Yesterday I got a very real glimpse into what my life would be like if I had been a business major. And I gotta tell you, folks, it was pretty sweet. I had no idea what I was in for when I went to interview at this company that randomly hit me up-- apparently they saw my "administrative assistant" targeted resume on Monster.com. Why? Because every production/cable company needs administrative assistants, and I'm trying to get in any way I can. The interview was for some random life insurance company, which sounded dismally boring, but I figured hey, know what else is boring? Weekends when you're broke and unemployed. So I put on my big girl interview dress, my big girl business heels (which double as my big girl party heels on Friday nights), slung my big girl briefcase over my shoulder (some people get cars for their graduation...), and drove to a big, shiny-ass building over by Wilshire and Fairfax.
You can imagine my surprise that anyone in a building so shiny and important would ever contact lil' ol' "former money handler at the Sachsen Society bake sale." I mean, Jesus, of all the jobs I've ever held only one or two of them would I posit as even remotely legitimate. I guess I got off to an awkward start with my first job being selling auto care packages door-to-door on commission. For a month. Guess who's not a very convincing auto services salesperson? This 16-year-old.
The building my interview was in was actually part of a massive, shiny complex, and in the heart of it there was a stellar farmer's market going on. "Oh..." I thought to myself, "so this is what people with money get to do on their lunch break." Bear in mind that my idea of big spending is getting a taco bowl at Chipotle, and that past options for my "work lunch breaks" have only ever been Fatburger, some hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint, bringing lunch from home, or just not having a break to begin with.
Inside was another story. Literally. The company was on the fourth floor in the "North Wing." Of course, being the naiive little bumpkin that I am, I took the elevators going to the "South Wing." Jesus H. Christ, I've never worked at a place that had "wings." At best we had actual walls dividing rooms, and even that I consider a luxury.
The interview itself was a trip. I "passed" Round 1, which was literally a 2-minute conversation that served as some proof that I could pass as a normal person within a 2-minute time frame. Round 2 was me, the CEO, and about 30 other applicants of every demographic all in a small room together. We were each given a clipboard with a survey to fill out, that asked us many questions about how competitive we consider ourselves and how much we care about money.
I don't think I filled out that survey correctly. Whereas I thought de-emphasizing how much I care about money was some kind of testament to my integrity, the second the CEO began his presentation he made it very clear that money was his sole prerogative. This guy really, really liked money. You could tell whenever he'd start listing figures that he had to restrain himself from grabbing the people in the front row by the shoulders and shaking them, yelling, "Money! Can't you smell it?! Can't you feel it?! MONEY MY BOY, MONEY!"
The job-- nay, career-- promised swift mobility, zero lay-offs, bonuses as far as the eye could see, and starting salaries that made the woman next to me nod uncontrollably and murmur, "Mmm-MM" over and over again. Seriously. When he began talking about how much money we would make as a starting agent all sorts of thoughts started running through my head: "Maybe I could stay here a year. Wait. No. Look at that five-year bonus. Okay. Five years. Just five years and then I'll have saved all the money I wanted and then I can go off and be a screenwriter. Ha. Screenwriters. Poor people. I'll be a rich screenwriter. RICH. MONEY MY BOY, MONEY!"
And then the CEO asked me to get down from my chair.
Despite how much the concrete possibility of being rich wrapped itself around my brain and made me heavily reconsider my entire life for a moment, I knew that, as nice as it would be, I would have to turn it down. This wasn't a job ("which means Just Over Broke," the CEO told us as if "job" was actually an acronym), this was a career. Something I would have to dedicate my life to. I would be Jessica the Insurance Agent. I would be rich. I would work in a shiny building. I would go to fancy farmer's markets for lunch. But I would be fucking miserable because I would have no time to pursue what I actually want to do. And at no point in my life did selling insurance or working at a major corporation ever sound appealing to me. I would hate it. Not to mention I would probably suck at it. Would you buy life insurance from me? I wouldn't buy life insurance from me. I would, however, buy a short story about the misery of selling life insurance from me. Or, I would if I had money. But I don't have money. Because I'm a writer.
I get the feeling that at several points in the future, I'll look back on this interview and think, "You fool. You naiive, idealistic, devilishly good-looking fool!" But for right now, I'm chalking it up as my first resistance to selling out. What kind of person would I be if I had spent the past 22 years of my existence babbling about how I was going to be a writer, and then within 6 months of graduation I gave up and became an insurance agent? No amount of money could compensate for that weakness of will. It probably wouldn't hurt, but I know I'd be miserable.
So back to looking around for minimum wage jobs that make me happy.
You can imagine my surprise that anyone in a building so shiny and important would ever contact lil' ol' "former money handler at the Sachsen Society bake sale." I mean, Jesus, of all the jobs I've ever held only one or two of them would I posit as even remotely legitimate. I guess I got off to an awkward start with my first job being selling auto care packages door-to-door on commission. For a month. Guess who's not a very convincing auto services salesperson? This 16-year-old.
The building my interview was in was actually part of a massive, shiny complex, and in the heart of it there was a stellar farmer's market going on. "Oh..." I thought to myself, "so this is what people with money get to do on their lunch break." Bear in mind that my idea of big spending is getting a taco bowl at Chipotle, and that past options for my "work lunch breaks" have only ever been Fatburger, some hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint, bringing lunch from home, or just not having a break to begin with.
Inside was another story. Literally. The company was on the fourth floor in the "North Wing." Of course, being the naiive little bumpkin that I am, I took the elevators going to the "South Wing." Jesus H. Christ, I've never worked at a place that had "wings." At best we had actual walls dividing rooms, and even that I consider a luxury.
 |
| "Okay, Jessica, your office will be on the other side of this screen." |
I don't think I filled out that survey correctly. Whereas I thought de-emphasizing how much I care about money was some kind of testament to my integrity, the second the CEO began his presentation he made it very clear that money was his sole prerogative. This guy really, really liked money. You could tell whenever he'd start listing figures that he had to restrain himself from grabbing the people in the front row by the shoulders and shaking them, yelling, "Money! Can't you smell it?! Can't you feel it?! MONEY MY BOY, MONEY!"
 |
| "There's a swanky farmer's market outside! It's going to be ALL RIGHT!" |
And then the CEO asked me to get down from my chair.
Despite how much the concrete possibility of being rich wrapped itself around my brain and made me heavily reconsider my entire life for a moment, I knew that, as nice as it would be, I would have to turn it down. This wasn't a job ("which means Just Over Broke," the CEO told us as if "job" was actually an acronym), this was a career. Something I would have to dedicate my life to. I would be Jessica the Insurance Agent. I would be rich. I would work in a shiny building. I would go to fancy farmer's markets for lunch. But I would be fucking miserable because I would have no time to pursue what I actually want to do. And at no point in my life did selling insurance or working at a major corporation ever sound appealing to me. I would hate it. Not to mention I would probably suck at it. Would you buy life insurance from me? I wouldn't buy life insurance from me. I would, however, buy a short story about the misery of selling life insurance from me. Or, I would if I had money. But I don't have money. Because I'm a writer.
I get the feeling that at several points in the future, I'll look back on this interview and think, "You fool. You naiive, idealistic, devilishly good-looking fool!" But for right now, I'm chalking it up as my first resistance to selling out. What kind of person would I be if I had spent the past 22 years of my existence babbling about how I was going to be a writer, and then within 6 months of graduation I gave up and became an insurance agent? No amount of money could compensate for that weakness of will. It probably wouldn't hurt, but I know I'd be miserable.
So back to looking around for minimum wage jobs that make me happy.
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