You take the bus again, hoping that you'll get this job because you're seriously running out of money. You stand in the lobby for ten minutes and have to explain to two nurses that you're not in any of their programs, you're applying for a job. Finally, the assistant director you met last time reappears. After some hedging, Mr. Veiss (he gives no first name) leads you into a cramped office with an antique computer the color of bad teeth. He bids you to sit, then takes from a manila envelope not a contract or a timesheet, but a map of the facilities. He unfolds the yellowing paper like a pirate map and spends several minutes going over, first, the areas where you will spend most of your time, and second, the areas where you are absolutely forbidden to enter.
"We have many patients," Mr. Veiss explains, his tone bored rather than didactic, "in advanced stages of dementia, and others who are trying to overcome their addictions. They must not be interrupted under any circumstances."
There's something not right about this place, but just as you're starting to reconsider, Mr. Veiss says, "Since your work here will not require regular hours, we would not want to waste your time with payment schedules, timesheets, that sort of thing. If you prefer, we can pay cash twice per month for your services."
Ah, not exactly above board, is it? You wonder what Gorsky Manor is doing that would encourage under-the-table payments. Then you realize that you don't need to care, you're just the groundskeeper. And you desperately need money.
"That'll be fine," you say.
Mr. Veiss hands you a daily checklist of winter tasks and encourages you to start first thing tomorrow.
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