I had taken thus far. As I answered his questions, I noticed that he was actually quite good-looking. Olive skin, green eyes, nice smile. I suspected he was older than he looked, as he had the slightest hint of gray in his brown sideburns. Early forties, maybe.
These good looks slowly disappeared less than ten minutes into the interview. After the small-talk concluded, Herd wasted no time getting down to business. He made it very clear that, when I was not in class, every spare moment would be spent working for him. On the days I did not have class, I would be expected to work a full eight-hour day, beginning at 8am, and wear a suit. I almost choked on my own disgust. I was not a morning person, nor was I a suit. And five days a week? I had envisioned working a few afternoon hours after class, three days a week at most. Herd had other plans for me.
It only got worse from there. Herd went on to tell me that he expected the internship to become a full-time position once school was complete. He emphasized that he worked between fifty to sixty hours a week and expected this person to follow suit. No pun intended. He droned on about his role in the company and how much impact he’d had since he came on board. It wasn’t even an interview. It was Herd talking for the sake of hearing himself talk. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
When the interview was finally over, Herd handed me his business card and frowned when I placed it in my purse.
“You know, you should really buy a briefcase,” he scoffed in a patronizing tone. “Placing business cards in a purse is just so… unprofessional.” He laughed mockingly and shook his head, having his own little private business joke with himself. “And also, Justine, you should always wear a suit to an interview.” He looked me up and down like I was a toddler who’d dressed herself for the first time. I followed his gaze, glancing down at my black-collared shirt and charcoal dress pants. Judging by his expression, you would’ve thought I’d shown up dressed for a hip-hop video.
As I headed toward the elevator, I passed by the work area, where all the insurance agents sat next to each other in tiny cubicles, wearing blazers and headsets. Their desks were lined with tiny bags of junk food. Most of them were overweight. They looked tired. I felt sad for them.
Herd shook my hand goodbye at the elevator, but I no longer saw him as good-looking. I saw him as a man with a condescending, insincere laugh, who had bags under his eyes from working sixty hours a week. A man with no social life and no family, only a mahogany desk and an oversized briefcase. A man who owned an expensive house with expensive things that never got used.
It’s funny how, in the course of thirty minutes, you can learn very, very quickly what you want in life. And, more importantly, what you don’t want.
As a precaution, I went out and bought a suit. I refused to be humiliated twice. Luckily, I didn’t need it, as Sphinx was as far from a suit shop as you could get.
Sphinx’s office was located in Playa Del Rey, which was about a 20-minute drive from my apartment in West LA. Their lobby was like a Toys-R-Us. The walls were covered with action figures and game posters. A giant candy bowl sat on the receptionist’s desk. As I filled out my application, I continued to sneak glances at a Reese’s peanut-butter cup that was taunting me from the corner of the dish. The receptionist finally noticed and offered me the dish. I liked the place already.
I watched the employees flow in and out of the lobby as I waited for my interview. None of them were dressed professionally. In fact, it was the complete opposite. Some of them had facial piercings and tattoos. They reminded me of the people who worked at Hot Topic when Renee and I shopped there in high school. A petite Asian girl wearing tights, jean shorts and boots skipped through the lobby, stealing a Kit-Kat from the candy bowl. I smiled at her.
After giving my application to the receptionist, a man appeared and led me to the interview room. He introduced himself as Manuel Mendoza, the Human Resources Manager. He was short and stocky, with a young face. Latino, I assumed by his name and dark features. He wore a gray t-shirt, jeans, and converse sneakers. He did not refer to himself as an acronym.
My interview was the complete opposite of HCG’s. It didn’t feel like an interview at all. Manuel and I briefly discussed the position and my college courses, then he brought me to the “gaming room,” which held several flat-screen TV’s hooked up to gaming consoles and a few old-school arcade games. I confessed that I didn’t play video games. He didn’t care. We played anyway. It was the best interview of my life.
After Manuel beat me at a round of virtual sword-fighting, he brought me back to the interview room and introduced me to Vincent Seminari, Sphinx’s Marketing Director. Manuel had warned me that Vincent was the man to impress, as he would be my future boss. Vincent had dark eyes, a long nose that gave him character, and spoke with a hint of an Italian accent. I guessed that he was probably in his early to mid-forties. He also wore jeans and informed me that everyone at Sphinx did. He joked that I was the “best-dressed person there.” I felt foolish in my stupid suit. He told me that most of the employees began work at 10am and everyone received four weeks of paid vacation annually.
I was in my glory.
After the interview, Vincent gave me a tour of the building. The workstations were gorgeous. Sphinx occupied the seventh floor of the building, a bright, beautiful space with an incredible view of the city. There were no cubicles, only wide tables in the shape of a U, where everyone sat next to each other. Open and free. It was what every company should be.
As Vincent and I walked around, I noticed that everyone seemed happy. Two of the employees shot Nerf guns at each other from across the room. The break room had free coffee, snacks, and soda. The CEO walked through, clutching a skateboard in his right hand. It was like being in a world where no one grew up.
Before we reached the elevator, I noticed a small office that had paper taped over the window. I turned to Vincent, pointing to the room. Before I could say anything, he shook his head, laughing.
“You don’t want to go in there,” he insisted.
“Why not?” I asked.
“We call that the ‘Lactation Station’.”
“The what?”
“Lactation Station,” he repeated, lowering his voice to a whisper. “It’s the breastfeeding room.”
I had never laughed so hard in my life.
I make lists. Correction, I’m a compulsive list-maker. I write everything down – to-do lists, shopping lists, future goals. And sometimes, when I’m down, I make them for simple inspirational reminders.
I stared at the piece of my paper in my hand for a long time; the new list that I would hang on my fridge and read every day as a positive reminder.
Why I Moved Back to Boston:
That was as far as I’d got.
Okay, so I wasn’t adjusting well. It was November. I was freezing.
