* * *
All of us had sore ears from making telephone calls twenty-four-seven. I pictured the gang looking like Alfred E. Newman caricatures, all great big flat ears.
The real bummer—no one knew anyone at EA. No one but Ryne and I wasn’t going near him.
Sean, "Sorry, babe. Has anyone ever told you your sister is one hot boss?"
Roger, "Nothing yet. Keep fighting. It’s at-bats, Leesa. At-bats."
C&H, "No one’s heard of them. But we got a hot tip about free makeovers and samples at the Nordstrom MAC counter—"
Bud, "SOL so far."
BarnandCara, the two melding into one with Cara being the mouthpiece, "Everyone I’ve talked to in the trade’s been rejected by EA, but knowing an actual person? Uh-uh. And if they did, they’d use the contact for themselves. Believe me. Have you thought about trying for someone more accessible? I hear a new firm called Hawk is looking for female engineers."
Jean, "No luck yet, but I haven’t finished calling the whole PTSA roster. And someone at the garden club is sure to know someone."
I’m beginning to think that EA is really a phantom. The Phantom of Engineering. Sounds good, huh? Someone should make an opera and I can play the lead tragic role.
The thing is, all these rejections made it hard to stay positive. I kept reciting the mantra. I am an honest, punctual, worthwhile. . . .
The next day I was just stepping out of the shower when my cell rang. I raced for it and caught it on the fourth ring right before it went to voicemail.
"I’ve got it! I’ve got a name for you!"
"Jean?"
"Yeah, it’s me. Leesa, I just got it, a contact at EA."
Talk about sounding giddy!
"You mean real people actually work there? Wow! How did you get it?" My heart started pattering away at eighty miles per hour.
Jean paused. "Um, Dan knew someone who knew someone. But that’s not important. You’re supposed to call this Davis Parker’s admin and set up an interview for next week." She rattled off a number that I wrote down with shaking hands as water from my wet hair dripped onto the pad.
"Davis Parker! Jean, he’s the company president."
"I know, I know!" She giggled.
"You scored a real coup. This is excellent, Jean. Thanks so much! So do I mention this friend’s name when I call?"
Another hesitation. "Just call the admin and leave your name. She’ll know who you are. Dan’s friend will have called by now to recommend you."
I frowned, puzzled. "But how can he recommend me without talking to me or seeing my résumé?"
"Don’t worry about that. I talked to him about your qualifications, and forwarded him a copy of your résumé, the one you gave us to use when we called."
Great, Jean talking about me. I wondered what kind of a mishmash she’d made of my engineering accomplishments. I still didn’t think she knew what engineers did. "I hope you didn’t exaggerate any?"
"Not on your life." Jean laughed. "Now I’ve got to get off the line so you can call!"
Chapter 23
Jobless days: 72
August Unemployment Log
Jobless days left: These days may be numbered!
Rejections: Got them on the run.
Goals:
1. Meet Street Musician Guy at the bungalow. Help his PI Guy learn the honest truth, catch the real perp, and get my money!
2. Survive very Big Important Interview and land that job!
Thoughts for the day:
Now my job search looks like:
NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO
MAYBE!
* * *
Roger lent me his copy of the job-hunting bible. And made me study the chapter on the hiring interview. Then he quizzed me, and mock-interviewed me and made Bud mock-interview me. I should have been pretty well prepared to go up against Mr. Davis Parker, Engineering Associates President. Should, being the operative word.
But that chapter on interviewing listed at least ten points for smart job-seekers to pay attention to and remember during the interview, and each part had parts, and the statistics were frightening. Did you know that most job interviews are lost in the first two minutes? Two minutes for glory or defeat.
I did all the up-front, no-brainer stuff the book stressed as being so important. I got on the Internet and researched EA to within an inch of its life. I probably knew more about EA than its founders did.
I showered and went to the sugar sisters’ condo where Candy styled my hair, and gave me a manicure.
"My nails can’t stick out too far," I told her. "The book says so. To prevent jabbing during the initial handshake. Stabbing the prospective employer with a too-long nail, especially if you draw blood, can lose you the interview on the spot."
Candy rolled her eyes. "Calm down, Leesa. Since I’m not applying acrylics, and your natural nails barely reach the end of your fingertips, I think we’re okay. The main thing is to get them to look like you haven’t been biting them."
Which, of course, I had. I was a closet nail-biter. Disgusting, yes. But considering the stress I’d been under, could you blame me?
Roger sat nearby watching the makeover operation. He got out a ruler and tried to measure my newly pink nails.
"Get out of here." I shooed him away. "You’ll ruin the polish."
He grinned. "Just trying to be helpful. The book says less than an inch. I’d say you’re well within tolerance. Even though you refused to let me get an accurate measurement."
I held my hands out in front of me to inspect Candy’s manicure job. "Nice. At least I have great nails."
I sighed as Candy began to work her makeup artistry on me.
"Not too much! Or they’ll reject me in the first two minutes, maybe the first five nanoseconds." Which, unfortunately, was a record I felt confident I could take.
Candy didn’t say anything, just kept working. But I imagined her thoughts, and they weren’t pretty. In fact, they had something to do with blue eye shadow and blush to look like clown cheeks. So I shut up and did what she said without comment. Why press my luck? I looked up as she applied mascara. Pursed my lips for lipstick. Blotted.
When Candy finished, she handed me a mirror.
I peered into it anxiously and broke into a smile. "Wow! I wish this was the natural me."
Hank helped out by lending me one of her suits, which fit nicely. And Julie had let me borrow her purple silk blouse. Candy did my hair and doused me with hair spray.
"Just remember," Roger said. "Often the employer is as nervous as the interviewee. Hiring and interviewing is a part of the job they have to do and usually aren’t trained for. Their credibility, and budget, is on the line. They’ve got skin in the game, too. So stay calm and friendly. Remember your greatness training. Look him in the eye. Answer honestly. Recall your positive attributes."
* * *
Job interviews, what can one say? Terrifying, numbing, butterfly generating. Armed with the effervescent afterglow of Roger’s pep talk and a bottle of Julie’s Pellegrino sparkling water to quench cottonmouth, I could take on the world. Or stumble around in confusion. Take your pick.
I approached this interview the way I did any major crisis in my life—in panic mode. All that research—out of my head. Vaporware!
And I still hadn’t figured out exactly what I had to offer EA over twenty other people with equal, or most likely, better qualifications. Not that I hadn’t tried. I grasped at anything. My freshness? My candor? Put a price on those weighty attributes and what do you get? A goose egg, I think.
And if this turned out to be one of those technical interviews?
I shuddered. Some sadistic hiring engineering managers loved to hand prospective employees a test, toss some big hulking circuit or computer program at them, something they’d thrown a hundred thousand man-hours and twenty-million research dollars at, and say, "Here. Take a shot at this. You have fifteen minutes to save the world." Right.
If Parke
r did this, I was sunk. Because, truth in advertising here, I was no engineering genius. And also because I didn’t handle test pressure well in the first place.
Mr. Davis Parker’s admin showed me to his office. I was exceptionally pleasant to her and smiled big. Because, as the book said, it was best to make good impressions all the way around. I even complimented her on her shoes, though in truth I thought they were a little on the clunky side.
Mr. Davis Parker waited for me in a plush leather swivel chair behind his desk. He stood when I appeared in the doorway, and came over to usher me in and shake my hand. I gave his hand a firm squeeze.
So far, so good. No nail gouging.
He sat and indicated a chair. I sat.
"You have impressive credentials. Gone out on a limb a few times." Parker was a bear of a man, rotund, heavy jowls, with graying temples and mustache, and a wide grin. A man who liked his business lunches, I assumed.
Also a man who either couldn’t read well, or who Ryne had developed a different definition of "impressive" for. Because my résumé, hence, my credentials, wasn’t all that impressive. Not according to the "superhuman high standard" mythology that surrounded EA, at least. I was a bit puzzled. I kept thinking, limbs, limbs? Wasn’t I the cautious type? I ran with his assumption anyway. Who was I to disagree?
"Yes, well, I’m a gutsy girl."
I’d already messed up. Note—no flippancy in job interviews.
Corrective action, "But I only take chances when the potential benefits to the organization outweigh the risks."
Solemn expression, yet his eyes twinkled. "We were particularly interested in your excellent revenue stream generation. Especially in light of Wireless Innovations’ recent struggles."
A few hundred thousand dollars wasn’t really what I considered to be an excellent revenue stream, but if he thought so.
Then a thought struck me—was he making fun of me? He looked like he was trying not to smile. Oh, no! I was losing. I needed a "Hail, Mary" play and I needed it now.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Parker talked right over me.
There followed a bunch of marketing questions and business observations. Wait a minute! Where were my technical questions? Didn’t he want me to derive Maxwell’s equations from scratch? Or tell him all I knew about antenna theory? Or design their next product for patent right on the spot?
Frankly, I was confused and worried that he had me confused with someone else, namely a business major, because unless you did a very creative word scramble of my résumé, the letters MBA didn’t really appear together anywhere on it. Neither did the name Wharton, or Harvard Business School, or any of that.
I managed to hold my own only by giving him my thoughts on how engineering companies need to be more concerned with the emotional element of a consumer’s connection to a product, bluffing on the fly, and keeping in mind the 50/50 rule. Applicants who talk half the time and let the employer talk the other half have the greatest chance of being hired. As an added bonus, that was fifty percent of airtime I didn’t have to fill.
If I was reading him right, Parker seemed impressed—genuinely. And there was probably another excellent reason for that. Panicked as I was, I could barely think, but my NLP studies came in amazingly handy. So I just watched Parker’s accessing cues and parroted him. People are generally narcissists and like themselves better than anyone. Parachute said that getting the hiring guy to like you was the key to getting an offer. So if Mr. Davis Parker liked himself, he was going to love the reflection of himself he saw in me. And I’d get the job. That was the theory anyway, that was my save-the-day play.
So I sat like he sat. Subtly mimicked his gestures, except for that mustache-stroking maneuver. Thank goodness, being blonde, I’d never had a mustache. Even Candy’d commented that there was no need for waxing.
I even used his words back at him. If he said, "We’d like to see xyz." I said, "I see what you mean. XYZ is a very important in the industry." If he had an insight, I repeated it to him. If he leaned on the desk, I leaned on the desk. If he frowned in thought, I frowned in thought. And so it went. I was a natural at it, I might add, my skills honed by years of mimicking Julie because that’s what little sisters do.
At last, Mr. Davis Parker said, "Frankly, you’ve surprised me. You’ve actually impressed me in this interview. The truth is, if you hadn’t come so highly recommended, I wouldn’t have bothered interviewing you. However, personal recommendations of this caliber hold great sway with me."
Which got me wondering exactly who Dan’s friend was, and how Dan had gotten him to give me such a good word? My imagination ran wild and I made a note to bug Jean about it. This mystery person deserved a great big thank you.
"A personal recommendation can be the job-seeker’s most important asset."
"Asset," I repeated.
"Oh, by the way, purple’s one of my favorite colors." Parker smiled. "We don’t hire many University of Washington grads. But I do like to follow their football team. Go Purple and Gold. Go Huskies."
I made a little victory punch in the air, not mentioning that the purple blouse was Julie’s, and that, really, I was beginning to hate purple. I sensed the interview coming to a close, so now was the time. I screwed up my courage and asked, "Can you offer me this job?"
The job-hunting guide said you’d be surprised how many people get the job just by asking for it, which is what gave me the courage to open my mouth and do it.
Parker grinned ear to ear. "Boldness! Aggressiveness! That’s what I was looking for!" He took my hand and shook it again. "I certainly can give you serious consideration. You’ll be hearing from us."
Okay, so I wasn’t going to be one of those textbook examples and get the job on the spot. Nothing in my life went that easily. But I’d done a damn fine job in the interview. Just don’t ask me what it was about.
* * *
I drove off in Dad’s car, which, after much whining and begging, he’d let me borrow for the big day. I called Roger from my cell, using my hands-free Bluetooth, as I pulled out of the lot.
"Well? How’d it go?" He sounded like an expectant father.
"Terrific."
"Did you ask for the job?"
"You bet."
"And did you get it?"
"He’s giving me serious consideration. He’ll be getting back to me. That’s what he said. Probably wants to check my references or something."
Roger gave a whoop. "You got that part aced. Howard better give you the world’s best report or we’ll go kick his ass. And Barn’s new babe, she’s your best friend, right?"
Well, sort of. Most of the time. After I hung up with Roger, I repeated the call five more times with differing variations. By the time I hung up with Jean, I’d pulled into Dad’s driveway.
When I walked into the kitchen, I got a ping on my cell. Two voicemails had come in while I was spreading the good news. I dumped my keys and purse and checked my messages.
"Leesa, Joe Sharp, Hawk Engineering. Just wondering if you got our offer?"
Checking up on me, of all the nerve! Evil grin. What if I claimed I hadn’t? Then they’d have to send it back out and that would be a good stall. I made a note to call after hours and leave a message on the admin’s voicemail. I should have made a bad impression on her, then maybe she would have just forgotten to send a new one out. Why was I always thinking of these brilliant ideas after the fact?
Second message. "Leesa, Greg, the melody of the streets. The PI’s read your reports, looked at your photos, and is ready to roll. Four thirty at the crime scene sound good? Give me a buzz."
I gave Street Guy a ring. Four thirty it was.
* * *
Dressed in my favorite fire-stained cutoffs, I arrived fifteen minutes early to find Street Guy sitting on my front stoop, strumming his guitar. I glanced at my watch.
Street Guy grinned. "Chill. You’re early. Mr. Forensics and I have been here at least half an hour already. You caught us in the middle of an old
trick—scope the place out and form your own conclusions before the victim’s story taints things and makes you miss valuable clues and evidence."
"Wow, that’s smart."
Greg shrugged. "Thumper’s the best."
Thumper?
"So where is this criminal finding genius?" I made a point of looking around.
"Around back."
Street Guy stood and I followed him around to my backyard. The sight of the back of my little house still startled me and made me want to cry. It gaped open like the mouth of a child who’d lost too many teeth at once. Before his sudden work stoppage, Gus had put in temporary support walls and cleaned things up a bit. There were plywood walls for keeping the squirrels out. Not that any self-respecting squirrel would want to venture in. My bungalow still smelled charred.
Poking around under my prize gargantuan butterfly bush with its long spires of purple flowers that spilled over the fence into Mrs. Vanhorn’s yard was a bulky man in cutoffs and a T-shirt. What? Were we twinners? We had semimatching outfits or common taste in clothes, however you wanted to look at it. But wasn’t he supposed to be wearing a dress shirt and tie? He certainly didn’t look like one of those TV PIs.
In the shade pattern of the butterfly bush and in small strips shaded from the main heat of the day by my fence and house, my grass was still green and long and in need of mowing. I should have been a little embarrassed by all the weeds and general signs of yard neglect.
I leaned into Street Guy and whispered, "What is he, a master gardener?"
"Nah. I told him your story. He’s scouting for clues."
"Does he think I’ve buried a body or something in the backyard?"
The shrug.
Just about that time, Mr. Forensics straightened and whirled on us, a dirty lump of charred wood in his hand. "Aha!"
Street Guy and I jumped back.
"Recognize this?" Mr. Forensics held the wood out for my inspection.
Since I’d been expecting a six-quart stock pot, I was a little taken aback. "Nice to meet you, too," I said, taking the tiniest step forward. I looked it over and shook my head.
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