3

You’re Gonna Make It After All

Two cup of coffee and fifteen cigarettes into the following morning, I’m faxing my resume to the Financial Professional Recruiting Agency, to the attention of a Ms. Banker. When I telephone an hour later to make sure she’s received it and to schedule a meeting, I ask, "Isn't it such a coincidence that your name is Ms. Banker? Do people ask you that all of the time?"

"I'm not sure I know exactly what you mean, Ms. Silverman. But I believe we have more important things to discuss."

"Do you have something for me, then?" I knew it. See, when you just put your mind to it, you can do absolutely anything. Quick and painless. Success, love, riches, here I come.

"Not so fast, Ms. Silverman. Do you think people trust the Financial Professional Recruiting Agency because we throw just anyone into positions at the finest financial institutions in the city?"

Is this a trick question? "Er, no?"

"That's right. First we'll need you to come in and perform some computer skills tests. You do know Word, Excel, and PowerPoint, correct?" When I was typing Excel and PowerPoint into the computer skills section of my resume, I was a bit worried, only because I have never used either one, but since all of the job listings in the Times had called for them, I'd figured I ought to just add them, and then learn if the need ever arose. How hard could it be really? They make computer applications so simple a monkey could use them. I mean, look at that America Online commercial. That monkey had no problem whatsoever sending a message to his friend announcing he'd passed his driving test.

"Of course," I say with such authority that I actually believe I could sit right down and work out quadratic equations with my eyes shut.

"Great. Can you come in this afternoon? Say two o'clock?"

In the advertisements for these agencies, they should really warn you how depressing the offices are. It's all puke green cinderblock walls, like in a prison, boring office carpeting that doesn't even match, and a receptionist so rude that I can't imagine a recruiting agency hasn't found a better replacement. The worst part, though, is this one painting on black felt of a single clown, frowning as he looks up at his balloon drifting out of reach. Someone should do an article about this. "Job Hunting Nightmares," or better yet, "Recruiting Agency Blues."

After I dash through my application and pass it on to the receptionist (that is, once she's through telling the person on the other end of the telephone about this blouse that she bought at Joyce Leslie that rang up for only $6, even though the tag said $25, what color it was, the type of cut, what she’ll pair it with, and when she’s thinking of wearing it).

“I’m ready to take my tests now,” I say.

“What do you think all these other people are waiting for? To walk through the pearly gates?"

Okay. A simple "you'll have to wait” would have suited just fine. But I smile and take my seat in the sweetest way possible. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Joanne's voice says in my head.

While I’m here, perhaps I should ask some people about their feelings on job hunting through a recruiter to get a bit of research for a possible article. I might as well pitch the story to one of the daily papers. What's the worst they could say? Lord knows I’ve heard that N word before. I look around the room at the to find a good candidate for the story.

The first thing I do is look at shoes. It sounds strange, but hear me out. I see a pair of scuffed up stack-heeled Mary Janes—cute, but unfortunately, very obviously plastic. I mean, you can't very well hope to get a job if you come to an interview wearing plastic shoes. It's all about impressions, which is why I’m wearing the black leather pants I purchased on overdraft for my last job interview at Jane, paired with a smart tweed blazer, which I also bought for that interview. So, I didn’t get the job. But I looked the part, I really did. I shift my gaze to another corner and spot a stylish pair of natural-colored, point-tip stiletto boots, peeking from beneath a smart brown pantsuit. There's my girl.

"Hi. How are you?" I ask, a bit too cheery for this particular waiting room. I'm like a clown in the ICU.

“O-kaay,” she says hesitantly.

"I’m researching an article and I'm wondering if I can perhaps ask you a couple of questions about using job recruiters," I blurt out before I have a chance to feel shy about it.

"For which publication?" she asks.

Shoot, a smart one. I hate this part, because now I have to explain that I don't exactly have an assignment, but that I would like to pitch it to the daily papers in the city, and her input would be helpful.

Normally, when I'm trying to gather information for a beauty or fashion story without actually having an assignment, big companies cut me off here, and explain that they don't have time to speak with someone who may or may not be writing an article for some publication or another. But in this bleak environment, where the only other form of entertainment is a thoroughly dog-eared, two-year-old issue of Biography or an even more abused coverless issue of People, it's an easier sell.

When I'm done with my spiel she says, "Sure. I'm Samantha, by the way. What would you like to know?"

The words just come to me. I’m a natural. "This office seems so sober to me. Everyone is wearing a frown. Does this have any effect on you?" I ask, sounding rather professional. "I'm Lane, by the way," I add as an afterthought.

I begin jotting down notes as she says, “I’m so glad that you said that. This is the third place I've been to in the past two weeks, and they're all like this. And then, after waiting for about two hours, you take these awful tests which are, like, the most difficult things in the world, and then after you fail miserably, some woman behind a desk says with the most high and mighty tone you've ever heard. 'Sorry. We don't have anything for you.' And then you feel like the biggest loser in the entire world, and even though you graduated from college with honors, you don't think you'll ever find work anywhere." I've made Samantha cry. Her head is convulsing in tiny jerks and her mascara is quickly making its way from highlighting her lashes to highlighting the bags under her eyes. I run to the receptionist (still on the phone) and grab the tissue box from her desk. "It's okay, Samantha. We all feel like that," I say, starting to get worried for myself. She doesn't sound all that different from me. I hope I can pass the tests.

I rub her back, looking around the room, and notice that most everyone here is shaking heads in agreement—even the girl in the plastic stack-heel Mary Janes. And some begin vocalizing their views. This seems to calm Samantha, and she goes on to tell me the rest of her story. It seems that the people who work in the recruiting agencies don't always consider your skill set properly, and so make you feel like a moron because you can't balance accounts in Excel—even if you were the valedictorian of your class. After I've finished interviewing her and we've exchanged telephone numbers to grab a drink together some time (misery does love company), other people begin approaching me to participate in the story. Whether it's the five minutes of fame, or the us-against-them force that has everyone excited, it doesn't matter one bit to me. People are fired up about this story. And so am I. By the time I’m called in for my test, I’ve practically penned the entire article. Lane Silverman, star reporter. It does have a certain ring to it.

The job Ms. Banker is considering me for is in the Mergers and Acquisitions department of Salomon Smith Barney. It’s the one I'd seen advertised in the paper. I’d be supporting one of the Managing Directors. I can do that! No problem. And after we speak about how glowingly perfect I am (according to my resume and alleged computer skills), I've almost forgotten that I have to take the tests at all.

"Before you run into the testing center," Ms. Banker explains, wide-eyed, "I'd like you to meet the man you'd be reporting to. He just came in to meet with me about his particular requirements, and I asked him to stay for a moment to meet you. Please do not embarrass the Financial Professional Recruiting Agency or yourself."

I’m glad at this opportunity, because I'm great with interviews—I do this for a living! As I glance at her thumbtack-hung posters—waves crashing off pointed rocks under a crystal blue sky, above the word, "Success;" another depicting a skier doing the downhill underneath the word, "Compete"—I wonder why, if she thinks she’s helping people so much, she feels the need to act like a mean know-it-all. Fingering Ms. Banker's Precious Moments figurine of an angelic, drop-eyed girl wearing glasses at a cluttered desk, I picture the balding, stout man, stuffed into a cheap-looking suit, sporting a record-breaking comb-over, who will walk through that door. He'll probably take one look at a young thing like myself and hire me on the spot.

"Thomas Reiner, meet Lane Silverman," says Ms. Banker as she returns to her inspiration-filled office with him. I stand to shake his hand, noting that he is not, in fact, old at all. My guess is about thirty-two. His full head of soft brown hair is neatly shaved at the back and sides and just the right length up top. He looks like someone you would glance at, but never look at twice in a bar; the sort of man you would describe as "nice." His female friends probably try to fix him up all the time, selling him with phrases like, "He’s the sweetest man I know, and so smart!" I feel a wave of pity tor him.

We take the vinyl seats on the interrogation end of the desk, and Ms. Banker props herself up, back perfectly straight (straighter than when she'd met with me) in her own high-backed Staples special, hands folded in prayer position.

"So, Lane, Ms. Banker tells me your computer skills are excellent, and I see you've graduated from NYU and spent lots of time as a freelance writer. All very impressive. Writing skills are highly regarded for positions like this. But, I must ask, why are you choosing to switch careers at this particular time?"

“Well, I just want to meet men, really," I say, smiling to show it’s a joke. A joke. Oh my god. It’s so not a joke. Ms. Banker's brows scrunch so tightly they virtually disappear. But Reiner's face breaks into a gleaming white smile and he begins to laugh. Ms. Banker’s arches ease back into two separate entities and she even manages an under-her-breath laugh/sigh to show she’s in agreement with popular opinion—her important, paying client's popular opinion.

"Obviously, you have very good interpersonal schmoozing skills,” he says. "Is that what you studied in college?”

"Well, that was my minor, but English was my major." I try to communicate levity with my eyes rather than my hands in the spirit of smooth calm. Nevertheless, of their own my palms make half gestures in my lap that could get me confused with a sign language translator.

"You'd never tell from where I wound up, but I studied literature in my undergrad days as well. Big American lit fan, too?"

"Sure, I love Faulkner and Hemingway," I say. This is my standard reply. That was the only course I actually took that went into any lengthy detail on authors. They were all right, but probably not really my favorites. Those would be Sophie Kinsella, Helen Fielding, Jane Austen, the Brontes, anyone who writes about love and provides a happy ending and fodder for my M&M search. Hemingway's male love interests always get thwarted, have sexual dysfunctions or get freaked out when their wives transform into men—not really my cup of tea.

"Big bullfighting aficionado?" he replies—in complete mastery of the eye levity thing, hands statue-still over one knee—and con­tinues, "Anyhow, let me tell you a bit about the position. You're obviously more than qualified." And then, as if only to please Ms. Banker, he adds, "You do know what mergers and acquisitions is, right?"

"Well, sure, it's when two companies want to merrrge,” I bend my head a bit here as the word I’ve never used outside of a Word document slides slowly out. His eyes follow until it looks as if our heads might crash. And in a flash it comes to me, “to put their. . . assets together to . . . to . . . increase profits."

Tada! It sounds like common sense to me. I look over to Ms. Banker to pooh-pooh her lack of confidence but she isn't smiling. In fact, just the opposite. I get that awful body-floating-off-to-sea feeling that so often accompanies shoe-in-mouth syndrome.

"Haha," I snicker, in case what I said is more appropriate as a cute little joke, and readjust my hair behind my ear.

"Yes, on a small scale, that's it exactly. Basically, mergers and acquisitions encompass just one product area in investment banking that we offer to clients as strategic advice. If we see that a certain industry is consolidating for any number of reasons, we present our best ideas to specific clients regarding what we feel makes sense as a long-term growth plan for shareholders. For a company to hire us rather than a competitor takes years of building relationships and credibility." That's what he says.

What I hear is, "Yes, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah."

Was that even in English?

I don't worry about the heretofore-unmentioned "foreign language" requirement. I remember from my college temp days, it didn't matter if you understand what's going on when you're an assistant. As long as you can type and ask questions when you aren't sure if something makes sense the way you've typed it, you're fine. When you're not a key player at a company and realize that from the menial tasks you’re asked to perform every day ("Lane, can you find out if this notebook comes with the spiral on top, rather than on the side?" or "While you're at it, can you pull out all the files and stamp each with 'FILED' and then put them back exactly the same, except retype the tabs in Courier New ten point?"), it's easy to get depressed about your worth.

One day you step back and wonder exactly how you've gone so far off track that you’re torturing yourself over mistakenly having chosen "standard" manila over "nouveau" manila folders and that's when you start implementing Third Reich nicknames for your superiors, maintaining a habit of bringing up topics like the cost of your education and the honors you’ve been granted, and adopting a bad case of finger-waving-hand-on-hip syndrome during "happy" hour over five-too-many margaritas.

Although those wonderful olden days are flooding back in Ms. Banker's warm and fuzzy corporate presence, at least I know I’m returning with my own stable of goals. And so I hope going from master-of-my-own-domain (however humble) to underpaid, underappreciated, I'll-show-you (by hoarding every last number two pencil, rubber stamp, and novelty Post-it flag set I can get my hands on) status wouldn't set me back too far on the emotionally-prepared-for-a-high-school-reunion scale.

Besides, I have the feeling that Tom isn't the sort of guy who would scream at the top of his lungs: "You are the stupidest girl I have ever met!" He seems to get the fact that I could do the job in my sleep. I’m nodding comprehension as he continues to explore for my benefit the splendors of investment banking—a spiel I've heard and attempted to stay conscious through many a midtown happy hour. I’m sure the information will take the same route it has before—in through one ear and, at warp speed, out the other.

"That is fascinating," I say with wonderful diction, amazed at how much happy hour can prepare you for job interviews. Another article, perhaps?

One side of his mouth inches north, and I get the feeling that although he’s acting like he’s buying my shtick by the wagonload, he can really see right through me to the neon marquee flashing "Zzzzzz." You have to respect a guy like that. He sees I can do the job, and doesn't get bogged down in all the snooze-inducing details that anyone with passing marks in playtime can surely pick up along the way. I never could under­stand those bosses who allotted two hours in the conference room to explain office supply order form procedure. I'm guessing Tom Reiner couldn't either.

He seems so cool yet looks so un-cool. I mentally shake my head. Too bad he’s wearing a tie with golf clubs crossed all over it. That's actually one of the-top five things on my list of no-way-in-hell guys:

#4. Never date a guy who wears ties with golf clubs on them.

I’m getting all caught up in thinking about how guys are always just one or the other—nice, or cool and sexy, but never both, never all the items on the checklist. I have my M&M checklist neatly typed up and photocopied one hundred times in a pretty, spiral-bound book with a furry pink cover, so each time I meet someone with M&M potential, I'll have a clean checklist with which to properly assess him—when everything goes silent.

Both Ms. Banker (who I swear, does not want me to get a job, no matter how many posters of successful wave riders or competitive skiers she has tacked on her wall) and Tom Reiner are looking at me in anticipation. The former wears a smirk on which you could literally see the words I thought so, and the latter is wearing that lopsided smile again.

Quite unexpectedly, Tom Reiner saves me "So, do you think a bit of organizing, filing, scheduling, and telephone answering is something a smart gal like you could handle?"

Gal? Who the heck uses that word? Oy. It’s possible he could have been using it sort of jokingly, which would be kind of cute. But still, if you’re going to talk like that you might as well shave off all your hair, grow a round belly, and move to Boca.

"Sure."

I smile and he stands, sticking out his hand, which is not manicured and a bit on the dry side, for me to shake. "We'll see you Monday. Eight-thirty a.m."

“Can’t wait," I say, and this time both corners of his lips turn up in a full smile, and I’m almost sure he can see right through to my brain, where my little assignment sits front and center, and I’m mentally swapping his tie for a subtle silk one.

Imagine how simple this whole thing would be if Tom Reiner had been The One!

I’m almost embarrassed for big, old Ms. Banker when she gets up to escort Tom Reiner out of the office, her polyester pants shirring with each stride. She’s trying so hard to impress but doesn't know the first thing about how to do it. There’s hair-fluffing and blouse straightening and forced giggles at comments that aren't meant to be funny. I can't help imagining a makeover—taking her to the gym, a whistle strung around my neck as she chugs along on the treadmill; coaching her through Bloomingdale's, pointing out stylish clothing that enhances her looks; snapping a pointer at her fingers when she gravitates towards tapered slacks. "Remember the crashing waves! Success! Success! Say it with me, Banker!" I’d yell. She does have quite beautiful eyes and a nice, tiny nose.

When I rise to follow them, she turns around with a quiet, "Na-ah, we're not done yet." I visually rap her wagging finger a bit too hard. This time I add a gaggle of highlighted beauty editors attacking her virgin brows with tweezers, chanting, "This won't hurt a bit! Hoooh-hooh, haaaahhhhh-haaaaah-haaah."

She puts me to the test by running the computer skills evaluations. Fair enough, was my initial thought. But, I am not exaggerating when I say that these are awful, horrible tests designed to massacre self-esteem and chuck confidence into the East River. After you fail to know what the vaguest little button on Microsoft Word does, which obviously can't be too important, since it’s the only application I’ve used every day for years and haven't had the need for yet, a window disguised as cute and innocent with a bold font and pretty colors, says things like, "Sorry, that is the wrong answer." and "Are you sure that is what you want your final answer to be?" in such a dehumanizing way that you really have to fight off the urge to pick up the monitor and hurl it out the window.

I fail miserably.

When I meet with her again in her "inspired" office, Ms. Banker looks smugger than she had earlier.

"Do you think it’s funny to lie on your resume?" she asks as my dream Cosmo assignment seems to slip between my fingers.

This time I’m sure it’s not the sort of question that requires an answer.

"Our clients trust us to provide them excellent staffers, and you have taken that responsibility and stomped all over it." Ms. Banker appears thrilled at the opportunity to reprimand me thus. It's like when you go to McDonald's and ask the underpaid, caste system-conscious cashier to "Biggie Size" your meal, and avenging themselves for every time they've been forced to ask "Would you like fries with that?" they act like they haven't a clue what you're talking about, until you realize you're using Wendy's terminology in McDonald's and correct yourself. "Um, sorry. I mean Supersize." And then, as if in epiphany, they say, "Oh," as if they hadn't known what you'd meant all along.

It’s clear Ms. Banker has feelings for me like the ones people normally reserve for penny-pinching landlords and shoplifters—in sum, not the good kind. Who knows the cause? Youth? A difference of 120 pounds, maybe? And I’m okay with it, too, just as long as she can find it in whatever she has in place of a heart to let me keep the job with Reiner.

"But since Mr. Reiner is set on hiring you, I'm going to let you take the tutorials to learn the programs now."

I’m shocked. And feeling a bit bad about the 120 pounds thought. Is she actually being nice to me? Maybe this is what she thinks her role in inspiring people is all about. First you knock them down, and then you show them that you, and you alone, hold the tools to pick them up—and then they're eternally grateful. I’m not about to argue.

You know what? Those tutorials break everything down so simply that I figure it all out in no time, retest and pass with flying colors. I have to admit that I do feel a bit inspired. I’m not about to grab a surfboard and a ticket to Hawaii, but still.

In the end, Ms. Banker shakes my hand, and smiling, I might add, she says that she’s very proud of me.

I like the sound of that.

A couple hours later, I’m even more inspired in my new camel-colored overcoat. I probably shouldn't have used my Saks card, the one I’d already stuck a hazard sticker on, but I had to start my new executive life with a new executive look. And the sling-back chocolate croc pumps were just made for a corporate debut. I wear them both on the way home, to break them in, and because I can't help myself. I stuff the tags and boxes inside my new attaché case. It was on sale, okay?