"Are you girls feeling stripper hot, yet?" Fine for the instructor to ask. She had abs to die for and must have been slathered in platinum protection antiperspirant that was strong enough to support the exercise required by male fantasies, but made for a woman. Not a bead of sweat on that woman.
"I’d feel more stripper-like if I had some guy stuffing twenties down my exercise shorts," I called out.
The class laughed.
Well, hey, it was worth a try. I was desperate for cash. But seeing how I lagged behind Candy with her injuries, and a girl who was seven months pregnant, stripping probably wasn’t the occupation for me.
"Everybody, every body here is a hot body." The instructor kept calling out inspirational stuff like that. Positive attitude. Everyone used it.
Finally, as I was about to die, or collapse from heatstroke, the class ended.
"Fun, huh?" Candy asked. "Soon you’ll be using these moves on Ryne!" She winked.
Right. I wouldn’t be using these moves on any man. Not unless he first confessed to having a fetish for sweaty women. "He hasn’t called."
"He will," Hank said.
* * *
Precisely at three o’clock in the afternoon I settled in to watch Northwest PM and see how telegenic Ryne was. How devastating and handsome on TV. He must look really good because he sold a lot of "greatness" videos.
Maybe he’d mention me on TV! You know, in the personal chitchat portion of the show. Jake might say, "So Ryne, tell us what’s up these days? Seeing anyone special?"
Ryne would answer, "I’ve met a fabulous woman. A gorgeous engineering babe. But I can’t say too much." Wink. "We don’t have an official relationship. Yet. But I plan on remedying that soon."
Then immediately after the show Ryne would call me. Happy sigh.
The great thing about Northwest PM is that they take calls from the viewing audience. Think Ryne would recognize my voice if I just phoned in and suggested he call me anytime, the sooner the better? You know, just to move things along, get the fantasy rolling.
Of course, the show didn’t start with Ryne. Oh, no, he had to be last up. I had to watch the whole thing, all the other guests. Including a local actress who was now a star on an evening network drama. She described the plot of a recent episode. "And then Raven found out that Carmine was still secretly married to Hyacinth. Not only that, he’d also taken Erin on vacation to the Bahamas where he seduced . . ."
After listening to the fictional love traumas of evening dramas, I felt pretty happy that my relationship was just budding. No time for betrayals and fights. Just lots of meaningful looks, romantic presents, and promise. The rest of my life? Okay, that was a drama.
Break. Tons of commercials.
Then, ta-da! Northwest PM host Jake Perkins introduced Ryne.
"The man who’s made Northwest PM’s most beautiful people list three years running, the premier positive attitude, ‘greatness’ guy, corporate consultant, and owner of The Northwest Institute. Please welcome, Ryne Garrett to Northwest PM."
Applause. Applause. Applause.
Ryne walked on stage looking gobble-him-up handsome in business casual attire. Confident. Cool. The man had stage presence.
Jake shook his hand and offered him the main guest seat. "In this unpredictable, unstable job market, job security is a myth, so tell us, how do you keep perspective, stay up, and keep on top of the game?" He shot Ryne a penetrating interviewer look.
Ryne launched into an abbreviated "greatness" speech.
I’d heard the whole one before, so there was really no point in listening to it. Much more fun to study Ryne. See which way he looked when Jake asked him a question. I was hoping to catch him in a fabrication. But no such luck. Ryne had mastered the eyes-straight-ahead maneuver.
I’d memorized the eye patterns. I wasn’t even cheating with Mr. Smiley anymore. How was I supposed to get good at NLP if my main subject refused to cooperate?
I spent most of the interview drooling and daydreaming and sending telepathic messages through the TV screen for Ryne to call me. Call me. Call me anytime. Call me!
A telephone number flashed on the screen. "Questions for our guest? Call . . ."
I could phone in. But Ryne might recognize my voice. I’d look desperate. And what then?
Studio audience and viewing audience questions. "What’s the best way to avoid negative self-talk?" "How often should goals be updated?" Blah, blah, blah.
Stunning twentysomething brunette in the front row wearing skintight red sundress with spaghetti straps. "How eligible are you?"
I hated her.
Audience nervous laughter. Killer, stick-pins-in-her stare from me.
Jake flashed his camera smile and leaned over to slap Ryne on the back. "I’ve known this guy for years. He’s done a lot of work with the station and I consider him a personal friend. I know he’ll hedge on this one so I’ll answer for him.
"Saturday he threw a huge birthday bash for his longtime love, Portia Northcross. We all expected to see a ring emerge from one of those wrapped gifts. We saw some fine jewelry, some expensive perfume, and a rare bottle of ice wine, which we hope was opened later and used in private in conjunction with the words, ‘Will you marry me?’" He shot Ryne a raised eyebrow look as I gasped for breath.
I really had to remember to buy lunch bags if I was going to keep hyperventilating on demand.
It might have been misplaced hope on my part, but as I looked around for a sledgehammer to smash Dad’s TV, I noticed Ryne’s expression seemed the teensiest bit sheepish.
I found the newspaper and rolled it into a bat. It wasn’t good for smashing. But it worked okay for slapping the screen and taking out aggression, with the added benefit of not taking out an innocent piece of electronics that I couldn’t afford to replace anyway.
On screen, Ryne grinned. "You’ll be one of the first to know when the time comes, Jake. I promise."
When the time comes! Not if the time comes! So it was true!
A whole string of expletives raced through my mind. I fell into a chair, stunned.
He’d led me on. He asked me to pick out wine for another woman’s birthday. Seduction wine! Ask-her-to marry-him wine! Wine for the most romantic moment of a couple’s life. He let me flirt and make a fool of myself and never mentioned a girlfriend or her birthday or why he wanted that wine. His Facebook status said single!
And he did it on purpose! Because, people-reader that he was, he knew I wouldn’t have acted like that if I’d known the circumstance. I’d have told him to pick his own damn wine or maybe offered a suggestion about a fine jug wine for a dollar fifty.
I certainly wouldn’t have sat in some stranger’s convertible and risked life and limb and a wine bottle assault!
Egomaniac!
Portia. He was in love with some girl named Portia. Figures he’d fall for a girl with a snobby name that took me two minutes of Internet surfing to discover was Latin for "offering." Offering what? Yeah, I could only imagine. What chance for love was there in this world for girls like me with regular names and unusual spellings?
What a fool I’d been to think Ryne was interested in me! All I’d really been to him was simply an interesting subject to study. He’d probably write me up in some egghead paper. A psychological study of girls who’re good at math. The logical female mind. Women who think like men and the men who work with them.
I started to sniffle. Don’t cry! Big girls don’t cry over stupid men who lead them on.
The phone rang. I picked up.
"Oh, Lees, we’re so sorry!" Candy and Hank in stereo on the phone.
I cried. I whimpered. I whined. I got a tissue and dabbed at my nose and eyes.
"Hang his picture in effigy," Hank said.
Then she and Candy promised me a girls’ spa night and lots of chocolates.
"Soft centers," I said. "No nuts. I hate nuts."
"We all do, sweetie. No nuts. Promise." Candy’s voice was soft and sympathetic.
&
nbsp; "Maybe some pastel bonbons. I’m trying to cut back on the chocolate," I added.
"Anything you want," Hank said.
If only that were true, because I wanted a lot and none of it was within my grasp.
Chapter 21
Jobless days: 66
August Unemployment Log
Jobless, unemployed loser scum days: 66
Jobless days left: Unknown.
Rejections: Too many to count.
Goals:
1. Find a job.
2. To infinity and beyond, find a job.
Thoughts for the day:
The books on how to find a job stress that the search looks something like a ton of "NOs" followed by a single "YES!" When I land a job it’s going to be "Yes, Yes, Yes!"
* * *
Ten a.m. Starbucks. Downtown. Across from the Northwest Institute of Sneaky, Egomaniac, User Men. Bright sunshine the only thing holding me up. Thank goodness it’s not the rainy season in Seattle or I’d have to commit suicide. Or at least daydream about it. Or make despondent notes in my journal.
Inside, Roger already had a table. Candy, Hank, Jean, Bud, and Barn, who was looking thinner every time I saw him, were all there, the core group, crowded around him.
On seeing me, Barn popped up and dashed to the order counter. "Venti mocha with whip, heavy on the chocolate sauce." He shot me a look. "On me. You like lots of chocolate, right?"
Small nod by me. I felt tears in my eyes at his kindness. Cara had gotten a good one for once, thanks to me.
Roger looked up. "I thought Sean would be here."
I glanced at my watch. "He’s interviewing at WAR with my sister right now." I couldn’t help the grimace.
Roger had his cell, laptop, a pad of paper, a mechanical pencil, and a copies of various books on finding a job, including the classic What Color Is Your Parachute? in front of him.
Bud stood up and held a chair out for me. The barista called out my order and Barn brought it over. I took a sip. Chocolate coffee heaven.
Roger looked around the table at us all. "All right. You know why we’re here." Significant look at me. "One of our own is in trouble, and in this group, we have a motto." Then he paused.
I didn’t know we had a motto. From the blank expressions around the group, I don’t think anyone else did, either. Even Roger who’d brought the topic up. He frowned.
"All for one and one for all?" Jean volunteered.
"That’s the Three Musketeers." Roger scratched his head.
"Semper fi?" From Bud.
"Marines. We were navy." Roger paused. "We need something unique. All our own."
"No job-hunter left behind?" Candy on the uptake. Roger must have been telling her military stories.
Roger beamed. "Excellent! That’s it! No job-hunter left behind. No member left hanging." He typed it into his laptop. "Everyone’s been briefed. Leesa, here, is our member in most dire need. It’s time to put into action an effective, quick, shock and awe job-getting battle plan for her." He held up the copy of Parachute. "This is the job-hunting bible. We’re going to apply the techniques in here to get Leesa a job. And once we have, we’ll apply them one by one to the rest of the group. Anyone who wants help."
Nods bobbed around the group.
"Okay, so we’re in agreement. Since we’re under a time constraint and have no time to lose, we’re starting directly with the section on the most effective job hunting techniques and how to use contacts to find a job. Combining all our efforts, we’ll be job hunting at warp speed." He looked at me. "Sound good?"
"Warp speed, you bet! I’ve always wanted to try warp speed."
Roger beamed. "Good attitude. Positive. I like that. First step. Leesa, which company have you always wanted to work for?"
Okay, no-brainer here. "You mean, as in anywhere?"
"Dream big!"
"Engineering Associates in Redmond. They do fun stuff. They pay big. They’re all prestige." I paused and frowned. "And they’re extremely selective. They turned down Carl Hall and he graduated top of my class with a perfect four point. He was Tau Beta Pi president and everything. They said they couldn’t take him because his degree was only from the University of Washington and they only took Stanford or MIT grads. Very snooty." I sighed. "I graduated with a three-point-two. I don’t have a chance. They’ll screen my résumé and delete it the moment it hits their filter."
"Nonsense. You’re a unique, valuable prospective employee." Roger consulted Parachute. "Look at this." He pointed to the page. "You have more than a chance. All we have to do is get you in touch with the person-with-the-power-to-hire."
He scanned the group. "To do that, we’ll use our LinkedIn contacts, Facebook accounts, Twitter, and general knowledge, and IM, text, tweet, or call everyone we know and ask them if they know anyone at EA and can they recommend Leesa. By doing this we’ll be using one of the most effective job finding techniques—the power of the Job Camp Group!"
The group cheered.
"Everyone bring their cell phone?" Roger pulled his out. "Other accessories—laptops or iPads, notebooks, pens?"
The Gang assembled their weapons. This group was prepared!
"First, a little training." Roger held up a copy of The Seattle Times.
"Résumé spam is tiring those hiring. This is an actual headline from a recent column. The article goes on to say that in just six months one large company received 920,000 online applications. How is Leesa going to stand out? Be one in almost a million that gets called for an interview?" Roger looked around. "Seem impossible? Not if we know how to find the-person-with-the-hiring-power."
Then Roger taught us the secret of jumping past screeners in a single bound, of getting past watchdogs, admins, and all other gatekeepers to find the-person-with-the-hiring-power. He taught us how to network with our contacts and he gave us a new mantra. "Everyone you know is a contact. Everyone. Your priest, your auto repair guy, the garbage man, the clerk at the store. Everyone.
"We ask everyone the same questions. ‘Do you know anyone who works for or used to work for EA? Do you have their phone number and/or address? Would you be willing to call ahead and tell them who Leesa is?
"Once you have a name at EA, Leesa calls and asks the next set of questions." He paused. "Get it?"
We nodded.
"We inch-bug our way to a personal contact while hurdling over the unenlightened masses of online applicants." Roger looked at me. "If you need to, Leesa, give yourself a pep talk before beginning just like we learned at ‘greatness’. And remember, everybody, don’t take ‘no’ for an answer, especially not from HR."
"Greatness." He had to remind me.
"Phones at ready," Roger said.
Seven cell phones snapped to attention.
Roger, "On my signal, commence calling. Three, two, one, dial!"
And we were off.
I gave myself the pep talk, stealing key virtues from the list in Parachute. I was competent, honest, ethical, educated, patient, understanding, punctual (hey, punctual’s a virtue), and hardworking. I was a quick study. I practiced hard and played for keeps. I was going to score an interview—an actual hiring interview.
First, I tried the easy way. I called EA’s human relations department and asked if they were hiring. Nope. I hung up.
Did I believe them? I mentally repeated the response Roger had taught me—no! Don’t believe anybody. Leave no stone unturned. And any other applicable clichés. Half the time those HR people were nothing more than screeners, people trying to keep candidates out of jobs so that HR had job security.
I checked my LinkedIn contacts, even though I knew I didn’t know anyone at EA. Ryne’s picture popped up in my contact list. I reached to unconnect with him, which is when I noticed EA was listed as one of his clients. I popped over to his website. Yep, EA was listed as a satisfied client there, too.
No way. I wouldn’t contact him and ask for a favor if he was the last person on Earth who knew someone at Engineering Associates. I’d
rather go to work for Dad.
I went back to LinkedIn and unconnected with Ryne.
To cheer myself up, I picked up my phone again, and began calling safe, friendly contacts. I had a great talk with Sheila, the girl at the cleaners, and promised to let Dad know about their half off special for draperies. Sheila didn’t even know what EA was.
I called my neighbor, Mrs. Vanhorn, to see if she was back from vacation early. Nope. I got her machine. I’d still need to be feeding Fluffy. I called my automated banking system and found out my account balance was now a measly $243.56. It didn’t know of any jobs at EA, either.
Next to me, Jean was a cold call machine. Making professional call after call. Speaking pleasantly. Forging ahead on my behalf.
Inspired by Jean, I got serious. I called ex-coworkers.
"Geez, Leesa. EA? They don’t hire real people. You gotta be a frickin’ genius or something to get their attention."
"I knew a kid who delivered pizzas there once. Can’t remember his name. He went back to college anyway. Down in Oregon somewhere."
"You need connections to get in there, kiddo. Can’t help you."
These were the kinds of helpful responses I got.
Friends. Nothing. Dad’s golf buddies. Nada. Julie’s manicurist. Remind her that she has a complete hand massage and manicure scheduled for the fifth. Ten thirty. Sharp. So much for everybody!
An hour later, I banged my head against the coffee table in defeat. Jean, who sat next to me, gave me a concerned look,
"I’m a failure. I failed at the sure-fire-warp-speed-find-a-job method."
"Failure is an event, not a person." She must have learned that from Roger, who learned it from . . . Ryne. Everything came back to him. Jean patted me on the back.
"Sure." I sat back up. My forehead throbbed. "Then I just went from two failures to hundreds, keep that in mind."
"Cheer up, Little Miss Sunshine. You couldn’t have called everybody. You haven’t been on the phone long enough."
"Yeah, that’s the excuse. But I’m down to the real long shots." I sighed. "I’m not about to call Top Foods and ask for the clerk who usually works check stand seven."
Pink Slipper Page 18