Pounding the Pavement (10 page)

    On first viewing, my résumé might look exactly the same to you. There are differences, though. Subtle differences, but differences nonetheless. And in some cases, incredibly important differences. Please note:

Résumé writing is an art. It is a
precise
art. Employers look for specific words to jump out at them. And depending on exactly what kind of applicant they are seeking, they’ll want to see words like “operated” or “programmed” or “created.” In more common cases—my cases—they prefer “answered,” “organized” or “obeyed.”

Granted, most employers are going to skim over the juicy parts. If you were to write that you “were responsible for the distribution of high-quality narcotics to underprivileged children in New York City boroughs” and that “you acted as a liaison between Colombian drug cartels and organized New York City street teams,” all an employer is going to know is that you can distribute and you can liaise. And that looks pretty damn good. Moreover, they may even be impressed that you choose to work so closely with kids. I highly recommend you hint at your altruistic streak as often as possible.

So, for a résumé I plan to send to a property management firm—property management being something I know nothing about and for which I doubt I am qualified—I keep my skills to a bare minimum.

My employers won’t need to know that I can coddle filmmakers or that I can consume mass quantities of sub-par entertainment in search of one film that could be deemed, at best, “marketable.” They may, however, be impressed that I can type without looking at the keyboard.

“Content Development Assistant”? Too fancy. It’s been changed to the more accessible “Administrative Assistant,” which is nonspecific enough to keep everyone happy.

Under my extracurricular activities, I’ve also added that I was a “Junior Executive.” That sounds promising, doesn’t it? That I was the junior executive of my college Film Society will probably go unnoticed.

And if you’re being particularly observant, you’ll also notice I did, in fact, include a section for my computer and typing skills. To make room for it, I got rid of my job experiences as an intern. Who needs to know I was an intern, when already my later job descriptions have me acting like an obedient, passionless twit? You’re not going to get any feistiness from me, not with this résumé. I’ve just painted myself as a perfectly responsible, perfectly capable little assistant. Vacant eyes, insipid smile, and all.

A
t 7:30 in the morning, I rub the sleep from my eyes and shuffle my way to the bathroom. The door is closed. I knock.

“Come in,” says Amanda. I open the door.

Amanda and I don’t usually cross paths in the morning, and I am pleased to find her in front of the mirror, skin wan, lips faded, light blue eyes hidden behind thick, dark bags. Her hair is a messy mop of curlers on top of her head. She looks almost human.

“What are you doing up so early?” she asks into the mirror.

“I have an interview.”

“What for?”

“Assistant property manager,” I mumble, grabbing my toothbrush.

She unwraps one of her curlers, and a familiar, lush tendril falls into place. “Do you need to borrow any of my clothes?”

“Not unless you’ve got overalls and a hard hat.”

She unwraps another perfect curl. “You know, that could be a really good look for you.”

I make a face into the mirror.

B
arb Wallace, the director of Human Resources at Cooper Union Management, is a spry little Chihuahua of a woman. Unfortunately, she’s a Chihuahua in a designer navy suit. I am beginning to rethink my choice of outfit. Even though I do consider these to be my nice clothes, I am slowly beginning to understand that “nice” does not necessarily mean the skin-tight black pants and lacy halter top I saved for special occasions in college—like Homecoming or the first day of new semester classes.

Maybe it’s the Chihuahua connection again, but Barb reminds me of my tiny little high school Spanish teacher who used to sit on her desk with her legs crossed. As friendly and as animated as Barb may be, she still makes me feel like a teenager without a clue. When she asks a question, she waits patiently, smiling encouragingly, as if she were ready to applaud any response I’d be willing to give.

When prompted, I assure her I am looking for a “learning experience” and that I am willing to work from the bottom up as long as the position offers, of course, “growth potential.” Barb is understandably impressed with my coached and well-practiced replies.

She then moves on to stage two—The Challenge. She looks at my résumé, ponders it for a moment, then thinks of a tough question. This is what she comes up with:

“I see you’ve had a lot of experience in the entertainment industry. I’m just curious. Why do you no longer wish to work in film?”

It’s a good question. Excellent, in fact. And the answer is very delicate indeed. Because, the truth is, I
do
want to work in film, any aspect of film. But the jobs I want don’t seem to be available these days.

Luckily, I have a prepared response that is a little more, shall we say, tactful.

“Oh, I love film,” I say honestly. “But I love the kind of films people don’t make anymore. I love when Marilyn Monroe dips potato chips in champagne. Or when Marlon Brando lights a match off the back of his jeans. But that doesn’t exist today. Now we have trilogies and remakes and Vin Diesel vehicles. I just don’t want to be part of that. I’m happy to watch old movies as a pastime. But as far as work goes? I want to do something more fulfilling.”

Barb smiles. She’s pleased. So, moving on.

She draws me a chart. I haven’t really been paying attention, but I believe the chart is supposed to depict the corporate hierarchy at Cooper Union Management. As Barb diligently attempts to distinguish an exec V.P. from an S.V.P., my mind wanders and I try to envision my future as a legitimate property manager.

I’m wearing a hard hat. I’m sitting on the ledge of a fifth-story scaffolding contraption, eating a bologna sandwich from out of a tin lunch pail. Then sure enough, the scaffolding gives out from under me. No reason. It just vanishes.

So, there I am, splayed on my back on the sidewalk. I can’t move my neck. I’m paralyzed. And I am forced to look up at my
former ledge, the spot that marked the height, the pinnacle, of my so-called growth potential. Then I hear the lurch. The entire contraption creaks and collapses, barreling toward me—

“So,” Barb leans forward, breaking me from my disturbing reverie. “Do you think this job might interest you?”

Have I mentioned before how much I hate this question? It’s not like I can say, outright, “No. The job sucks. You could turn it sideways and cram it for all I care.”

“I’d be curious to explore the possibilities,” I say lightly.

“Great.” She stands. “Then it’s time for you to meet Vladimir.”

I cast a quick glance at Barb’s makeshift graph and see a box labeled “Vladimir—Exec V.P.” Directly below it, there is a box labeled, “You.”

“Okay, do me a favor …” Barb implores as I rise from my seat. “Try this on?” She removes her suit jacket and hands it to me.

Let me make a couple of things clear. First, I know my pants are a little snug and my shirt a little revealing. But I resent the fact that Barb’s blatant disapproval of my outfit makes me feel like a stripper some impertinent office peon hired for Vladimir’s surprise birthday party.

And secondly, as I think I’ve mentioned before, Barb is a wee, little lady. Now, I’m no Amazon, but I’m certainly no five-foot-one, eighty-pound bundle of joy. Trying on her jacket is a ridiculous idea, and I am annoyed she would even suggest it. The shoulders of her sleeves don’t even clear my elbows.

“Well, okay …” She takes her jacket back reluctantly. “Maybe if you just pull your shirt down a bit …”

Fighting back tears, I tug down on the edges of my shirt to conceal the inappropriate sliver of my stomach.

It comes as no surprise, then, that Vladimir gives me a critical once-over as soon as I walk into his office. I have no doubt this interview
will be particularly painful. Right off the bat, he grabs his yellow legal pad, and hits me with his most obnoxious question.

“You have strengths?”

Believe it or not, I am unprepared for this line of inquiry. All of my former interviews have been conducted rather informally, more like a forum for discussion, a
salon de thé
if you will. Minus the
thé
. I consider myself above the questions regarding my strengths, my weaknesses, my most challenging experiences. Wouldn’t he just prefer if I told him a little bit about myself first?

Because I have no ready response, I use my usual plan of attack. I flail and fumble incoherently, trying to regale Vladimir with some clever anecdote that may or may not be an answer to his question. Really, I’m just buying time. I tell him about Andy Edgar, a legacy of the underground film movement, who tried to develop a web vehicle to generate interest for his upcoming experimental feature film.

“Boy, was he something!” I say. “I mean, he was great. But out there, you know? He was charming and funny, and the idea was fantastic, but—wow! Guy couldn’t keep a train of thought to save his life. Trying to wrestle the project into some kind of shape, that was the problem. You get a surreal guy, and a surreal project. But no one to actually make it work, right? So, of course, the project gets dropped into my lap, and I’ve got to find a way to hammer it out. And in the end, and I mean after
a lot
of finessing, I guess I did kind of turn it into a decent, workable proposal …”

Vladimir’s expression remains blank. Either he doesn’t understand me, or he understands me perfectly. He just doesn’t like me.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I tend to rise to the occasion,” I mumble.

Vladimir nods. I watch him write on his legal pad, “rises to occasion.” He looks back up at me.

“You have weakness?”

I laugh. “Well, clearly, it takes me a long time to get to the point.”

Completely oblivious to my clever witticism, Vladmir jots on his notepad, “takes too long to get to point.”

After that, our interview is cut thankfully short. Vladimir is called into an impromptu business meeting, and I am asked to show myself out. Which would work if I could remember my way in. I have a bad sense of direction to begin with. And a windowless office makes it impossible for me to even use the sun as a guide to tell east from west.

I wander though the labyrinth of cubicles, skulking past the assistants who leer at my shameless display of naked flesh. A reception desk would be a welcomed sight. Instead, I stumble upon one office pantry after another. Or, most likely, I’ve made the same loop several times.

Instinct tells me to go left, so I go right. I finally see the double oak doors I’ve been looking for. I make a mad dash and hurl myself out of the stuffy office.

And into a conference room.

A sea of angry faces turn to glare at me. Vladimir, at the head of the conference table, rises stiffly. He points a militant finger at me.

“You turn around! You go to end of hall.”

I turn around. I go to end of hall.

B
efore I return home, I stop at the bank just for the sheer thrill of checking my account balance. For a moment I toy with the idea of taking out a whole forty dollars in cash. I laugh at such absurdity and take out twenty dollars instead. Good thing, too. The ATM spits out my receipt and informs me that my remaining balance is nineteen dollars.

The good news is today is Thursday and my unemployment check should arrive this afternoon. I check my watch. It is 12:30. I have plenty of time to catch the mailman on his route and run back here to cash my check.

I crumple up my receipt and toss it in the trash receptacle on my way out. The security guard, a smiling, heavyset black woman, holds the door open for me.

“Bye, bye, sugar,” she winks.

Okay, well, I suppose the bad news is I’m going to have to cash my check at a different branch of my bank. I can’t very well come back here if the security guard already recognizes me. It’s bad enough having to hunch over like a hoodlum in the far corners of the ATM vestibules, trying to endorse my checks with one elbow folded over the “New York State Department of Labor” logo on top of the slip. Would it be so hard for the government to adopt a direct deposit policy to make my life a little less humiliating?

I walk down a few blocks and stop on the corner to buy a cup of coffee from the street vendor. Because I don’t want to break my brand-new twenty, I fish in my pockets for change and eventually cough up seventy-five cents in nickels. The vendor gives me a look. He sighs and lowers his head.

“Five, ten, fifteen …” He thumbs the nickels on his counter accordingly.

At 12:45, I settle down on the bench outside of my apartment building to wait for the mailman. Just before I get comfortable, however, my cell phone rings. Of course.

“Sarah?”

“Hi, Gracie.”

“Hi, doll. Do me a favor. Remind me where you live again?”

“Um, Sixty-eighth Street?”