdressers, and ever since an older boy with blond hair in a pony tail at the bus stop used to punch me, I am terrified of blond men with pony tails. I could never become that guy, and I love mirrors too much. I also hate paying money for hairdressers, but I would never allow someone I know to cut my hair. I consider the fee I pay as the right to hate that person who de-faced my hair until it (my hair) grows back. Yes, I can imagine how awful it must be to me.
So, I was told about a cheap hairdresser in the next town. I did like my image as an unemployee, but that is no longer the image I am going for anymore. On Monday morning, I biked halfway there, when I noticed that I had a flat tyre. Nothing comes easy to me... I continued on, pushing my bike, miraculously finding a bike store open on a Monday morning. Then, I saw a shop open too, and to my delight, it was a foreign-run barber. That meant that it was cheap, AND until my hair grows back, I could curse not just one person, but all foreigners for butchering my hair. What luck.
Anyway, this is more the kind of shop where regular customers come every week for a chat, and to trim back the side-burns. I walked in, tore off my beanie and shook my hair out like a hit chick on a shampoo commercial. "Halve it", were my general instructions. It turns out that his Dutch was even worse than mine, and he began snipping away at the tips. Great, that is not how you avoid going to the hairdressers as well as I do. I don't rip the plaster off, I prefer to rip the entire wound out. I told him to keep going, and he did. It was looking okay, I suppose, until he revealed the back of my head. He had left a blatant, flagrant neatly-trimmed mullet hanging there. Holy crap. This is one of the countries of techno music, after all. Or perhaps that is what Muslim girls have under their scarves. I don't know, but I didn't like what I saw. My fear of hairdressers, guys with blond ponytails and spending money put together don't even come close to my fear of having a mullet.
I told him to keep going, and I felt terrible for asking him to continue doing his job. In the end, objectively, I don't think he did a terrible job considering how paranoid, insecure and vain his customer was. Whatever, I no longer looked unemployed. Instead, I looked 17 years old. Whatever, I was now eligible to cater. I was eligible to start doing the jobs that regular Dutch people don't want to do.
Join us next time for the stunning followup of the chronicled Misdeeds of an Immigrant Labourer.
Will he find job satisfaction in the credit crisised market?
Will he ever confront his fears and pick a fight with a man with a blond pony tail?
Will the Xi Chao the panda bear ever find true love?
Will the immigrant cater to what?
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