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Authors: Daniella Brodsky
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like to pitch it to the daily papers in the city, and her input would really be helpful.
Normally, when I’m trying to get together 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 cov-erless 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 am 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 all of these 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 48
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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 there is shaking their heads in agreement—even the girl in the plastic stack-heel Mary Janes. And some people begin vocal-izing their views. This seems to calm Samantha down, 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 am called in for my test, I have practically penned the entire article. Lane Silverman, star reporter. It does have a certain ring to it.
I can’t quite get my head around how everything happened to work out so well at the recruiting agency (despite the fact that Ms.
Banker is, in person, as nasty as she was on the telephone), but I am beaming by the time I get home.
And, I am radiant in my new camel-colored overcoat. I probably shouldn’t have used my Saks card, but I just had to start my new executive life with a new executive look. And the sling-back chocolate croc pumps were just the perfect corporate shoes. I wore 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 49
D i a r y o f a Wo r k i n g G i r l 49
them both on the way home, just to break them in (okay, really because I couldn’t help myself). I stuffed all of the tags and boxes inside my new attaché case. It was on sale, okay?
The job Ms. Banker is considering me for is in the
Normally, when I’m trying to get together 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 cov-erless 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 am 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 all of these 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 48
48
D a n i e l l a B r o d s k y
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 there is shaking their heads in agreement—even the girl in the plastic stack-heel Mary Janes. And some people begin vocal-izing their views. This seems to calm Samantha down, 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 am called in for my test, I have practically penned the entire article. Lane Silverman, star reporter. It does have a certain ring to it.
I can’t quite get my head around how everything happened to work out so well at the recruiting agency (despite the fact that Ms.
Banker is, in person, as nasty as she was on the telephone), but I am beaming by the time I get home.
And, I am radiant in my new camel-colored overcoat. I probably shouldn’t have used my Saks card, but I just had to start my new executive life with a new executive look. And the sling-back chocolate croc pumps were just the perfect corporate shoes. I wore 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 49
D i a r y o f a Wo r k i n g G i r l 49
them both on the way home, just to break them in (okay, really because I couldn’t help myself). I stuffed all of the tags and boxes inside my new attaché case. It was on sale, okay?
The job Ms. Banker is considering me for is in the
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