Strolling in the front door of my childhood home a few Friday evenings later, I greet my mom as I come through the door.
“Hey, Mom. Can I use your laptop?”
“Sure,” she says, pulling it from the counter and handing it over to me.
“Thanks,” I say plopping myself on the couch. Leaning back, I casually check my MySpace. Quickly bored of MySpace, I move on to my Facebook notifications and then lastly, my email.
Casually scrolling past the mounds of junk email, my scrolling finger freezes as it hovers over an email from a familiar name.
Wait. I know this name. A family friend worked there years ago.
I blink in confusion as I read the email title. The subject line simply reads, ”E-INTERVIEW.”
How on earth? I didn’t submit my resume to them. Did I? Is this spam of some kind?
Confused and curious, I read on. As I read the email, it becomes obvious that it is a response to a resume being submitted. The only problem is, I’m certain that I didn’t submit my resume to them.
If I didn’t, then who did?
Coming back into the room, my mom captures my expression. “What’s wrong?” She asks me.
“You know that office equipment company our neighbor worked for? They are requesting an E-Interview. The thing is, I didn’t submit my resume to them.”
“Oh that,” my mom says with a wave of her hand. “You left a copy of your resume on my laptop and I sent it to a few places. That’s ok, right?” She asks suddenly concerned.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” I assure her nodding. “It just took me by surprise. Um, thank you. Really.” I assure her.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I sink back onto the couch as I realize there is no mystery after all.
I find comfort in this concrete explanation. Magic and miracles just aren’t my thing. Reading over the email once more, I dial the number they gave me.
Why not? I could use a change of pace. Change is good. I like change. Change is delicious. Even if this is some kind of happy accident.
Hesitantly, I agree to an e-interview. Whatever that is.
Next thing I know, I’m pulling up to the building for my in-person interview.
I glance at the map on my phone to confirm the address. “Building number 5131,” I mumble to myself. Scanning the buildings for the number, I think nothing of the 13 nestled in the address.
Instead, the first thing I notice is the lush landscaping. How pretty.
Taking a deep breath, I realize that I’m nervous. Exhaling it, I open the door. When I step inside, the surroundings catch my gaze immediately. My eyes scan the beautifully decorated room multiple times. I can’t seem to stop staring at it. Even amongst the professional equipment, the room has a woman’s touch for sure. Cozy.
The carefully chosen drapes and foliage make the room quite pleasant to be in. It’s warm and inviting. More like a home than a sterile office. I continue to admire the room appreciatively while I wait for someone to notice me standing there.
The walls are a bold red with accents of gold, but the room smells like a floral island along the ocean. The contrast is somehow pleasing. As I’m lost in thought, a gentleman greets me, pulling my attention away from the decorations.
“Jena will be with you soon,” he assures me. For whatever reason, I’m relieved to know my interview is with a woman.
“You can have a seat in the waiting room.”
“Thank you,” I say taking a seat. Fidgeting with a pen in my hand, I wait for her in silence. My palms start sweating. I wipe them nervously on my pants.
Moments later, Jena is seemingly floating down the stairs. Her smile lights up the room but the first thing I notice is her hair. It’s glorious. Blonde and full of body, it’s worth envying. It frames her pleasant face like a golden halo. She smiles when she greets me. I like her instantly. She’s warm and inviting, just like the room.
“Hi, I’m Jess,” I say shaking her hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Jena.”
Her southern drawl sends a smile across my face. She sounds like my family.
Motioning me, she has me follow her to the conference room. Once seated, she begins asking me a series of questions. I answer them to the best of my ability. Meanwhile, I’m quite certain that I’m fucking this up entirely.
“Now,” she says leaning in like she is about to tell me a secret. “The job is for a clerical position that consists mostly of data entry. Are you okay with that?”
Truthfully, it sounds awful, but somehow I want it anyway. Perhaps I enjoy a challenge or maybe I’m just desperate for a change of scenery. Whatever the reason is, I find myself impulsively saying yes.
“I’m totally cool with it.” I fib. “The only thing is, I’m getting married in a few months but other than that my schedule is wide open.”
“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” Jena assures me. “Just give us the dates and we can work around it. Just promise me one thing.”
“Sure, what’s that?” I hold my breath nervously.
“If you get hired, you have to invite me to the wedding.”
I let out a sigh of relief and begin laughing. “Sure thing.”
“You’re going to make a beautiful bride,” she gushes.
“Thank you,” I say before leaving the room.
“We’ll talk soon,” she says smiling.
Underqualified and used to rejection, I leave the interview not expecting much of anything. To my surprise, a week later they call to request a final interview.
Ironically, the manager asks me to meet him for breakfast at Chick-fil-A. I want to suggest someplace else, but I don’t. When I pull into the parking lot a few days later, I’m running late as usual.
Fuck my life. All nine of them.
As the car comes to a stop, I hop out as soon as I put it in park. Scurrying across the parking lot, my heels click loudly on the pavement. I hate wearing heels. They feel like shoe-shaped torture chambers. Each time I wear them, I curse the man that invented them with each step that I take.
The interviewing manager greets me in the doorway and tells me to have a seat. I oblige politely.
Dave is his name and selling is his game. He’s an exceptional salesman and makes sure to tell me this.
As the interview is coming to a close and he is wrapping up his breakfast, he leans in across the table but doesn’t say anything. I fight the urge to fill the silence.
He hesitates for another moment and a sheepish expression comes across his face.
“They gave the position to another applicant,” he says grimacing slightly.
I can feel my brows scrunch together in confusion as I’m trying to piece together the recent series of events. Before I can even stop them, the words are flying out of my face.
“Then why am I here?” I ask, bewildered and unfiltered.
“Well,” he says folding his hands together in his lap and leaning back in his seat. “I’m hoping to offer you something better.”
Mimicking his body language, I fold my arms across my chest and lean back in the booth.
“I’m listening,” I reply casually, now intrigued. “What do you have in mind?”
“You’d be selling office equipment, software, and other tech solutions to CEOs. Entrepreneurs. Doctors. Engineers. Lawyers.” His voice trails off.
So people way smarter than me. Great.
Maybe I should have said no. After all, it is a pay cut. But I don’t. Instead, ruled by impulsivity, I find myself saying yes. When I get home, I type up my two-week notice and email it to my boss. He’s stunned and makes sure to tell me such.
On paper, my choice looks borderline stupid. After all, this is a change in pay and not for the better. It makes no sense or cents to leave but somehow, it suits me. Just call me senseless. You can even call me crazy. Perhaps both are fitting.
A few short days into my new job, I make my very first sale. Still pretty unsure of the paperwork process altogether, I do the best I can and hope Dave doesn’t notice that I’m a total fuck-up.
Spotting a signature I missed, I quickly sign my name and hesitantly bring the contract to Dave. As I hand it over to him, I wait expectantly for him to tell me I’m fired.
Calm down, you lunatic.
“You sold this today?” He asks me, seemingly bewildered.
“Me? Yes. On the phone. I didn’t leave the office today,” I insist, oversharing as usual.
He leans back in his seat and laughs at me.
What’s so funny?
“You’re a better salesman than me,” he jokes, seemingly pleased.
Breathing a sigh of relief and flashing him a smile, I hop up from my seat before he changes his mind. “Quite possibly,” I quip before turning on my heel to leave.
Maybe I’ll be good at this after all. Maybe. Don’t get your hopes up. You’re still a fuck-up.