After months of job seeking, job seeking that included the bizarre, the mean, the illegal, the misleading, the disappointing, and the tiring, I had an epiphany.
What united all these employers, was the typical sorts of conversational exchanges:
1. Let’s go over your previous job experience.
2. Oh you’re a Dodger fan?
3. Are you good at dealing with difficult people?
My uncle owns a family business, one in which during the hiring process he subjects everyone to what he’s termed, “the nice test.” Simply put, you must before any critical skills, be a nice person. He’ll teach you to 10 key. Nice you need to bring all by yourself.
But I happen to live in a city where that’s the exception.
Working in the Los Angeles entertainment industry has been an experience – and a half, and nice is not something you find on any old 75 degree Friday. I have absolutely had nice bosses and big shout out to that one. But the rest, the rest, well the rest, yeah they’re something else.
I’ve had bosses throw file folders at my head and relay inappropriate personal voicemails from their, well, not their wives. I’ve had screamers, and door slammers, and I once procured the services of a friend to animate for personal entertainment my boss having a meltdown in his office as therapy for me. I’ve had experiences that live in separate parts of my brain, because having to think about them on any old 75 degree LA Friday would make my blood boil.
So unplanned, when asked if I was good at dealing with difficult people, I had an epiphany, being good at something and wanting to do that thing are two strikingly different questions.
“I’m not interested in working with difficult people, no.”
I didn’t get that job, but if the last thirteen paragraphs haven’t told you anything, I probably wouldn’t have wanted it.
For the horrible, for the terrible, for the clinging to the edge of sanity, comes some very decent stories. You know like the time my actually very awesome ex-boss called me his hotel set on the grounds of Florida’s Animal Kingdom, informed me a family of giraffes, baby, mommy, and daddy, were looking at him through the sliding glass window, and asked if I could do something about that.
From LA.
I’m not the 30,000 mile away giraffe whisperer, but I’d guarantee you’d have pretty accurate luck if you shut the drapes.
Who ever thought I was the voice of reason.
But on the eve of Coachella, I have my favorite story.
I worked for four people at this point, but the CEO was my main dude, go-to, report to, signs my timesheet honcho. He was going to Coachella, and for what it mattered to me, he could go to Saturn on his weekends, because I wasn’t on a blackberry and that was him time, and this was me time. We both returned from very awesome weekends, him Coachella, me probably something equally as terrific with little small talk and one request.
Him: “I went to Coachella this weekend.”
Me: “I remember.”
Him: “I lost my wallet.”
Me: “Bummer”
Him: “I’m gonna need that.”
Me: “Yeah”
Him: “Why are you still standing here”
Me: “Going”
I returned to my desk, pursed my lips and nodded very assuredly.
I’m very sure Coachella is a small place, where very few people go, very few honest people, who found that wallet, a wallet I’m sure you remember exactly where you lost it, and brought it to a location, staffed by more honest people, who will pick up the phone when I track down their phone number offer to (free of charge) Federal Express that wallet, and smile, to our office.
“Are you sure you don’t just want me to re-order a new wallet and cards for you?” I yelled across the office.
Crickets.
I want to be challenged at work (does not equal sign) tracking down a missing wallet in the Coachella valley.
By Friday I had delivered the bad news: I’m done with this nonsense. I’d found two phone numbers to two lost and founds, where the voicemail boxes were full. I’d talked to most of the staff, took reports, and interviews, and that wallet was long gone, being spent on beer and women in a better place and he just had to accept that.
So to my Coachella goers this weekend – enjoy. And if you find that goddamnit son of a __ wallet, just don’t mention it to me.
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