of my filing scam, I stepped up my game and sent out what would
ultimately be my last recreational memo.
MEMO
To All Spellman Employees:
As the company structure has changed, the Management has decided to reinterviewall Spellman employees. Please schedule an interview with Vivien at your earliest
convenience, but no later than one week from today.
Signed,
Management 2.0
Upon seeing the note, my father quickly attacked the sign-up sheet and got the first
slot: the next morning at eight A.M . 6
My father showed up in a seersucker suit (ah, the good old days when he wore outside
clothes) and pulled a pastrami sandwich out of his briefcase, which he bit into only
after I posed a question.
INTERVIEWER: What do you think are your primary strengths?
INTERVIEWEE: [under or over the sound of chewing] I’m loyal, reasonable, a human lie detector,
have twenty years’ experience as a cop, another twenty-two as a private investigator,
and I know a good sandwich when I see one.
INTERVIEWER: What are your weaknesses?
INTERVIEWEE: [lettuce and bits of mustard have now migrated down to his tie] I could lose a few
pounds, get some exercise. I’m no genius.
INTERVIEWER: Are you questioning your own intelligence?
INTERVIEWEE: That’s all I’ve been doing these last few weeks.
INTERVIEWER: Care to elaborate?
INTERVIEWEE: I lost my business to someone thirty years my junior, who lives in a basement, has
a rap sheet, and still doesn’t know how to separate whites and bright reds when doing
the wash. 7
INTERVIEWER: Do you even want this job?
INTERVIEWEE: I don’t know anymore. But you sure can’t beat the commute.
Not the best interview ever, but shockingly, not the worst. My mother scheduled hers
for the following day. At the appointed time, there was a knock at the door and my
sister entered in attire so professional I barely recognized her. She wore a pair
of brown leather pumps, a houndstooth pencil skirt, a blue button-up shirt with a
complementary navy blue cardigan. Her hair was strangled in a bun, and topping it
all off were reading glasses dangling from her neck. My sister is petite, like my
mother, with an even flatter chest. In jeans and a baseball cap, she is often mistaken
for a thirteen-year-old boy. She favors my mother in many ways but is sandy-haired
and doesn’t possess Mom’s striking good looks. 8 That morning my sister looked like something between an eye-catching young professional
and a little girl playing dress-up.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I’m here on behalf of Olivia Spellman,” Rae said.
“You mean Mom?”
“Let’s keep this professional,” Rae said, donning reading glasses and looking over
a sheaf of papers in a manila folder.
“You won’t need those glasses for twenty years.”
“I’m here,” Rae said, clicking her pen to attention, “to negotiate the terms of Mrs.
Spellman’s employment at your agency.”
“I am not looking to negotiate,” I said. “This is simply a job interview.”
“Mrs. Spellman would like to cut her hours and receive a ten percent raise.”
“Why would I agree to that?”
“Do you know how to do her job?”
“Yes,” I said, “I’ve been doing it for almost twenty years.”
“Have you managed the payroll and bills, and liaised with our outside contractors
and accountant?”
“No. But those have always been her responsibilities.”
“And she would like to be appropriately compensated.”
“I don’t know that we have the money for that. Anything else?”
“Yes. Since Mr. and Mrs. Spellman own the property in which you do business, they
would like a rental agreement in place. I’ve looked at comparable spaces, with access
to a kitchen, bathroom, television, and a view.”
“What view are you talking about?”
“There’s a window. We think fifteen hundred dollars a month is fair.”
“That would mean everyone would have to take a pay cut,” I said, the error
ultimately be my last recreational memo.
MEMO
To All Spellman Employees:
As the company structure has changed, the Management has decided to reinterviewall Spellman employees. Please schedule an interview with Vivien at your earliest
convenience, but no later than one week from today.
Signed,
Management 2.0
Upon seeing the note, my father quickly attacked the sign-up sheet and got the first
slot: the next morning at eight A.M . 6
My father showed up in a seersucker suit (ah, the good old days when he wore outside
clothes) and pulled a pastrami sandwich out of his briefcase, which he bit into only
after I posed a question.
INTERVIEWER: What do you think are your primary strengths?
INTERVIEWEE: [under or over the sound of chewing] I’m loyal, reasonable, a human lie detector,
have twenty years’ experience as a cop, another twenty-two as a private investigator,
and I know a good sandwich when I see one.
INTERVIEWER: What are your weaknesses?
INTERVIEWEE: [lettuce and bits of mustard have now migrated down to his tie] I could lose a few
pounds, get some exercise. I’m no genius.
INTERVIEWER: Are you questioning your own intelligence?
INTERVIEWEE: That’s all I’ve been doing these last few weeks.
INTERVIEWER: Care to elaborate?
INTERVIEWEE: I lost my business to someone thirty years my junior, who lives in a basement, has
a rap sheet, and still doesn’t know how to separate whites and bright reds when doing
the wash. 7
INTERVIEWER: Do you even want this job?
INTERVIEWEE: I don’t know anymore. But you sure can’t beat the commute.
Not the best interview ever, but shockingly, not the worst. My mother scheduled hers
for the following day. At the appointed time, there was a knock at the door and my
sister entered in attire so professional I barely recognized her. She wore a pair
of brown leather pumps, a houndstooth pencil skirt, a blue button-up shirt with a
complementary navy blue cardigan. Her hair was strangled in a bun, and topping it
all off were reading glasses dangling from her neck. My sister is petite, like my
mother, with an even flatter chest. In jeans and a baseball cap, she is often mistaken
for a thirteen-year-old boy. She favors my mother in many ways but is sandy-haired
and doesn’t possess Mom’s striking good looks. 8 That morning my sister looked like something between an eye-catching young professional
and a little girl playing dress-up.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I’m here on behalf of Olivia Spellman,” Rae said.
“You mean Mom?”
“Let’s keep this professional,” Rae said, donning reading glasses and looking over
a sheaf of papers in a manila folder.
“You won’t need those glasses for twenty years.”
“I’m here,” Rae said, clicking her pen to attention, “to negotiate the terms of Mrs.
Spellman’s employment at your agency.”
“I am not looking to negotiate,” I said. “This is simply a job interview.”
“Mrs. Spellman would like to cut her hours and receive a ten percent raise.”
“Why would I agree to that?”
“Do you know how to do her job?”
“Yes,” I said, “I’ve been doing it for almost twenty years.”
“Have you managed the payroll and bills, and liaised with our outside contractors
and accountant?”
“No. But those have always been her responsibilities.”
“And she would like to be appropriately compensated.”
“I don’t know that we have the money for that. Anything else?”
“Yes. Since Mr. and Mrs. Spellman own the property in which you do business, they
would like a rental agreement in place. I’ve looked at comparable spaces, with access
to a kitchen, bathroom, television, and a view.”
“What view are you talking about?”
“There’s a window. We think fifteen hundred dollars a month is fair.”
“That would mean everyone would have to take a pay cut,” I said, the error
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