I call back the representative of the aiming-high job first-thing,
around 8:30. She's not in, so I leave a message. I'm not encouraged by
this. The position seems like an inexact match, maybe even a bad match.
And while the company, a specialty publication, isn't exactly scary (it's
not "Guns & Ammo" or "Velvet" magazine), I'm not altogether wild about it.
I've become picky now that the recipients of my résumés are biting. And
now that I have a desirable offer to weigh them against.
I wait around for a couple of hours. I've started writing an
article that may have freelance potential. I eschew my normal prewriting
activities, including research, and dive right in. I work through an
introduction and feel my focus starting to shift. I can't quite get my
bearings, and I don't know which of the directions suggested by my
introduction are worth following. Plus, I can't really concentrate because
I'm fixated on the phone. So I save and head over to the park for a
head-clearing walk. It's actually a little cold, so I bring my
windbreaker.
I remember as I'm leaving that I'm out of printer ink. My closest
Office Supply Megastore is, disappointingly, right by my Old Office, in a
heavily-trafficked business park area that is home to many Big Technology
Firms and Small Start-Ups living in their shadow, which means that the
mini-mall is crammed with balding business guys wielding cell phones and
parking their SUVs in the compact spaces. It's also lunchtime, so there's
a frenzy in the adjacent food court. People are running around with
polystyrene cartons of pad thai and Snapples. I love that I'm unshowered,
sweaty, un-made-up, and wearing an old project T-shirt.
I find my printer cartridge and also pick up some clear labels that
will do nicely for our wedding invitations. Then I queue up behind two
Middle Manager Guys who are buying a Windows '98 update package. It costs
them $96.99. I have no comment about this. I hope they enjoy it. Behind
me, there is a tall, French-twisted woman buying a toner cartridge and what
appear to be ten or twelve bags of Kentucky dinner mints. I gag--I ate
almost a whole bowl of those when I was a little kid, and they came right
back up, mintier than before. Digusting. Those gelatinous green centers.
I'm relieved when I'm finally able to escape the parking lot. I'm
even more relieved when I come home to a flashing answering machine. I
pause before I push Play. If it's my call back, I go interview. I bring
my reservations with me. For some reason, I'm absolutely certain that if
this should result in an offer, I don't want it.
Neither is the Speciality Publication's representative. One is
Andy, checking in and telling me to expect an offer today. I call back
and respond with a message of my own. The other is Brett, saying hello.
I return to work on my article after a nice lunch of preformed
soyburger. And, since this is full disclosure, I did in fact watch almost
an entire syndicated episode of "Beverly Hills, 90210." I'm breaking all
my rules. Valerie and Steve have decided to expand the Peach Pit, using
Dylan's capital. But Dylan is broke and fronts the cash by mortgaging his
mansion and its wall-to-wall bourbon empties. David gets handcuffed to the
rails of Claire's bed, but there's no key--and then her Dad, the
chancellor, shows up. Big Bad Ray Pruit gives Donna the cream of the crop
from his family's pumpkin patch but then smashes it after she blows him off
for a foofy dinner with Casper Van Diem. Kelly is concerned when her mom
takes up modeling again--you know, because of the coke and anorexia.
My article is going nowhere when the phone rings. Surely this is
my call back. Actually, it's the editor-in-chief of another publication,
wanting me to interview for the "aiming-low" position. She describes the
magazine and is very relaxed and candid. She is up front about her
interest in me as a candidate. No Management Theory head games. She and I
set an appointment, and she gives me directions. The office is over by the
Ally McBeals. Not bad. This is a good fit: it's a women's magazine,
committed to real issues instead of fashion spreads and a shitload of ads.
I'm not wild about the position, but the opportunity for growth is more
than there. This is tempting.
I check the magazine out on-line. It seems modest but interesting,
with a lot of potential. I like the tones of the articles and the range of
stories: an in-depth article about treatments for the symptoms of
menopause, financial planning for women, a brief describing a study about
workplace satisfaction.
I pace around and finally busy myself making a meatloaf. I respond
to life's conflicts with meatloaf. This one warrants mashed potatoes. As
I'm cutting up potatoes, the phone rings once more. Andy calling back.
An offer is made. It's official. The money is there. The
position has been created. HR packets are on the way. An office is being
established, and we should have a two-week hiatus before our start date.
Andy is so apologetic about the hiatus that he actually offers to extend me
a loan if I can't pay my expenses between then and now.
Brett sails through the door as I'm about to give my response. He
comes and stands right beside me as I explain that I am absolutely,
positively thrilled with the offer, but I need to sleep on it. Andy seems
disappointed, and I tell him not to be. I'm happy. I just need to talk to
Brett and think about what this means for me. He seems to accept this. I
tell him I'll call him first thing in the morning to give him a 100%
answer.
Brett sinks into the futon while I dance around in the living room.
He's exhausted and pissed off at his shitty job. I tell him all the news.
We discuss. We eat meatloaf. We watch "The Simpsons."
I'm going to call Andy back and say yes, but I'm keeping The
Magazine's number. Maybe they might like my article.
