The Eye of the Storm

Something happens when a recruiter or a manager is perusing a list of names and they see yours. They either:

a) see the text on the paper and the needle in their mind lies still like a basset hound in front of a rocking chair, or

b) they see the name of a person that means SOMETHING to them, they think ‘oh yeah, I recognize this name for this or that‘ and you instantly become a tangible commodity to them.

We should all be able to agree that knowing people gets you through the howling winds of the information hurricane that is applying for a job, to the eye of the storm where things are clearer.

I took a crack at a job recently that — on paper — seemed like something I might enjoy. This job involved the branding/marketing of the products that this company made, and it seemed pretty cool so I took a stab at the application. This was a writing-heavy application that called for all your credentials as a creative, a cover letter, writing samples AND a short essay.

As far as applications go, this is mostly typical. It gives a preview of your voice at a glance, and I see the use for it. But writing samples AND a cover letter AND a short essay about why you want the job? That seemed strange enough for me to read over the listing and think ‘maybe I am reading this incorrectly and they aren’t saying they want all three.’

I submitted my application and watched it float downstream the way a kid sits a leaf on a rushing creek and hopes it continues unscathed out of sight. A week later, I got a call asking to schedule an interview, which is exciting in and of itself. It sends the mind racing and creates some anxiousness, at least for me. Shortly after that I headed in to their offices feeling as though I had prepared myself, so I approached this unknown land with some calm confidence.

When the visit began with a half hour lobby wait past the scheduled interview time, I started to detect signs of anxiety slowly and steadily dripping into my mind. ‘Is someone interviewing ahead of me? Who’s THAT guy? Is he going for the same job. Crap, he looks smart. Might be better dressed than me. I’m an idiot. Why did I wear this shirt? Can’t cross my legs — they will know these are Walmart socks.’

Finally I’m taken upstairs by an HR rep who was probably in the 65-to-70 years-young range and bee-lined directly to a small room with a card table and a Scantron laying on top of it. I knew what was coming next, and it sat in my stomach like sun baked potato salad: a personality inventory. As I sat alone in the fluorescent flood of harsh light, I trudged through the 140 question questionnaire and played conceivably every mind game I could with myself. With an enormous amount of joy, I scratched in my last answer (likely chosen more out of fear that I had answered one way too many times) and handed the Scantron to the HR lady proudly.

“Great! We have just a few more tests to give you,” she vocally ambled like a Radio Flyer in need on a wheel alignment.

I spun my head around to double check the sign and make sure I hadn’t wandered into the local NASA branch or mistakenly applied for US citizenship. I also briefly imagined having to do that shooting test from Men in Black and being scolded by Rip Torn while West Point grads looked at me judgmentally.

She led me back into the small room, and I followed behind her, breathing exasperated breaths against the top button of my collared shirt that began to feel like it was getting tighter. She logged me in to a Dell computer from 2005 and pulled up ANOTHER personality inventory that boldly (to me) displayed the progress marker ‘Question 1 of 175’ at the top of the screen.

“This one takes a little bit,” my guide lamented like acupuncture down my spine and then pulled the door closed to a final click. She could’ve started maniacally laughing in this moment and I likely wouldn’t have batted an eye. I briefly considered the possibility of another final click involving a trigger.

At some point during this second foray into bubblegum psychology, I began to get really amused by what was happening to me, and I realized how absurd it would be for me to continue suffering silently. I began reading the questions out loud to myself and then imagining their discussions about my answers. I sped to the end and darted out of the room to retrieve my reaper again.

This time I was joined for a brief conversation with a girl who appeared to be about my age for what I can only assume was a ‘do I like this guy and could I work with him’ session prolonging the real talk. We chatted for a few minutes and she was very nice. Seemed like a very spirited person and treated me graciously.

Now it was time to approach the throne. (Keep in mind we are approaching 2 1/2 hours already at this place.)

In what felt like a piece of Roman Polanski cinematography brought to life, I stood stoically next to my new liaison and held my breath as the door swung open and a wiry man dressed in Lee’s Dungarees and a denim shirt reclined in one of those office chairs from the 40s with the billowy upholstery that may have been pitched through a window in time and rolled to a stop at his desk. He had his hands on his head, and the edges of his form glowed from the panoramic plate glass window that was wide open and letting in a world of warm light.

He spoke out of the side of his mouth and asked me to have a seat anywhere (I sat directly opposite him on the other side of the room, also the only other chair) in an obviously calculated voice that felt like restrained grandiosity. He was lanky and had a thinly gathered layer of wispy white hair carelessly combed to the side. He sat back down at his desk sideways and folded his hands over his elbows that he rested on his desk, and we got to it. After some introductions, this happened:

Manager: Kyle, I liked your application.
Me: Oh, well thank you! I’m glad you liked it.
Manager: I was excited to get you in here. I want to ask you a question, though.
(Pregnant pause.)
Manager: Do you consider yourself someone that follows directions well?

This seemed like a reasonable question. Taking direction and taking correction are both really important skills to have in a work environment, and in this particular situation a fair amount of creation and revision would be taking place. It seems obvious that I wanted to make the impression that these were skills I possessed, so I answered.

Me: Yeah, sure, unless I have a question first that would hinder me from continuing, I think I do pretty well at sticking to what is asked of me.

He spoke so immediately following this sentence that you couldn’t have slid a piece of loose leaf paper between what I said and what came next.

Manager: You didn’t provide an essay with your application when it specifically said that it was required — and yet — (another pregnant pause) here you sit.

Imagine someone drawing back with and oar from a canoe and verbally slapping you across the face with it. That’s how stunned I was by this. Did he think I was an idiot and out of charity decide to bring me in? Did he think I was some kind of risk-taking genius that omitted the essay on purpose out of brash arrogance? I began to laugh to myself quietly imagining the amount of credit this guy was likely giving me based on something simple: I SCREWED UP!

Manager: Is there a reason why you didn’t follow the directions?

I replayed the last two (almost three now) hours of waiting and being analyzed by vague psychoanalytic quizzes from the 90s in my head. In what felt like bullet time, I looked up at my interrogator and briefly scanned the whiteboards that covered the walls and saw all the lingo written in short hand from the floor to nearly the ceiling. I looked at his wispy hair, and in a calm moment where relief crept upon the shore of my mind I realized that I did not want to work here (at least not now), and suddenly the entire situation changed.

I let my guard down entirely. I gave honest, uninhibited answers that in all likelihood might have prevented me from getting the job. He asked me exactly who I was and what I thought I excelled at and I answered. Good and bad. It was actually sort of nice to just be honest and not primp my professional qualifications to try and satisfy whatever he wanted on any given question.

On an episode of a podcast I love I once heard a comedian compare severe moments of frustration to a great episode of a TV show. It’s a nice way to turn something on its head that has been, by all accounts, frustrating. I’ve been trying to do this, myself. I file this under ‘Good Episode.’