By now, the white dress shirt that I’d been sporting had more than outlived its usefulness, so after much wheel-churning between the girlfriend and myself, I caved and decided to wear the red button-down that I had bought so long ago.  I was dapper in it, athletic even.  My long standing fears of how Kool-Aid Manish I would look were soon dispelled by the way the shirt ruggedly and strongly laid upon my shoulders, chest, and, yes, even waist.  Undercutting my joyful wonder and excitement was the burning realization that perhaps being bold enough to wear a red shirt to a first interview may have found me employed by this time.  But I decided not to brood and made myself ready for the impending questions and testing that I expected with this particular agency. 

Their offices were within a three minute drive of our apartment, so there would be no travel mishaps this time, save for accidentally over-shooting the entrance to the parking lot–which I did by nearly two streets.  My girlfriend was home from work on this particular day and was nice enough to let me borrow her rugged, woman-power evoking, silver Dodge Nitro, which was a far more successful looking vehicle than the small silver Honda Civic that I had borrowed from my sister.  There would be no need for me to actually fall out of the car to make an exit this time, no, I would actually be stepping down onto the ground with a foot, instead of a face.  I stepped onto the blacktop looking cool, confident, successful.  Onlookers would believe I had a powerful reason to be there, as I rolled into an open space, blasting “Sweet Child of Mine” from the downed windows (the G’n'R version, not the Sheryl “I ruined this song” Crow one). 

The building was tall and silver, seemingly displaced here in the suburbs, but just the type of place that would run-over with possibility.  I entered the building and started scouring about for signs to lead me to the second floor, where I assumed the offices were located–they were Suite 200 after all.  I followed a woman into the elevator, past a group of laughing security clerks who were rather busy with Regis. 

“Hey!,”  one screamed at us.  “T’hell you think you’re going?”  I assumed they were speaking to the woman I had followed because she was carrying a bottle of wine–for shame!  But no, they were talking to me; I figured that out after the older gentleman of the group flicked his forefinger at me and said: “You fella.”  I exited the elevator and told them why I was there, where-after I was waylaid with a barrage of “Well you gotta sign-in[s].”  I do not lie when I say, that all 5 of them took a turn telling me that I had to sign-in.  But more power to them for being so quick on the draw, especially in security matters.  Though I will say that they didn’t glance up at the woman who had entered ahead of me, didn’t flash a badge, or say a word, maybe hoping that they’d be lucky enough to get a whack of the wine–it was a big bottle of Carlo Rossi.  But they explained that I was all ready on the second floor (oh, one of those buildings) and to just head down the hall to the left.

I entered the office and was greeted rather friendlier than I was used to.  I took a seat between a very professionally dressed young woman (Carry Bradshaw professional) and a fella that smelled like cookies and dirt–once again I was before a computer to show off my Word and Excel savvy, which I, again, dominated in the manner I had in the previous interview.  I completely terrorized the advanced Excel functions, as I did the first time,  and did horribly on the really mundane things. 

My post-test interview was quick and to the point.  The recruiter had an assignment that she was going to confirm and contact me about the following day.  I went home foolishly hopeful, yet again.

The following day I was contacted, via email, for my first assignment.  I’d be working a temp job with the advertising department of a medical supply sales company–outstanding.  I showed up my standard 15 minutes early, ready and raring.  I waited for some time before finally meeting with one of the department managers who gave me the full run-through of what I would be doing: essentially I was going to be a telemarketer.  No qualms here though, I was desperate.  By now I had completely given up on writing in favor of looking for work, but the longer I look it seems that my time would be better spent working toward that Copperfield piece. 

I was in the office for two hours, getting to know my new co-workers and picking-up the mild nuances that went along with selling the particular products over the phone (my favorite being that we were asked to give a false company name when presenting ourselves).  At the apex of those two hours though, I was called to the building’s front desk; someone from the recruiter’s office was there to speak with me.  I became exceedingly nervous, perhaps they were there to confront me about something that I hadn’t been more upfront about…but I couldn’t think of a thing.  The interview process was far too short for me to have lied, and my resume was completely honest, tragically so.  Why were they there then?

On approaching the front desk, I was met by a young professionally-dressed man that I didn’t recognize and two younger women, both wearing black and gold, showing more cleavage that is really proper outside of a strip-club or spring break.  The young man greeted me, shook my hand, and asked for a word. 

“Who told you to report here today?,” he asked.

“Beatrice,” I said–as she was the one who both interviewed me and confirmed the assignment via email and phone.  The young man then proceeded to tell me, and I’m not making this up (couldn’t if I tried), that the two young women that he had brought along were daughters of two major investors of the temp agency.  Moreover, it was imperative (I’m making him sound smarter than he really did) that those two were placed before any other candidates.  Therefore, they would be taking over my position, in spite of the fact that I was obviously more qualified.  Hello Bourgeois motives–I knew that I would find you somewhere.  I couldn’t help but think to myself that I understood business to be this way, it’s all in who you know, but for the sweet love of Pete don’t tell me these things!  To this day I contemplate writing the Better Business Bureau, if for no other reason than to keep this from happening to someone else.  He finished by shaking my all ready quaking, angry, awe-struck hand, and repeatedly telling me to go home and watch Sportcenter. 

I left the building a few minutes after him, not knowing exactly what to say or think.  As I exited, I saw the young man cruising by in his new BMW, while I was headed toward my borrowed Stratus.  He waived, I kicked a stone in his direction and narrowly missed his bumper.  I lurched myself into the car, defeated, flabbergasted, and breathless.  As I started the car, Pearl Jam’s “Alive” came on the radio, for the first time in what would be a series of odd coincidences between my being turned away from a job and Eddie Vedder reminding me of survival through adversity.  I took the long way home to hear the whole song; dragging myself up to our apartment,  I stripped down to my boxes and black dress socks.  It was just past 11.  I went after the job-boards hard for about an hour before I gave into my self-pitying ideas over my better judgement and started into some beers.  I really didn’t know what else to do.

Also, read The Demon Haunted World, by Carl Sagan. 

I was finally called upon to begin my interview.  After receiving a rousing 1.5 thumbs up from my new friend, I wandered back into a large circular room with a young woman who would take care of the pre-interviewing process.  She gave me no hello, but rather an apology for not having notified me that this was, indeed, casual Friday and no one, not even new interviews, was expected to dress-up. 

“Ah,” I said with a smile, before commenting on her totally rockin’ Steelers Crocs. 

The pre-interview…interview was a basic explanation of the positions they were attempting to place me in–both basically involved making copies for 8 hours at a time.  What did I care?  At this point the reality of what little, ever-fading opportunity there was for me to find something was becoming ferociously obvious.  After being read the job descriptions I had been sent and read myself a dozen times and answering that I was interested in being a candidate (why else would I have shown up?), we moved onto the testing.  What type of testing, you may ask.  Well wait a second and I’ll tell you. 

I was lead into an exact replica of every pre-1998 American middle school computer lab to begin the probative process that would tell whether I had real Xerox savvy or not.  I sat down at the fifth terminal, a Burgendon, circa…well whenever computers were still using pull cords to get going.  The tests essentially examined my prowess with MS Office applications.  Nothing crazy, though I have to admit I’m a bit rusty with Excel, as too many numbers in front of me constitute an hour of sobbing into my knees in a corner.  I zipped through the tests with, what I thought was relative ease.  I’d be meeting with the office’s head headhunter (who I was imagining as having many more than the 3 skulls the secretary was sporting around her neck) to discuss my test results.  No skulls, just several pounds of cheap jewelry.  What a bummer.  But she seemed friendly enough.  Plump, red, and motherly–though she drifted, noticeably, from time to time into, I’m assuming, thought.

I completely owned the MS Word test, but my Excel scores were “interesting,” to quote the lead head-huntress.  I had scored slightly below average on what are considered easy Excel tasks, while performing perfectly on the advanced, gotta-be-an-accountant-to-know-this-stuff, applications.  Needless to say, she was beginning to doubt whether I could aptly land my chubby thumb on the “COPY” button.  She did, however, offer to throw my hat in the ring for an editor position which had recently opened.  Outstanding!  I suppose that editors don’t really need to know how to add another cell at B-7.  The position asked that I have some science backing, which I did, though in an auto-didactic sense.  I am an open science nerd who hails the genius of people like Carl Sagan and Newton.  But the subjects which the position deemed critical I had immersed myself in on more than one occasion.  She was elated.  “An ideal fit, I think,” she said.  Thus, I left hopeful and confident that I would at last break into the writing world with a flourish, an interest, and an importance I hadn’t expected so quickly. 

When I got back to my car I realized that I hadn’t eaten since 6PM the night before.  That dusty scone was starting to seem like a well-placed, lost opportunity now.  I was actually beginning to become dizzy on my ride home so I pulled off into the Montgomery Mall which I had passed on the way in, hoping to find something before passing out and allowing my faithful car to instinctively find its way to the front door of Bennigan’s. 

Now, the Montgomery Mall actually pre-dates the recruiter’s computer lab by nearly a decade or so–this includes the people, fashions, stores, and music.  When was the last time you saw a Herman’s Sporting Goods and heard the song “Poison” by Bel Biv Devoe?  Now can you tell me when both of those things happened to you at the exact same time?  I can.  Same day, same second.  I damned myself for not having worn a multi-colored, leather suit.  But I felt a bit better after taking in the whole experience–pink neon lights, the smell of a TCBY, most of the folks wearing bright tank tops despite the fact that it was February.  It brought me back to my childhood and filled me with an even better sense of myself, which I can’t quite explain.  But it was one of those fantastic, quality feelings you have when tossed into the center of a warm memory.  I felt all of this, in spite of the fact most of the people there probably thought I worked as a mattress salesman.  But the throw-back experience added to my high-hopes gathered with the prospect of becoming a real, live editor.

That was, again, February.  It is now late September.  I never heard from the office again, nor have they returned any of my calls.  And in retrospect, my thoughts turn to the Head-Headhuntress, and I can’t help but quip “Never Trust A Big Butt and a Smile.”

P.S.
Read Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha by Roddy Doyle

Perhaps I’m supposed to take away something about the inevitability of the sweet and sour nature of things. The duality.

I made my way through car after full car.  As far as I knew there was only one station before I was picked up, so obviously these folks had piled on ahead of me to either make my morning that much more interesting or because one of my neighbors radioed ahead letting all of the western Philly suburbs know that they had to see this mess.  In any case, the only open seat I found faced opposite of all of the others.  I became one more point of gawking for anyone that hadn’t brought something to busy themselves.  Track map, safety procedures, Temple poster, fat-guy facing the wrong way and getting greener the longer he travels backwards–I know which one I’d monitor. 

I looked up and caught eyes with suit sitting a few seats away.  I gave him the tight-lipped, head-nod.  His eyes opened wide before going back down to his newspaper.  That’s about the point I realized that I was something of a spectacle.  I wondered what would have happened if I had worn the red shirt, then I realized that I hadn’t unbuttoned my blazer button–I wasn’t so much disgusted with the flub as I was shocked that my flubbiness hadn’t popped the thing clean off and taken out an eye.

Everyone else had obviously taken this trip at least once.  They had newspapers, iPods, video-games, or books.  I had my thumbs, a battery depleted cell phone, and a black, leather binder that I had borrowed to carry my resume, writing samples, and notes in.  People were probably wondering whether the jacket had come free with the binder.  But on the up and up I did have both of my thumbs, unlike the tinkle-scented gentleman who sat across from me, eating a greasy sandwich that kept dripping on his pants and fiddling around with a brand new iPod.  As quickly as he was downing his food, I wondered if the missing digit was the result of some freak breakfast accident.  I half hoped that he’d take off another and draw the attention away from the sweaty puddle of cotton and nylon I was turning into.  But in an act of jealousy for everyone else’s travel savvy, I decided to busy myself with my notes.

My notes consisted of three blurbs; my contact’s name, the company’s name, and what I had gathered that they did there.  Note review took 10 seconds.  I started scribbling.  I bet wide-eyed, newspaper guy scribbled on his first day too.  I’d draw a really bitchin’ race car and see what he thought of it.

My stop came around after an hour of sweating it out under the all knowing business glares.  I hadn’t finished my picture in time to show Wide-eye McGee.  When you first pile out of the train at Suburban Station, there really isn’t any indicator which way certain streets are.  I chose to just follow the largest mass of people, up the steps and into the station.  I wandered back and forth for ten minutes or so.  Everytime I thought to turn around I’d stop, look at my watch, mumble, then spin back the other way in a hurry.  Just in case anyone was watching.  I finally found signs directing me to the street I was looking for.  I passed a whole mess of little shops, one of which was all ready selling $3 Budweisers–an offer which one man was taking full advantage of, squatting down in the middle of the hall I was travelling in.  I went around in one more circle before finding the “escalator” (stairs) that lead up to my street.  There was a little boy playing a violin at the top of the steps–a mini-Nero letting me know what I was about to walk into. 

I had no clue where I was going.  For some silly reason I had expected to walk right into the correct office building as soon as I exited the station, no such luck.  I circled the block several times looking for something; a set of golden arches, flashing neon, bird-signs, anything.  Luckily I had come into the city over an hour early–the only contingency that I had really planned for.  When you’re a pilgrim in a strange land, it’s generally a good idea to give yourself time to search and explore a little.  This is particularly true when you haven’t had any breakfast or coffee.  At last I found where I was going, lo and behold there was, indeed, an exit from the station right up into the center of the building.  Something worth remembering once I wow the interviewers and score this gig.  Now that I had direction, I set out to find food.

I headed back down into the train station, past Nero, and into a little underground convenience store.  I fueled up with a Red Bull and protein bar.  Now I was definately ready.  I went back up into the street and into my building…an hour and a half before the interview.  Out again, in again.  The security people started to look a tad worried.  I went back out and decided to walk the block and get to know the area I’d be working in–it was exciting, all busy folks and black glass.  I took off my jacket, it was much warmer now and I was getting a football sized wet spot on my back.  I walked about six steps and then realized that after standing up on the train I had put the wrong button through the wrong hole in my blazer.  A little, bald man squished his nose, smiled, and nodded as he walked past my frantic fumbling.  But someone had smiled–hooray there.

I found a Starbucks, ordered a Cappucino, took off my blazer and sat down to gather myself.  Other important looking folks were sitting around, cracking dirty jokes about co-workers and planning happy-hours.  I burned my tongue but good on my first sip and dribbled a bit on one of my resumes.  No worries, I had plenty.  Crap, gas.  Serious gas.  I decided it best to get out of there rapidamente.  I noticed the bathroom just as a woman was ducking into it.  I threw out half of my coffee and literally burst back out into the city.  I resolved to head back into my building before anything else happened.

I walked through the doors and fiddled with my cell phone, which had been shut off for some time now, pretending as though I was perhaps calling Bonnie in accounting about yesterday’s screw-up.  At least, that was what I was doing in case anyone had asked.  But it wasn’t long before the time for my interview finally came.  I approached the security desk and announced myself and my business.  The security woman called ahead for me, gave me a little card to swipe through the turnstyle and sent me up to the 22nd floor.  This all went off without a hitch, except for the fact that she was supposed to send me to the 25th floor.  I got out on 22 and looked for a sign, which I found and followed.  I walked in directly after an employee, not noticing that he had swiped a badge.  I walked through a wooden door and into a room of cubicles where people stopped and looked up a little worried and confused, probably out of concern for my sudden milk-white complexion and look of absolute terror–I wasn’t supposed to be there.  I turned and walked out and tried to exit through the glass doors…you needed a badge to exit as well.  I was stuck.  I paced back and forth behind the glass like a sad puppy in a pet shop.  Finally someone who was headed to the elevator came out and was nice enough to free me and direct me up to the proper floor.

My contact was friendly, although a bit eccentric.  She led me to a room filled with ergonomic chairs.  I sat down and nearly tumbled backwards through the large window behind me.  My contact stared and emitted a silence that said “Graceful doofus,” before saying how difficult it was to sit in here.  Nice.  She gave me a 30 second prep session then left me alone in the interview room for over 20 minutes to stew.  Carmella (name has been changed to protect her from seeming too silly) finally came in.  She was supposed to have been joined by four other interviewers–three of which, I learned, decided not to come and the other who was feeling ill and running very late.  “Gas,” I thought.  Carmella explained the specifics of the job and that it dealt with human capital.  Perfect! I love Marx, I could turn this place around, make it huge.  I understood it, I felt comfortable with it, I knew that I could spin the subject matters properly and wow an audience.  Granted, I’m someone who hates the idea of the comodification of humanity, but that’s a very long, very philosophical post for some other time. 

We got through the basic questions, laughed and joked some.  Things seemed to go swimmingly until the akward silence crept in.  Then she asked “Do you have any questions?”  ALWAYS HAVE QUESTIONS!  It’s far better to ask a silly question than to not ask one at all.  I told her no and that she had been very thorough, which she had been.  We sat for a few more minutes and then she left to find the hiring manager Belinda (also changed for safety sake). 

About ten minutes later another woman walked in, Belinda, the hiring manager.  We went through the usual posturing and addresses, I answered some questions.  Then, rather forwardly, she began a rant about her ex-husband and the uselessness of most men.  The tension was immense, I felt that I was being critiqued because I happened to have a little more facial hair then she did.  If it were a date, I would have farted and cut through the ominious silence with that divinely gifted little joke that we all share.  But it wasn’t, so I didn’t, in spite of the designs of the coffee and Red Bull.  Luckily, the coversation then switched to our studies–some of which we actually had in common.  I was so excited over this prospect that I chimed in to let her know that I too had a love of myth.  She didn’t give me the right look for my comment.  She looked like I had ripped her phone out of her hand and thrown it at her.  “Writing sample please,” she said.  She chose to examine one of my academic papers, a particularly long one praising P.B. Shelley for giving rise to an early form of Marxist thought.  “Well you certainly can write,” she said.  Then she asked if I had any questions.  Again, I wrongly answered no. 

She told me that they were interviewing several other people, then began to complain about one who had cancelled and rescheduled more than once and who would be their last candidate.  She offered to show me to the rest room.  Somewhere during the interview she had burned her glare deep enough into me to see that I was about to burst out of whatever crevice my all ready nervous insides could fire from.  I stood up, this was the first time I had since I’d gone into the interview room as both she and Carmella had politely asked me not to get up.  She finally had a chance to look me up and down.  Blech.  If all of my previously discussed flaws weren’t enough, now I had an extremely sweaty brow and my fly and worked it’s way down just enough to be noticeable.  Her eyes were as wide as the man on the train.  After she showed me to the restroom she gave me one more “Are you serious, dude?” look before departing.  Though I’m pretty sure she’s never used the word dude outside of its literal meaning.

The train ride home wasn’t as eventful as the morning one had been.  We did stop at one station for almost 35 minutes.  I thought maybe we were being robbed because there was an awful lot of foot traffice along the side of the train where there shouldn’t have been.  I was facing the right way this time though, so I had graduated into the fraternity of seasoned train riders.  Perhaps next time I’d get to go up and meet the engineer.  A psychologist sat behind me speaking a little lewd into her Blackberry.  She kept telling the person on the other end that “Yes, you can see enough leg.”  I knew she was smiling every time she said it.  I forget now how I figured out what she did, but she had answered her phone with the self-important “Dr. So-and-so” rather than hello.  Diagonal from me a man had chosen, among the many vacant seats, to sit next to a girl who was several decades his junior.  What made him unique was his tenacious insistance that he be allowed to bring his bicycle aboard the train.  He argued with one of the conductors who, from what I could tell, didn’t care that he had it as long as he didn’t park it on anyone.  But he sat down where he did, his bike taking up quite a bit of room, and he began to speak to the girl about his right to bring his ride (now referring to it in hardcore motorcycle gang terms) aboard the train no matter what they said.  I guess this was true.  He kept staring at her legs and talked to her about how college boys didn’t know much about kissing.  She was trapped by the bike.  My little hero complex kicked in and I began formulating a plan to beat the man with his own helmet should the need present itself.  But he hopped off after one stop, making everyone wonder why he had taken the train such a short distance in the first place–why not use his ride?  I flipped my leather binder open and started writing maxims until my stop.

The following Saturday I received a call from my contact–the company had offered the job to the girl who had cancelled on them several times before.  She had said they were so impressed with her so quickly into the interview that they offered her the job on the spot.  I was crushed.

The correct course of action would have been to buy a quality suit, go to a tailor, and end up looking rather professional.  The path I chose, however, led me directly to the Sears Sales rack–bad idea #1.

Naturally, as I’ve written before, the only suit that fit properly, and therefore the one I bought, was a Haggar special.  Superficially it seems very middle of the road.  Not exactly what you’d see on Wall Street, but not quite hobo material.  Just a suit, that’s about all that can be said.  Perhaps the only glaring irregularities would be the orange, plastic lining in the pants–there for that standard Haggar toughness–and the false (very false) wrinkle-proof advertising tags that originally littered the suit. 

When purchasing  a new suit, it’s not a bad idea to pick up a matching shirt and tie that really brings the whole ensamble together.  Somehow, perhaps due to my disgust with the way I looked all ready, the salesman talked me into a fire-engine red shirt with matching tie.  Now, remembering that I’m kind of a big guy, I walked out finally concluding that I would be the subject of countless Kool-Aid Man and stop sign jokes.  But on the upside, two of the more important necessities were taken care of: new suit–check, shirt and tie–check, ready to dazzle at the interview–ehh.

After getting my new duds home, and after stewing the entire car ride about how terrible I would look in a red outfit, I decided that it would be best to wear a plain white shirt and blue tie.  Too many bright colors on a first interview may seem too bold, too ‘I’ll be the brightest peacock this office has ever seen.’  New problem however, all of my white shirts were purchased when I was still in high school.  Just to close the neck on the only one with sleeves that fit, I had to move the button to the very edge of the collar–still rather snug.

My interview was the following morning.  I got up, cleaned up, and squeezed into my new, professional little outfit.  All buttoned, zipped, and tied, I gave myself a look in the mirror.  My neck and head were way too fat for the collar–not only was the newly moved button clinging to the opposing hole like a scared cat to a curtain, but my chubby head pushed down on top of the collar turning it into tubes resembling crashing waves with my jowels as their crest.  Needless to say, the portions of my tie that should have gone unseen were quite visible. 

Moreover, somehow during the night my man bosoms swelled to twice their normal size making all of my subsequent breast buttons closely resemble their pursed and gradually popping, necky brother.  Then the final nail–my dress shoes, which had gone unused for a very long time, were now too wide for my feet.  The whole look was rather shocking; I was only a bowler hat away from playing an Oddjob or Random Task look alike.  Now that I was spilling, bursting, and literally stepping out of every possible crevice, I decided that this was all a bad idea.  But I was in, I was ready (sorta), and out the door on my way into Philly for my first grown-up, professional interview…

First a bit about myself.  I’m an Upstate New York man re-settled in the Philadelphia metro area.  I completed my Master’s degree in December of 2007 and of all things I chose to be an English Major.  So all ready you can see that not only will these posts be articulate, but they will be ceaseless and tragically persistent.  You see since October of ’07 I have applied for everything from positions in teaching to toilet bowl detailing.  Still, to date, I have landed only one job which itself was remarkably short lived, though altogether eye opening.  But that story, as well as quite a few others, will be told a little later, as I have a HUGE backlog of experiences and tales that hopefully some will benefit from.

In the meantime rest your wondrous and wondering minds upon the fact that I own one suit.  It’s a Haggar.  And I will go into further detail in my next post.