The Coworker's Secret Bargain

1. The Shit Who Floats

The Shit Who Floats

Everybody pads their résumé.

It’s not a crime.

Agency. It requires remarkable agency to take one’s career by the balls, fabricate a lie, then will the lie to come true. That, to me, screams ‘leadership potential.’

Creativity. Liars are the most creative creatures in the world. It takes a great store of imagination to conjure up a big fat juicy lie out of thin air and commit it to paper. Not all lies are great. Some are downright trite. ‘The dog ate my homework’? Amateur hour.

Ah, but a great lie, now that is a work of art…

If I were in HR, I’d hire me.

At least, this is what I tell myself as I stare down the panel for my third round of interviews with Rylan Industries.

My name is Carina Wu. I’m a data analyst and a padder of résumés.

I suppose that makes me a liar, but I can’t waste time feeling bad about that now.

I have bills to pay. I’ll have plenty of time to self-reflect and wallow in shame once I’ve secured my paycheck and can afford my rent.

I’ll set a mental reminder to hate myself tomorrow.

I solemnly swear I’ll be honest next week, but today, I need to harness the powers of make-believe to survive this interview.

Fortunately, I don’t have to do too much heavy lifting.

The interview is going surprisingly well.

It’s Friday, 4:34 pm on Memorial Day weekend, and the HR panel is listless and dying to clock out.

I casually scan the gatekeepers to my future six-figure paycheck.

There’s only three of them, seated like a soulless trinity across the oak veneer board table.

Todd: balding, beer paunch, sweaty palms, limp handshake, settling into an uncomfortable middle age. With his focus on his phone, he’s mercifully zoned out of my résumé print-out.

Nisha: a pretty Indian woman, early thirties, luxurious raven hair, strong handshake, slightly dry hands, needs an updated manicure. She studies my résumé, not because she’s intent on reading every line, but because it makes her look like she’s studiously doing her job to Todd.

Scott: a baby-faced young man who looks like he just cleared undergrad, possibly an intern. Has a sweaty yet middle-firm handshake, eager to please, golden retriever energy. My résumé could be dipped in gold for all he’s noticed. He only has eyes for Nisha.

In the five seconds of obligatory introductions, I’ve scratched out a mental dossier on the HR panel and assessed which one I’m mostly like to make inroads with and who is a dead end.

Todd, blatantly texting in front of me, is obviously a dead end. As he’s the senior of the group and exudes a general sense of apathy for his job, I assume he’s at the top of the HR totem pole: the director the other two have to work to impress.

I have a shot with Nisha, who, judging by the firmness of her handshake, is ambitious and gunning for Todd’s job. And Scott, he of the jimmy legs, defers to Nisha. Yes. Nisha, an ambitious corporate climber and my age mate… Nisha is the one I’ll have to impress.

“So,” Nisha skims my résumé, blinking at my checklist of accomplishments, written in standard-issue corporate jargon. “Carina Wu, data analyst. Promoted to senior analyst at Lyons after…” Her eyes widen. “Six months. Very impressive. You must really know your stuff.”

“Thank you, Nisha,” I say, and have the satisfaction of seeing her big brown eyes light up at the sound of her name.

Something tells me this is the first time an interviewee bothered to remember something as simple as her name.

My gaze flickers to Todd’s blank face, illuminated by his phone’s glow.

He gives off the energy of a boss who can’t be bothered to learn his direct reports’ names and probably calls her ‘What’s-her-face. ’

I may not be good at a lot of things, but I remember names.

And I never forget a face.

This has worked to my advantage in the decade or so when I’ve been twiddling my thumbs in corporate.

Not everyone remembers names or faces.

Not everyone likes people.

I guess that gives me a leg up. I’m a people person, a self-aware extrovert in many ways. That alone is rare. Not every extrovert is self-aware, and I venture to say that most extroverts are bad listeners and are prepping their responses before you even finish speaking.

I love to talk and, okay, not to sound too unbearable, I love to listen to myself speak. But I also listen. I’m not being facetious when I say I love people and their stories, which almost makes up for the fact that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing in my job… or my life.

To be frank, the last thirteen years after college were a complete blur, a decade of ‘huh’?

Senior Data Analyst?

Really?

How did I get here? I graduated with a degree in evolutionary biology and ecology, double majoring in marine biology.

I was going to save the world from global warming, follow in Darwin’s footsteps and study the mating habits of sea turtles in the Galapagos.

At the very least, work at SeaWorld. I had grand hopes and dreams, but, as I learned the hard way, dreams don’t die overnight.

Dreams whittle away over time.

In a cubicle.

Handcuffed to a stable paycheck.

One moment I’m applying for an entry-level position as an administrative assistant in the logistics department of a Long Beach shipping company…

And the next moment, I’m the Senior Data Analyst of a cybersecurity firm in Century City.

“… you know your way around data,” Nisha says, scribbling notes on my résumé. “I like that.”

I nod, mirroring her body language and immediately sensing her warm to me.

“I love data.” I make eye contact with everyone, including Todd. Unfortunately, he’s completely checked out, scrolling TikToks, if you can believe it. “Numbers and patterns are second nature to me. Almost like breathing.”

Nisha inhales as if she’s taking a breath of fresh air instead of the stale coffee aroma infesting the boardroom. “You have a passion for your work.” Her dry hands sweep across my résumé. “I can see it.”

“I can see you’re passionate too, Nisha,” I repeat her name. “Human Resources is such an unappreciated art.”

A delighted smile infuses life back into Nisha’s being. She perks up and exchanges a glance with Intern Scott, who is equally flattered by my observation. Todd sets down his phone, finally noticing me. “Human Resources is an unappreciated division.”

I scoff. “HR is the linchpin of any company. Without Todd, Nisha, Scott…” Names.

Always repeat their names. “How would Rylan have any talent? You have an eye for talent and tirelessly seek it out on behalf of the company.” I pause, watching their sad, hangdog expressions lift and shift into something resembling human faces again.

I may be manipulating, but I’m not lying.

Some people go through life so unappreciated they’re hungry just to be seen.

“A company is only as strong as the pillars that support it. HR is a pillar responsible for finding more pillars. There’s an art to it.

I’m surprised no one has told you that.”

“No,” Todd clears his throat as if he’s having trouble speaking. He exchanges a dazed look with the panel. “You’re the first one to call it… art.” There’s a tremor in his voice and a misty haze to his beady eyes.

“I don’t just take stock of data,” I say. “I take stock of people. Data is secondary…”

And yet, data is why I’m here.

I’m an expert in data.

But here’s the punchline to a joke that only I understand: I don’t know shit about data.

I only landed that logistics job out of college because I wrote a paper about the correlation between barnacle growth and high tide on Zuma Beach. I collected some data, I suppose.

In reality, I mostly waded in the tide pools and sketched barnacles on rocks.

I included a line graph in my paper, a laughably basic one that I pulled off a stock image site.

But if you were to read my résumé, it sounded like I was a tide pool expert who spent six months collecting data on barnacle growth through the autumnal moon phase of 2012.

If I have but one regret in life, it’s that I ever boasted about my mastery of spreadsheets.

I don’t even like data.

I can barely look at a spreadsheet without getting a migraine these days.

And yet, despite sucking at my job, I keep getting promoted.

I’m a lowly administrative assistant one moment, promoted to a junior data analyst the next.

It seems like every year, whatever manager I report to keeps recommending my transfer to another department.

No doubt they sensed that I couldn’t analyze my way out of a simple spreadsheet and would’ve gladly sacked me, but the red tape involved with actually firing someone was such a hassle that it would be easier to promote me.

And so, despite my utter lack of competence or passion for data analytics, I’ve moved upward, propelled by my own incompetence.

Better job title.

Better pay.

Not much in the way of responsibility, since I usually delegate what I don’t understand to my direct reports.

My juniors love me. I’m a ‘hands-off’ manager, an ‘ideas’ person instead of a taskmaster. Should someone screw up or fail to meet project goals, I don’t get angry… I get ‘disappointed’ and that pretty much whips them into shape.

I get promoted some more, headhunted every three months, invited to interview so much that I know my way around a boardroom like it’s my own bedroom.

I credit my early success to apathy, the overworked, underpaid HR interviewer tasked with filling a hiring quota.

They sift through tons of slush and interview a handful of awkward candidates until I walk into the room with my warm smile, firm handshake, photographic recall, my air of competence and arsenal full of corporate buzzwords.

It’s almost too easy. I enter like a fox and slaughter the hen house with charisma and little white lies.