1. The Shit Who Floats #2
For ten years, I’ve switched companies so many times that changing jobs has become a game of musical chairs. If I’m an expert at anything, it’s how to upgrade your career. I always move out to move up.
In my last stint at Lyons Securities, I landed a corner office, frosted windows, a Herman Miller swivel chair, and my own Nespresso machine.
When once I shopped at Zara for trousers, now I opened an account at Neiman Marcus and have my trousers professionally tailored to make my butt look better in gabardine and my body clothed in fancy silks.
Every three weeks, I make an appointment with a hairdresser on Melrose to rehabilitate my French lob and have my scalp carefully massaged.
All the while, my dreams of saving endangered sea turtles drift to a distant shore.
This is how shit floats.
I am the shit who floats.
* * *
It’s 6:15 pm, a clear forty-five minutes past the end of the workday for my interviewers. I guess time flies when you’re having fun.
Not only are the four of us having a blast, we’re also bonding. I’ve spent very little time talking about myself. Instead, I’ve learned that Todd, who is indeed head of HR, leaves for Maui next week on a fortieth anniversary celebration.
While Todd is away, Nisha, his second in command, will be holding down the fort.
Nisha and I are indeed age mates (we’re both thirty-three.
I’m an air Libra. She’s wood Sagittarius) and we share the same Melrose hairdresser, whom I love, but she’s not keen on how he does her highlights and is shopping around for another hairdresser who won’t charge a small fortune and still messes up her roots.
Meanwhile, I was right about Scott’s intern status.
He’s the VP’s nephew, a newly minted USC grad, just started two weeks ago.
He’s confused about his passion for human resources.
From what I’ve gathered from his puppy-dog glances at Nisha when he thinks she’s not looking, he’s hanging on in this department because he has the hots for her.
From my experience interviewing for jobs that I’m neither passionate about nor qualified for, it’s best to avoid talking about yourself if you can help it.
Rather, you should actively avoid being the center of attention by pivoting the conversation to the other person.
All anybody really wants is for someone to listen to them.
If you’re interested in someone’s life story and appear receptive enough to listen, you’ll never have to talk about yourself again.
The other person will walk away thinking they had a great conversation with you, when, in reality, they spent the entire conversation talking about themselves.
The interview has devolved into a cozy chat.
I’m relaxing in my chair and having a good time getting to know my potential future coworkers.
They’re pleasant people, even Todd, who isn’t such an embittered bald man once you get to know him.
He loves his wife, owns three pugs, and is thinking of giving up his daily six-pack of IPAs because he’s growing quite the gut.
Nisha and I recommend that he joins our gym.
Yes. We share a gym. Nisha and I already have a Wednesday night workout date at the Santa Monica Equinox, where I promised to spot her as she upgrades her weights.
At some point, Scott sends for coffee, Todd loosens his tie, Nisha ditches her pumps, and I was asked to elaborate on my achievements at Lyons, upon which I replied with the long-suffering eye roll of someone up to her elbows in numerical patterns, “Where do I even begin?”
“I suppose data is the last thing you want to talk about,” Todd runs a finger down my résumé, “seeing as you work with it every day.”
I perfect my fatigued sigh. “I see numbers in my sleep. I have data coming out of my pores.”
“You must be sick of it,” Scott adds.
“On the contrary,” I cross my legs and smooth out the crease on my navy blue trousers, “I love it.” I’ve told this lie so many times that I’ve convinced myself it’s true. I do not love data. I’ve only trained myself to endure it. “But it’s not exactly a riveting conversation piece, am I right?”
I draw laughs from the panel. Nisha blows a strand of hair out of her face while cherub-face Scott stealthily leans closer to inhale her perfume. I shake my head. Poor guy. Nisha is ten years older and way out of his league.
“To tell you the truth,” Todd says, stripping off his tie altogether and tackling his cuffs, “we’ve been interviewing all day. I’m up to my ears in data jargon and I don’t even know half of what it means.”
Nisha followers her boss’ lead. “Me either.”
Scott snorts. “It’s all Greek to me!”
Todd does a cursory scan of my résumé for performance’s sake. “You sound like you know your stuff, Carina. And most importantly,” he jabs the table, “You’re a team player.”
“So true,” Nisha seconds. “So true.”
“Hell yeah!” Scott fist-pumps the air like he’s still at a USC football game. A shake of Nisha’s head has him sinking down in his seat, his enthusiasm sufficiently curbed.
I lean forward, pinning them with my most earnest stare. “Synergy is the most important part of any organization.”
Their eyes light up at the buzzword. I picked up ‘synergy’ from scanning the LinkedIn profiles of former coworkers.
Everyone is either nurturing synergy within their team or spearheading a holistic company culture with an emphasis on synergy.
If I’m being completely honest, I don’t know what synergy is exactly, only that it’s the secret code to a mysterious cave of corporate wonders: promotions, bonuses, stock options, and big corner offices beyond your wildest dreams.
Apparently, I’ve said the magic word because Todd nods at his direct reports, who in turn nod at each other.
Todd clears his throat. “You sound like Rylan material,” he says, his gaze trailing down to the bottom of my résumé and resting on a word cloud of my applicable skills. He whistles. “Fluent in Mandarin, Japanese, and Spanish...”
I shrug, embarrassed by all that I know.
‘Fluency’ is relative. There’s varying degrees of fluency.
My parents spoke Mandarin, so one would think I’m fluent in Chinese, growing up around it and all.
As a second-generation Taiwanese American, I can understand it when spoken to, but my Chinese is stilted, bastardized with English phrases.
After two years of high school Spanish, I can give you directions to the shoe store and help you pick out a fine leg of chicken at la carnicería.
Three years of Japanese and all I can say is ‘thank you’ and ‘more water, please.’ Keep in mind that I can become fluent if put under the gun.
Thankfully, in the demanding field of data analytics, I’m never put under the gun.
“Ah!” Todd comes to the final item on my résumé. “You’re familiar with the ASSET.” His eyes widen. “3-5 years of experience. This is ...” he turns to his Nisha. “Everything we need.”
Nisha blinks, equally surprised. “Not many applicants are familiar with the ASSET, let alone...” She re-scans my qualifications. “Have 3-5 years of experience. The program has only launched two years ago.”
“Well, I...the thing is…” I regroup, taking a moment to recall what the hell I added.
Why did I claim to have 3-5 years of experience when the ASSET is brand spanking new?
I’m flying dangerously close to the sun.
I can feel the singe on my wings. Thankfully, I’m quick on my feet.
“I beta-tested the ASSET years in advance. Alpha tested, actually, which explains the um…” I cough, clearing the tickle from my throat. “The jump-start.”
“Ah well,” Nisha smiles in genuine relief, “that makes perfect sense. And it’s impressive, isn’t it?”