OK. So. I get all dolled up in my monkey suit. I roll on out to 42nd street and 6th ave, which might I add is simply charming at the moment thanks to Fashion Week. Just before I'm about to enter the building, I notice a huge gray smudge on my nice, freshly ironed, light blue shirt. On my boob. OK then, so we're buttoning the jacket. Fan freakin tastic.
This is the place with the overly complicated elevators. I get to the 23rd floor no problem, but there's a bit of confusion as to where I'm supposed to go next. I mistakenly think it's the 30th floor, mixing it up with the second office I went to for the first interview last Tuesday. Somehow the guard, though, thinks I say the 33rd floor which is where she sends me. And which is still under construction. And which doesn't have any buttons outside of the elevator. The inside of the elevator of course has no buttons either, except for door open, door close, and emergency call. Well now isn't this fun. Fortunately the elevator seemed to decide of its own accord to descend back to 23, where wrongs are righted.
I finally arrive at the proper lobby, still a few minutes early thanks to my compulsively timed advances, and wait. I stare out of enormous plate glass windows at the Chrysler building, and then down at the New York Public Library. And I'm thinking, I write, I paint, I have tattoos, I've supported partners on two winning trials, and I type 65 goddamn words per minute. Shouldn't someone want to hire me for something?
Finally my host, as it were, arrives to guide me to interviewer number four (4) for this particular establishment. For her I smile nicely, folding my hands in my lap just so. (Dance for the pretty lady! Pretty pretty panda, pretty pretty dancing!) She asks me a few extremely run of the mill questions, all of which I've already answered for three of her staff. And in under five minutes, she's done with me, having her secretary escort me back to the lavish lobby to do some more sitting on bold orange upholstery.
I wait. For about twenty minutes. Wondering if, despite the fact that I felt I spoke well, I said something terribly amiss that cut the interview short. Finally my original contact reappears to tell me that - you're gonna love this part - I have to meet with two more people but they're not available. (It's not as if, you know, I had an appointment or anything.) So I'll need to come back again. Naturally I smile and say of course, no problem. But internally I'm thinking, how does anything ever get done here? This place may be even less effective than government. In the scale of the goings on at this office, part of a firm that employs over 1000 attorneys worldwide, the hiring of a legal secretary is pretty small beans. And yet it takes a committee of six and two weeks of deliberation to vote yay or nay? Good god, the company picnic must take six months and every resource they've got. Cole slaw or potato salad? Cole slaw or potato salad!? I CAN'T THINK! Jesus, I just don't know - you'd better bring Jerry and Sue in on this one...
So, basically, I left there forty minutes after I arrived, none the wiser to the status of my employment but significantly more frustrated. I mean, I knew it would be hard to find a good job, one I actually want to be doing. But there's no part of me that would have guessed that even after deciding to sell out once again and go legal and corporate, I'd still be having this much trouble. Call it naivety if you wish. I'm just sort of stunned. Part of me doesn't even want this job anymore - part of the part that ever wanted it in the first place, that is; the part that worries about paying rent.
And so, the saga continues with no inkling of relief or resolution. Right about now, it's getting to be time to call up mom and ask for some money - something I haven't actually done since around 2003. Self esteem? Meh, who needs it.