As Seen On Tv. Sarah Mlynowski
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Business Development position are reviewed,” the HR woman says, “the managing director will choose the candidates to be interviewed. If you’re one of the fortunate ones selected, I assure you, you’ll be called.”
Obviously the first thing this woman does when she gets home is kick her dog. “Thank you very much for your time,” I say.
I redial Soda Star’s number.
“Florida Telephone Systems.” Brrring.
I dial my calling-card number.
“Soda Star, the shining light in beverages,” the receptionist sings. “How may I help you?”
“May I please speak to the managing director?”
“Which managing director is that, miss?”
Which managing director? Shouldn’t there only be one director who manages? Or maybe one manager who directs? “The new business managing director, please.” Please let that be right.
“Whom should I say is calling?”
A person he’s never heard of before? “Sunny Langstein.”
“One moment, please. I’ll transfer your call.”
Foiled again, HR.
I’m probably going to get his voice mail. Why would he be at his desk at 10:30 a.m.? He’s probably out managing. Or directing. Or managing directors when it gets really crazy. I hunt through my recently started job-search notebook where I wrote possible messages to leave on prospective employers’ machines.
Ring, ring. Heart beating erratically.
“Ronald Newman speaking.”
Good. Damn. He’s there. It’s a he. Concentrate on exuding confident, sexy, sweet voice. I flip back to the page of possible things to say to prospective employers. “Hi, Mr. Newman? This is Sunny Langstein calling. I’m presently the assistant manager of new business development for Panda in Fort Lauderdale, but I will be relocating to New York for personal reasons. I’m very impressed with your company’s work and would like to continue my professional growth in the beverage industry. I’ll be in New York next week, and I was wondering if you’d consider meeting with me to discuss any potential job openings in your department.”
“How did you get this number? Aren’t you supposed to go through HR?”
Sounds cranky. Must accent the sweet voice. “I’m so sorry to bother you, sir.” Now confident. “I just assumed calling you would be more efficient.”
He laughs. I picture him reclining in a brown leather reading chair, a pipe dangling from his lips. “Well, Sunny, you’re probably right. Do you think you could handle working in the big leagues?”
Oooh. The big leagues.
“I’m quite confident I can, sir. I have excellent—” this is where I exploit the many hackneyed and meaningless qualifications employers salivate over “—communication and organizational skills. I multitask, prioritize, problem-solve and self-start. I pay strong attention to detail and work effectively with both creative and production staff. I have a proactive approach toward current products and new business, and I have a personable, team-player personality. Will you be able to meet with me for an informational interview?”
Pause. “Are you aware that I’m looking for an assistant manager right now? To report directly to me?”
No kidding. “Really? I’d love to come and talk to you about it. I’ll be in NewYork next Monday. Do you have a free half hour?”
He laughs again. “You’re a go-getter. I like that. Hmm. Let me check.”
He’s clicking on his keyboard. Clicking…clicking…more clicking.
“Did I mention I’m proficient in most computer programs including Windows, Macintosh, Microsoft Office and Photoshop?” I ask.
He whistles his approval. “How about right before my golf game? Four o’clock?”
Liza, my boss, strolls through the doors. Damn. Now why am I using a pay phone in the cafeteria across the street from my office in the middle of the morning? She knows I don’t smoke. I ram my notepad and pen back into my bag. “Perfect. I’ll see you then. ’Bye.”
“Okay. Great…um…” Come on, Newman, spit it out. “Will you fax me your resume?”
Liza doesn’t see me yet. She’s ordering something. Is she sneaking a cup of coffee? Since she announced her pregnancy, she’s been strutting her water bottle all Mormon-like around the office, boasting how effortlessly she gave up caffeine, smokes and Chardonnay.
“No problem,” I say. “Thanks. ’Bye.”
“Do you know where our offices are?”
“On Forty-third Street, right? It’s on your Web site?”
“Yes and yes. I’m on the sixth floor. Just tell Heidi you’re here to see me.”
I assume Heidi is his receptionist. “Great. ’Bye.”
“Don’t you want my fax number?”
“Isn’t it the one on the Web site?”
“No, I have a personal fax number. Do you want it?”
Of course I want it! Just tell it to me already! I crouch against the wall and a ketchup-stained table eclipses my face. “Yes. Yes, I do. What is it?”
“Hmm. Good question. Let me check. Hold on, it should be on my business card, right?” Clunk. Did he just knock over his chair? Is he completely incompetent?
Liza pulls out her wallet.
“Okay, got it. Two-one-two-five-five-five-nine-four-three-six.” Uh-oh, nothing to write on or with. Two-one-two-five-five-five-nine-four-three-six. Two-one-two-five-five-five-nine-four-three-six. I’ll remember it. No problem. I can remember one stupid fax number. Especially this one. Nine times four equals thirty-six. How can I forget? Two-one-two-five-five-five-nine-four-three-six. Or is it four-nine-three-six? This is a terrible plan.
“It was a pleasure talking to you. I look forward to meeting you.” Two-one-two-five-five-five-four-nine-six-three? I should take out my pen and notebook. Who cares? I could be writing something besides a fax number for a future employer down. Like the lunch special.
“I’m looking forward to meeting you, too,” he says.
As quietly and quickly as possible—two-one-two-five-five-five-three-six-nine-four—I hang up the phone. One interview scheduled. A good start.
“Sunny?” Liza asks. Her hands leap to her rounded stomach. She does this often, as though she’s checking to ensure she’s still pregnant.
Maybe she thinks I’m getting coffee. Not a ridiculous assumption. Office coffee is like the hot dog of the java industry. They get the leftover beans that don’t quite make the cut at Starbucks. Two-one-two-five-five-five-six-three-nine-four.
Liza isn’t a horrible boss. Besides the fact that I do all her work and she takes all the credit. And that on staff birthdays she refuses to order “terribly fattening” chocolate cake and instead insists on serving celery sticks and low-fat tzatziki. And since she’s gotten pregnant, she’s become a walking bitch machine.
But the workload isn’t atrocious and she always writes me nice reviews and pays me fat bonuses.
She glares at my cupless hands. “Is there a reason you snuck out of the office to use the phone here?”
A first-rate question. “My grandmother is sick, Liza. I needed to talk to her in private.” It’s a good thing both my grandmothers are already dead.
She looks doubtful.
“What did you get, Liza?” I ask, motioning to her small plastic cup. There was an article in the Miami Herald that said