First off, I'm not giving you my name. Not going to happen. It doesn't matter what it is anyway. Call me Ishmael, just like in the book. Ask and I won't tell you, bug me about it and I won't post any more of my story. I'm sorry to be blunt, but that's how it has to be. I'm not giving any other names either, for hopefully-obvious reasons. No names, no companies. Probably not even dates or times or locations either, just to be safe. You never know who's reading this, and who might be really good at following breadcrumbs. Honestly, I wouldn't be saying anything at all, except that it excites me to no end to share this. I'm getting hard thinking about it.
My story starts just over a year ago. I was fresh out of college with a BA in business management, and was waiting tables at a local Italian place until a real job came along. I didn't mind waiting: it's honest work, a constant pace (usually), the money is... OK the money is shit but there are ways around that. You get an eye for the customers with the deeper pockets, so you keep their drinks filled, bring them extra garlic bread, sneak another meatball onto their spaghetti plate. It costs you nothing, costs the restaurant almost nothing, and if you do it enough, it keeps the bill collectors away. Yeah, you get the assholes who don't believe in tipping, but they're usually few and far between. Mostly, people are OK. Really the only problem was that I had a degree now, and I could be doing a lot more with it.
At the time I was living with another guy in a small apartment just outside downtown. The rent wasn't exactly cheap, but the savings we would have collected by moving farther out of town would have been mitigated by the increased travel expenses. I didn't own a car, and public transportation didn't reach as far as I needed it to. It was a catch-22 if there ever was one.
We couldn't afford internet access in the apartment, so all of the job hunting had to be done from my cell, which, if you ever get the chance to fill out a job application and upload a resume from a seven-inch screen, pass. My thumbs are cramping just thinking about it.
I won't bore you with the details of my job hunt. Suffice it to say that it was long, tedious, unproductive, and depressing. Young guys with a BA in business management are a dime a dozen around here, so while there are lots of postings, they're almost always taken by the time you apply. You still have to apply, though, because every once in a while you get a fish on the line.
I wasn't allowed to be on my phone while at work, especially on busy nights, like that one particular Friday. I mean, I didn't really have time to anyway, with all the orders and the drinks and the garlic bread. I ran my ass off that night, and I made out alright, tip-wise, considering. By the time we closed, and had cleaned and put everything away for the next day, I was absolutely exhausted, and forgot that I even owned a phone. I didn't look at it until I was home and in bed.
I had an email, something like Re: Application for Executive Assistant and the company name. I knew it was a rejection, because all of the others had been rejections. Really, I only opened it so that the little mail icon wouldn't have a notification by it.
Dear Mr. [My name, that I'm still most definitely not telling you],
Interesting. It was specifically addressed to me. Probably still a form letter, but personalized. That was nice.
I am in receipt of your application for the position of Executive Assistant, and I must say that I am impressed. If you are amenable, I would like to schedule an interview at your earliest convenience. If you are still interested, and not otherwise engaged, please reach out to my secretary. She can be reached at [yeah not giving you that either].
I eagerly await your reply.
Sincerely,
[Signed]
I had to read it twice to even understand that it wasn't a rejection, then another time to actually pull the few details out of it. A job interview. At my earliest convenience. Call to set it up. Holy shit.
One more re-read, and I was tapping on the number to have my phone dial it. As it rang, I realized that I was calling at almost midnight on Friday. Nobody would be there. Shit. The voicemail picked up, and a very polite-sounding female voice told me that I'd called the office of the same guy who sent me the email, that the office's hours were from blah to whenever, and that if I left a message, my call would be returned when possible. Shit.
"Um... hi. This is [me]," I said, and I'm sure my nerves could be heard through the phone. "I received an email from [the guy] about the executive assistant position. He said to call and make an appointment for an interview, and, well I guess I was just... yeah, I'm sorry I'm calling so late. I can be reached at [my digits] at any time. Or I can call back Monday. I'll probably do that. Thanks, bye."
That went well. But still, Jesus, I had an interview!
I didn't get a chance to call on Monday, and didn't need to. They called me. Actually, he called me. Called me himself. He wanted to see me that afternoon. He apologized for the abrupt timing, but said that he just couldn't fit me in any other time during the week, and he really wanted to meet with me. I didn't even think about it, and just immediately agreed. It was only after we hung up that I remembered I was scheduled to work.
Working in foodservice has one distinct perk: if you call and tell them you're sick, they beg you to stay home. At least, they do in decent places. I feigned a cough and sore throat, and that was enough to ensure a day off. I spent the morning ironing my single pair of dressy pants and a white button-down shirt. I owned all of three ties: one red, one blue, one gray, and agonized over which would make the best impression. Red was flashy, confident. It shouted "hey, everybody look at me!" Blue was formal, restrained, cool and in control. Gray was "at least I put on a tie". I went with blue.
I showed up early. You're supposed to do that, plus I didn't know how long the commute would take, so I gave myself plenty of buffer time. It turned out I didn't need to: Google was right, to the minute, about how long the trip would take. God bless Google. I used the spare time to research the company, so that I might have a chance to answer the dreaded "so why do you want to work here?" question with something other than "so I can eat". Again, I won't give details, but really, there wasn't a lot that was special about the company. The industry doesn't matter, because the guy I was interviewing with was a financial manager, which was more or less identical across industries. Money comes in, money goes out, some money stays, rinse and repeat.
He, like Google, was to-the-minute on time. I swear, the second hand on the clock ticked to twelve and the office door opened. A voice called to me, strong and confident, but relaxed. We'll just be having a conversation, that's all, it said. I stood and followed.
We were inside his office before I really took a good look at him: tall, taller than me. Over six feet. Broad shoulders and chest, wearing a shirt that made a point to show it off. Dark, almost black hair, neatly cut, probably at an expensive place downtown. I didn't catch his face until he turned and sat. He was young, or at least young-ish. Mid-thirties maybe? Square jaw, intense blue eyes that seemed to reach inside you and read what was in there. The smile was nice though, even genuine maybe, and showed two perfect rows of pearly-white teeth.
"Have a seat," he offered, gesturing to a chair across from him. The gesturing hand tilted, to offer a handshake, which I returned. He had a good grip. It was firm, to let you know he was in charge, but not overpowering. I liked it.
"Thanks for meeting me on such short notice. Again, I'm sorry about that. I'm just absolutely booked all week and this was literally the only time I had."
"Oh, no it's... it's no problem. I was free anyway so..." I shrugged, as if to say it was no big deal whatsoever.
