Jobs I didn’t get – part one

In looking for work, I spotted a job ad on LinkedIn for “researcher.” No further specification as to what the research entailed. No job description. A certain John D. had posted the ad, and his privacy settings were so high that I couldn’t even see his full last name. Probably it was a fake name anyway. So I pushed my resume to “John,” because I had this idea in my head that the less someone shows themselves, the more money and power they have.

In the meantime, I checked their website. The company website address was an obscure four-letter acronym with “.ai” tacked on. The site was bare except for a single stock photo of a traffic light, which was red. I figured that the work might have something to do with AI, and with cars. I had just moved to Los Angeles. They have a lot of cars in Los Angeles. I was foreign, so the oddball was going to be my friend. Plus, I was curious.

Right away, I get a call on my phone. It’s John.

My heart pounces. My first callback! As best I can remember, here’s what he says: “Hey, so, I’ve been hiking this weekend and then we saw a lake, so we decided to go swimming. It was so awesome! But because I didn’t know about the lake, I hadn’t brought any swimming trunks, so I just went swimming in my underwear. But then, I got out of the water and carried on with my hike, but now, my underwear was wet. So I was hiking in wet underwear. I didn’t notice that under my clothes, the wet underwear made my thighs really sore and now I’ve got really painful burns on my thighs. So, because it was chafing and rubbing so much against my legs, I wanted to get some cream for it and went to the CVS. But here’s the thing: usually, I would use this cream, you know the one, half disinfectant and half lidocaine, but that CVS that i went to, they were out of it, so I had to buy this other cream that I didn’t know, and—I’m such an idiot. Because it was alcohol cream, and what happened next was, I was rubbing alcohol on my wounds and it hurt. like. hell.”

I was immediately drawn to the universe in which THIS GUY conducted business. But what even was his business? He said it would take too long to explain, we’d need to meet in person. It involved some kind of great invention. If I came to the office, he would be able to show it to me. I’d understand right away.

And even though I kept thinking this may lead me only to the discovery of his penis, my curiosity prevailed, and compelled me to travel the considerable distance from Koreatown to Marina del Rey, in the heat, in my pathetic job interview clothes from Germany, on public transport. All I could think of were the sweat stains that were forming in the armpits of my shirt. You know the ones.

~~~

His was one of these one-person office suites in a sun-beaten 1980s cement lump by the water. Along sticky linoleum flooring on anxiety-inducing corridors, which were boiling hot, every door plaque in exactly the same all-caps rounded font, that read the name of what was behind each doors: family accountant practice, therapist, private fund administration bureau—a gallery of dullness and, I am struggling not to use the word Kafkaesque here, dammit, there, I’ve used it.

John’s office had a majestic view of Marina del Rey: blue sea, white yachts, MCM pebbledash office grays, and the hard glint of the 11am sun reflecting on the waves.

Greeting committee: three hyperventilating chihuahuas, one of whom was hairless. Behind them stood a round-cheeked, jovial, rocker-biker type in a salesman costume. It was a nice beige linen suit he was wearing, since linen was the fad of the summer, and he wore well-shined brogues, in a summery light brown, and everything. It was exceedingly believable, and yet, how is it the rocker-biker types always come through, even through a suit?

Maybe it was the two electric guitars hanging from the wall, or the drum kit set up in the corner, that gave him away. The futon couch also looked like it had been used not only to receive business guests, but also to sleep on—a rolled-up blanket hastily stuffed behind the backrest was the clue.

I was still taking it all in, while he began to speak, pointing at the hairless dog:

“That dog lost all her hair because I also have horses and, basically, I took her to the stables and she ate some horse poop, which gave her a fungus, which made her hair fall out. It’s a thing with dogs and horse poop, look it up? But she’s been to the vet, and they gave her some medicine, she is all good now, the hair will grow back. It’s OK to touch her. She’s perfectly healthy, she just looks weird.”

He told me how he had ended things with the love of his life, the original owner of chihuahua number 2, but it would have been too cruel to separate the dogs, so he kept all three. In my head, I started to count down the seconds before he was going to take his penis out.

But to my delight, he did no such thing, and there actually was a great invention.

Well, let’s say that there was an invention.

First, he showed me a demo video. It wasn’t bad, as far as tech demos for early stage ideas go, but it kind of lacked both pizzazz and razzmatazz. The idea was a little computer system like an airtag, designed to help self-driving cars better anticipate the red phases of traffic lights, and better adjust speed.

It was interesting, in the sense of being boring but clever, and of course I had no way of knowing whether it was the quietly genius, highly specialized sort of project that could turn into millions and gazillions, or merely only one of dozens of attempts that had to happen, and that were being made at this moment, unknown to most of us, in labs and offices such as this one, kids with transistors trying to solve a subtle puzzle that could change fucking everything.

Something told me that I happened not to be looking at the future boss of the eventual winning team in this particular race. But I liked this guy. Wouldn’t you?

The research he needed involved policy and compliance stuff, some sleuthing as to whom in the industry and whom among the regulators he needed to shmooze up to, so he could lobby, and get money.

I also very much liked his investor relations strategy: the plan was to approach Leonardo Dicaprio, who had a “green fund.” I was about to tell him I was more than a decade too old to be the one to be sent to approach DiCaprio, but he already had that covered; the way to get at him was through a friend of his, because he, the friend, and one of “Leo”’s closest associates share a disease, so they’d met in the rooms, and became chummy (what “disease” does he have, I wonder? who even uses the word disease any more? it’s condition, dummy! anyway, was it sex addicts anonymous? again? i am thinking nis-pe nis-pe nis-pe, I am the one here with the dirtiest mind, they’re all being perfect gentlemen, and where is my mind going, all the time?) —

He shook my hand and told me he’d send me an offer letter soon.

I was unemployed, so I had the rest of the day off. At least, that was the kind of unemployed person that I was. Since I’d come all the way to Marina del Rey, I figured I would go and get ice cream. I saw John again, walking his dogs, now in his proper metalhead clothes. We said goodbye, again.

Then he ghosted me.

Now I know what it’s like to get a Los Angeles Yes.

 

Francesca Spiegel is a product writer at Wells Fargo and is hard at work, after work, on her essays, stories, and book. She’s a passionate essayist on matters of culture, healthcare, and history, and has a PhD in the study of ancient Greek. Read her fake-nonfiction essay about a thing that didn’t happen in the Coachella desert “Lithium is the new gold” or find her at francescaspiegel.com.