Carefully I parked my beat up Civic
amidst a sea of ebony BMW's and customized Mercedes.' The thought
that if I nailed this interview I could potentially be driving one of
these expensive vehicles danced across my mind as I made my way
toward the elevator. It disappeared, however, when I immediately
began having trouble figuring out how to operate the lift. In my defense, this wasn't just your average elevator.
Instead of the two regular up and down buttons, what looked like a
mini-pad jutted out from the space between the two doors. Its touch
screen displayed the various options. I pressed L3, which I assumed
stood for where I was headed, and the machine directed me to elevator
“E.” How fancy! I thought. In addition to talking phones and
automatic soap dispensers, our modern world of technology now offered
what I'd now mentally dubbed a “smart elevator.” This agency had
impressed me before I'd even entered the building.
The doors to the smart elevator opened
preemptively on level two to reveal something even more shocking than
the machine's intelligence. Dozens of college-aged girls, dressed in
various combinations of high heel and pencil skirt took the elevator
cabin by storm. The small space immediately filled with a nauseating
perfume smell as we glided to the next level. When the doors finally
re-opened, a woman who could have easily been one Hugh's Playmates by
night (Office Barbie by day) was the first to step out. I assumed she
was guiding the tour.
“This,” announced Office Bunny.
“Is the human resources level! If you do end up landing a job here
at BAM you will first interview with Ben Plower, our recruiter. He
will then start you in the mailroom and you can work your way up from
there.” Strange, I thought. Ben Plower was the man I was supposed
to see for my interview. I touched my uncurled hair and
glanced down at my loose-fitting capris. I felt suddenly
self-conscious and underdressed in comparison to the other girls.
Nevertheless I shouldered past them, also feeling sort of lucky to
have bypassed this cheesy introductory on my path to potential
employment.
The reception area was sparse in an
almost futuristic way that I've come to realize is typical of
Hollywood talent agencies. It contained little more than a metal
desk/podium in the center of a giant room with a panoramic view of
Los Angeles. Behind the desk sat three attractive, young business
people, two of whom were engaged in rapid phone conversations. I made
my way over to the one who wasn't on the phone, a
20-something-year-old woman who gazed up at me with deep blue,
deer-like eyes and said, “Can I help you?”
“Uh yeah, I'm here to see Ben
Plowers?”
“Is this an interview?”
“Yeah! Yup...I guess so.” I
realized that my three answers mirrored the three levels of
certainty that I was feeling at that moment. On one level I was
confident I could excel at whatever kind of office
work this job entailed (pun intended). That was the YEAH! Part. The “I guess so”
part was not quite so optimistic. This was the part of me that was
still having trouble accepting the fact that anyone from this company
would even want to interview me. This part of me still thought of
today less as an interview and more as a casual opportunity for the
HR person to unblinkingly eliminate me from the pool of serious
candidates. The “yup” part, you could say, was the bridge that
connected these two spectrums. Yup, you may still be young and green,
but you can accomplish this!
Deer Eyes then handed me a packet of
papers to fill out and phoned Ben to tell him I was here. After I was
done initialing a thousand clauses that I hadn't bothered to read, I
handed the packet back to Deer Eyes who directed me to Ben's office.
I guess this is where I am supposed
give a brief description of Ben but, honestly, I can't. Try as I may,
I just cannot seem to think of a single adjective that set Ben apart
from any other middle-aged white male. Like so many other men his
age, he wore black-rimmed glasses and was neither particularly
attractive or particularly unattractive. His mannerisms followed
suit. He wasn't unfriendly but he didn't exactly put me at ease,
either. He was simply “businesslike.”
I tried to be “businesslike” also
but looking back I am assuming that my attempts were futile. First of
all, I could not for the life of me figure out how to sit comfortably
on the gray couch positioned across from his desk for such
“interview” occasions. I alternated between awkwardly leaning
forward and slouching deep into the cushions, which were just a
little too far back. Eventually, I settled on leaning forward with my
hands clasped between my knees as if to say, 'Okay, I'm ready.'
Going off his cue, I told him “about
myself.” Which is to say, I told him what was relevant. I told him
I had recently graduated from film school and taken an internship at
Blumhouse. I was also careful to include how I had been essentially
promoted from intern to executive assistant after my supervisor was
fired. This was the little nugget that usually impressed people but
Mr. Plower remained unmoved. He listened to my monologue stone-faced
and then glanced back at my resume. He then spent the rest of the
time lecturing me on the harsh nature of the mailroom. He explained
how I would have to take a disheartening amount of bullshit from some
of the biggest a-holes in Hollywood on an almost minutely basis
without letting anything bother me, etc. etc. etc. All of this
conveyed at length, of course, using more erudite terminology.
Afterward, he handed me his business
card and told me to contact him if I was still interested. I
assured him that I was and threw pursed lips he responded that he
would look forward to hearing from me. His eyes, however, seemed to
be saying something entirely different. I scanned them for a brief
moment, trying to discern their message but it quickly became clear
that they were being held hostage by the rest of Mr. Plower's body.
What is it? I coaxed, as I squeezed Ben's hand for a bit longer than
he expected. But it wasn't until I was leaving that their message
became clear. “Get out!” They squeaked over the symphony of
typing. “Get out while you still can!” As I exited the
reception area the squeaking persisted, this time barely audible over
the chorus of voices answering different phones with identical
greetings: “Get out before you turn into me!”
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