Feature

The Business of Interviewing

by Tobly McSmith
Chocolate. That was my mother’s hurried advice as I scooted onto the plane to start my new and unemployed life in New York City. My mom, who for many years was a top job recruiter, instructed me when asked what my greatest weakness was to tell them that it was chocolate. To be considered for all available jobs, she urged me to tell recruiting companies that I was open to any industry. Great, I thought, that will make me sound like I am a fat industry floozy. Unfortunately, she did not prepare me for what was I was about to face next.

Fresh off the college boat, my only interviewing experience was at a bakery run by Mormons and at a candy store. I was thrown into the whirlwind of the hustle and bustle of New York job hunting with a lack of experience and a soft and slow West Texas approach to life.

The first recruiter made me cry. The fifth one took a typing test for me and encouraged me to lie about my work experience. The twelfth one set me up with a man named JP, with a penchant for drinking and an even healthier penchant for hitting on woman during interviews …

A short, stocky man - whom we’ll refer to as “JP” - met me in the lobby of a building. Fifteen minutes late, a meeting had run over he said. He had not had lunch and thought some cocktails would help. JP talked fast and promised big salaries and big bonuses. He was one of those salesmen. You could smell it on his stale-cologne- drenched-New Jersey-suit. The promises seemed to get bigger by the second cocktail. The talk became randy by the third.

When he popped the underwear question he tried to pad it with his need for a sexy assistant that would be easy on the overworked men’s eyes that he was selling firewalls to. When I refused to tell him my underwear cut he ordered us a forth cocktail. Had I gotten laid since landing in New York? What kind of drugs had I done? He wanted to know every detail. If I hadn’t felt so, well how should I put this, drunk, I probably would have left two drinks earlier with some dignity still intact.

We moved from a table to the bar. He revisited the underwear question. To my naive defense, I knew the interview was over. I knew it was over at the first underwear question, but having already missed my interview at 4:30, I decided to stay and abuse his expense account a bit more. How much worse could this get?

As I sipped on my sixth cocktail and he had gone to visit the bathroom, I cooked up my next move. I would be honest with this guy, who wanted me to be honest about my sex, drugs, and underwear, so I decided I would. When JP returned, I dropped the gay bomb on him. He recoiled at the speed of lightening at the thought that he wasn’t going to end the interview with a hotel room visit. The interview was over and he collected his bill.

Astonishingly, he gave me advice for future interviews. He recommended that I hold my cards closer to me. Thanks for the drinks and the poker metaphors, JP. Oh, and thanks for the call the next day to make sure that everything was “okay”. I suppose it was less of a hangover “okay” and more of a sexual harassment okay. It didn’t matter to me much; I chalked the whole experience up to New York City and salesmen in general.

I sobered up, forged on and ended up - with no help from a head hunter - in the HR office of the second largest publishing house. The HR representative and I had a straight forward interview. My future boss didn’t inquire about my undergarments. I was honest about my love of books and computer experience. I didn’t have to tell him about my made up love for chocolate and there was no typing test. After 12 interviews and 18 visits to recruiting offices everything had finally clicked. I felt good after the interview. I followed up and a week later was offered the position.

Like any trial or tribulation the harder you work the more it pays off, and although publishing houses are notorious for low wages, I felt like a million bucks.

The week before I started working I had some time to explore my new, promising city. As I headed to the Empire State Building walking hand and hand with a cute folk singer I was dating, I ran into none other than JP himself. He cringed at the sight of two girls holding hands. He asked if I had found employment, I asked if he found assistance. No, he said, he was still looking for that perfect assistant.

Chocolate, schmocolate, I suppose old JP’s biggest weakness is thongs.
Tobly McSmith was born in Texas and is afraid of shiny things. Tobly is extremely beautiful! Her unreasonably good looks make it acceptable for her to get irrationally angry at zippers and confused by weather changes. Tobly is in love with life and mad that it doesn’t return her phone calls.