A so-called recruiter called and requested that I come in for an interview. I asked repeatedly if the organization was indeed a recruitment agency or if some sort of investment was involved. I’ve encountered too many of those companies over the years that lure you in as though they are job placement agencies and then request thousands of dollars upfront to groom, market, and prepare you for interviews and the “tough job market.”
The woman who contacted me assured me that this was not the case.
I put together my 50-pound portfolio, ironed my clothes, stepped into shoes I hadn’t worn in months, and hit the expressway. In my angst, and anticipating traffic, I arrived half an hour early. She and her subsequent e-mail instructed me to park in Visitor’s Parking, but just as I pulled in, a uniformed security officer tapped on my window.
“How long are you going to be here?” he asked.
“Well, my appointment is in half an hour; I’m a bit early,” I answered, already melting down in my suit on a hot early-September day.
“How long will your meeting last?”
“I honestly have no idea.”
“If you are here longer than an hour, you’ll be towed. I advise you park over there and write down your parking space,” he said, pointing to a deck approximately the height of the Empire State Building.
After this cheery greeting and several sweaty minutes later, I arrived in the 26th floor suite furnished (predictably) replete with stuffy sconces, stiff leather chairs, no reading material, (not even company material), and a framed, old-world map print on the wall identical to the one my Mom once purchased in 1960 with S&H green stamps. I bet to myself that they paid some interior decorator millions for that outdated touch. A snooty, twenty-something receptionist greeted my “hello, how are you?” with a cool request for a copy of my resume – a possible red flag since they ostensibly already had it. Then she handed me a clipboard with a form asking about my employment status. Duh.
I sat and I sat, directly in front of her oval, oak desk. She never cast a glance my way. I looked around for a water fountain. It had taken me some time to find my way out of that parking garage and my tongue had rebelled by spontaneously gluing itself to the roof of my mouth in a dry mating ritual. I thought about the visibility of the gray in my hair.
A good-looking man of around thirty walked in and stated that he had a meeting with such and such. Turns out he had the name wrong. “Would you like some coffee or some bottled water while you wait?” the now charming receptionist chirped. I thought about an article I read regarding the invisibility of women of a certain age in America.
Out came my meet-ee who after a proper handshake led me to his high-resolution, glass-enclosed office overlooking the outré city. He started asking me those questions typical of a pyramid-scheme spiel. What percentage of people do you think actually get their jobs from the Internet? Do you think we’re in a good job market right now? And the best . . . Do you think your age is a problem in today’s job market?
No, actually I thought that 51 was a great age for a woman in America to search for a job, especially given the professional treatment I’d received from his young red-headed receptionist. My eager helper then shocked me with the information that it would be much easier to place a thirty-one-year-old than a fifty-one-year-old in “today’s competitive job market.” Really?! I almost plunged with surprise from the slick upholstery of my armless seating arrangement, but I shifted cautiously so as not to break my hip. He then asked me what I’m sure was a spontaneous question on his part: "If you died today, what would you want engraved on your tombstone?” Oh the answers that tumbled through my troubled brain: “Everything is total bullshit.” “This whole life thing was totally pointless.” “Thank God, I don’t have to talk to you anymore.”
But reason prevailed, as it seldom does for me, except when I’m placed in situations of total desperation. So I gave him some lame answer about not missing deadlines (ha-ha). I had already completely disengaged as he talked about whether his team would decide to take me on as a “client,” gave me several clever acronyms for not getting a J-O-B, but a career, blah, blah, blah. Then came the fees, “an investment in my future,” for which he could assure would be in the low less-than-double-digit thousands, depending on how his team assessed my needs. The piece de resistance --he wanted to meet with my husband to ascertain his commitment to supporting me: translation being, how much money does he make and can he pay the bill? Oh yes, he also referred to my resume as an “obituary,” because it only refers to all the things that I have already done. Hmmm.
By then, I had tuned out completely. To paraphrase the Pink Floyd phrase, I was now uncomfortably numb. I agreed to take an abbreviated Meyers-Briggs personality test so that I could get away from the inquisitor and quickly exit the building. In the office on my own, I pulled a pen from my briefcase that spontaneously combusted in my hand. Was it a sign or was it my body heat?
With inky fingers, I answered the questions that tended to offer options such as:
1) In a room full of strangers would you a) mingle and make friends or b) stab as many attendees as possible with a salad fork before being arrested.
2) If given the choice would you choose to be a) a high-powered executive with so much money you had to buy yachts for all of your friends for a tax write-off, or b) a street-person sitting in your own urine-soaked garments and drinking mouthwash for the alcohol it contains.
(Of course, I chose the second option on all such queries.)
I dropped off the insightful forms at the empty receptionist’s desk and left. Then I spent 45 excruciating minutes in a torrid parking garage trying to locate my car. Fearing my escape vehicle had been towed, I returned to the building foyer several times, but the front desk was unoccupied. I even attempted to chase down a security truck, running behind it, briefcase in hand and pleading for it to stop amidst the amused gaze of the well-dressed elite and other visitors to the city. Eventually, after my shoes had rubbed bloody blisters onto my heels, I found a building employee who paged security. I rode with him in the security truck up and down the Empire State parking garage. I had written down my parking space coordinates as instructed, which enabled us to locate my vehicle, but the guard informed me that the alphabetical listings crisscrossed two garages, so he spent a great deal of time helping visitors find their cars. I decided that I either needed to never leave my home or be put into one.
It was a fun and fruitful day.
