The Marketing Job

Actually happened to me.

“Car after bus after car after truck,
After this my lungs will be so fucked up.”
~Cake, Carbon Monoxide

Near the vending machines is a large yellow puddle that no one’s in any hurry to clean up. A broken juice cap nearby reveals that the diseased-looking pond is just orange juice. Still, people are making every effort to put as much distance between themselves and what could easily pass for the piss break of some hobo. At the same time, no one’s complaining or anything, because this is Philadelphia’s bus station to New York and New Jersey. And no one from New York or New Jersey is about to complain about something miniscule like piss on the floor.

What a shithole.

It’s 6:30 am and I’m alive on 2 hours of broken sleep acquired during the trip from Pittsburgh. I call my parents who have jobs, and are therefore awake. I tell my dad that I’m going to have to rely on etiquette and charm to get this job- I don’t know jack about marketing.
“No one knows anything about marketing.” My dad says. “You’ve got to actually work in marketing to learn anything about it.”
Vending machine coffee tastes like shit, and I tell him so. He tells me it’s probably better just to wait to get to New York to buy some coffee. New York has good coffee. Say what you want about Pittsburgh- at least their bus station had a café that you could hang out in. At least their bus station was bigger than a living room. And the poor people of Philadelphia don’t know it, but they’ve become the enemy. Everyone in my way, no matter how big or small.

The sleeping bum.
The mewling baby.
The luggage attendant.

All of them are my enemies. Robin says that I’m becoming Holden Caulfield- that I’m just sick of everyone and getting worse and worse at hiding it. It’s easy to lose patience with people when you’re a graduating theater major.

The job is with a marketing firm that somehow liked my resume. Weird, but not entirely unpleasant. All I have going for me are writing skills and people skills. And I’m hoping that the firm hires me before my people skills run dry. I just need to get out of this city before I snap. I’ve read that Philadelphia was almost the nation’s capital, and I can’t say I’m surprised they changed their minds. The attitude and general feeling that one gets from this place is one of unrest. The security guards in the station are jaded and short-tempered. I can’t remember a single smile anywhere I’ve ever gone in Philadelphia that wasn’t caused by monetary compensation. It’s no wonder a revolution was planned here: everyone’s constantly on edge. I can imagine John Adams and Thomas Jefferson sitting around, pissed off, and getting news about the latest tax increase.
“A .25% increase for olive loaf? Those bastards! You’re going down, George!”
And thus America was born out of hatred for King George and all his assorted processed meats. This is not such a crazy idea when you’re tired and nervous and in one of the craziest cities in America. Note that here, “craziest” is not intended to mean “darling” or “out there”. I dislike Philadelphia because it seems to dislike me.
When I get to New York, I race to the nearest bathrooms in the Port Authority and change into my new black suit. It’s still got tags in it as this is the first time I’ve ever worn it. Dressing in a men’s room stall is an act of balance and patience. I’m sliding from one side to the other in my black wool socks, desperately trying to avoid falling onto the filthy tile floor. A line has formed outside, and some walking, talking stereotype is banging on my door and saying “’Ey- come ann! Dere’s a line out ‘ere!” While all this is happening, the Benny Hill theme plays incessantly in my head. When I finally stumble out, I go to a nearby mirror to make sure everything’s in order. I look alert enough- not washing my hair has given me some natural oil that makes me look put together and groomed. By this evening I’ll just look greasy. My suit is black with a white shirt- no frills. The idea is to look professional. With my rolling suitcase dragging steadily behind me, I look more like a pilot.
To suggest that I’m not here to apply for theater jobs is untrue. On top of the marketing job, I’m here to be interviewed for two internships- both working in the theater. However, both are business jobs: one for a company that plans and executes theatrical entertainment and events for large corporations, the other for a group that funds and plans out the road tours of major Broadway shows. Essentially, both are jobs that I can say, “Yeah, I work in the theater- but I get paid a buttload to do it.” I’m no longer in the mood to suffer for my art. Screw bohemia- I need a job
The rejection letter I will get from Barkley-Kaplan and Associates a week and a half later will say that they are pleased to inform me that they have chosen a candidate perfect for their internship. The only way you can tell that it’s a rejection letter is from the fact that they never mention that the new intern isn’t you. It would have been interesting to break the time-space continuum and have a copy of that rejection with you in the past, because the company didn’t seem like they were full of shit. Their namby-pamby method of rejection, however, proves this to be largely untrue.

I arrive to the interview late because of an accident in the Holland Tunnel. Fortunately, my interviewer arrives late for the same reason. We wait for the elevator, ride it upstairs together, and never suspect who the other person is until I hold the door open for her at the Suite where Barkley-Kaplan is located. We sit and she peruses my resume.
“So you’re a writer? You should know that this isn’t really a creative position. You won’t be writing.”
I tell her that it doesn’t matter, and we move on.
“Oh, and you’re an actor as well. You should know that this isn’t really a creative position. You won’t be acting.”
I tell her that it doesn’t matter, and we move on.
“A director! That’s wonderful. But you should know that this isn’t really a creative position. You won’t be directing.
I tell her that that’s really alright. That I want to try something outside of performance for a change.
“Oh, good. Because this isn’t really a performance-based internship.”
I tell her that someone had mentioned that.
Rushing out of the building, I suddenly resemble a pilot who is now late for his flight to the Tropical Island of Bare-Breasted Beauties. My lateness to the first interview is in turn going to make me late for my next one. I call ahead to explain, and catch a train to White Plains, where the interview is.

Twenty-five minutes later I’ll be on the long train to White Plains, crying against the window and trying to avoid the stare of an aging Jewish couple sitting nearby. Robin’s called and she’s found a lump and she’s scared so I’m scared. Three days later, we’ll find out that it’s just a small cyst that will go away on its own. But when you’re five hundred miles away from anyone you know and half-asleep and already nervous and edgy, the odds that anyone will ever survive anything ever drops to a drastic low.

By the time I’ve found a cab and made my way to the corporate park, the gentlemen who is supposed to interview me has gone away for lunch. I find the corporate cafeteria and buy a little pizza and a bottle of water. The pizza is somehow identical to the pizzas they served in the many cafeterias I ate in when I was bouncing from elementary school or elementary school. This makes me feel better for some reason, and I find myself staring into empty space as I eat. The good thing about White Plains is that empty space is quite pretty and well kept. The area embodies what I want in life- large and grand like a city, but comfortable and personal. You can buy a house here. Have a few kids. If you have the cash, that is. I decide in that moment that things will be alright. That Robin is fine, and that if I impress the hell out of this marketing firm, maybe we’ll get that opportunity we always hoped for. Perhaps this can be the opening I’ve always hoped for: stable job, safe community, 2.8 kids, a dog and a fucking white picket fence.
If my interviewer is mad for how late I am, he doesn’t show it. He smiles and shakes my hand. He’s not much older than me, and he’s wearing a nicer suit. His office is filled with various marketing awards from various places I’ve never heard of. He smells like sailing boat aftershave and laughs when I apologize for being late.
“Not a problem at all.” He says. “Travel in New York can be tough.”
I tell him that I got there this morning, and he laughs harder when I say I’m from Pennsylvania. He tells me I’ve come a long way. I know I have, but I don’t care to point that out to him. His name is David. David whips out a scrap of paper and writes down four words on it.

“Out of these four,” he says, “Tell me their importance to you in numerical order when it comes to a job.”
The words are: Money, Location, Stability and Co-Workers. I lie and say that stability is most important, followed closely by co-workers.
“Money’s okay and everything, but if I can’t get along with my co-workers, I just don’t know how I’d live with the job.”
Lie, lie, lie.
“Stability’s most important- the payment itself doesn’t matter, as long as I know I have a job to go to.”

Lies.

The one truth I tell the guy is when I say that I really want to live in the New York area, so location was also important. This is a question I’ve been asked by employers before, and one that David has asked of many a prospective employee. My answers are lies that I’ve said before, and lies that David has heard by many a prospective employee. Say what you want about honesty, but the guy who fesses up and says that cash is on the top of his list isn’t going to get that job. He tells me about his company, throwing out vague words and phrases like “hard work” and “go-getter”. Then the interview is over, and David’s telling me that they’ll call me if they want to do a follow up. When I leave his office, the secretary outside is calling someone named Simon and asking him if he can come in on Wednesday for a secondary interview.

David has called a taxi for me, so I wait outside for it to come. The buses in White Plains are all on strike, so it can be a pain in the ass process to find a taxi that’s available. The Hispanic cab driver who picks me up is possessed with a almost forceful cheeriness that is rare to encounter these days. I start to pull my suitcase into the backseat with me and he turns, his eyes flashing a cheerful white, and shouts, “No, man! I opened the trunk for you!” I put my suitcase in his trunk and slide into the seat behind him. He says something that I don’t catch. I ask him to repeat himself, and he says “I never seen you before, my friend. You work here?” I tell him that I’m hoping that I can work there- that I just got done with an interview.
“You gotta work here, my friend. They got all the money right here. Coca-cola, Pepsi-cola, Mastercard and Visa- it’s all here.”
He drums the steering wheel rhythmically as he speaks.
“I tell you, my friend: you must get a job here. Because here, they have the money. And when you have the money, you never cry. When you don’t have the money, you stressed- you sad- you cry. The money talks. Oh yeah, go to New York! My cousin is broke, my friend. He make 250 dollars every week- that’s it.”
I ask him what his cousin does.
“He work as assistant chef at the restaurant. For 250 dollars, my friend.”
A week?
“Yes, my friend.”
We pull into another corporate lot, where a blonde woman in an expensive-looking suit stands. She smiles at the cabbie, who smiles back. It’s obvious they know each other. The odds are that she has his phone number to call whenever she needs a lift. Cabbies in this area often have this kind of repeat clientele- it ensures steady cash and good tips. He calls her “amiga” as she slides into the seat beside me. They chat about her recent vacation in Florida, and she displays a Hepburn-esque exasperation at the length of her day. When she finds out that I’m from out of town, she tells me about the strikes. It has been going on for two months, and the cab driver mentions loudly that that’s a long time to go without a paycheck. Thanks to the strikes, of course, his business is booming.
“I don’t understand why two months. It’s so much time, you know? For negotiations.” He says.
“Ah, this has been a bad one,” Katherine Hepburn says. “It’s been making it impossible to get a cab in a timely manner. Because eight of ten people use the buses don’t have cars- that’s their only mode of transportation and they have to take taxis instead, so if you take one just normally and now you have to get one, it’s impossible. I mean, now’s a little bit earlier in the day- you know, before rush hour, but come five o’clock…” she trails off, mumbling and staring out the window.
The conversation drifts into the topic of real estate. The cabbie and the woman discuss the costs of the freshly built apartments in town (600k to 1 million dollars to buy). When he drops her off at a supermarket, she calls him “my friend”, tips him, and tells him to have a good weekend if she doesn’t see him.
“All people, my friends,” says the cabbie, “Every day they call taxi-man.”
As we pull out, he tells me about his amiga who just left. Apparently she’s one of the major journalists for the newspaper in White Plains.
“Make pretty good money, man.” He says. He drops me off outside the train station, even though I wish he could lift me all the way to Manhattan.
I’ve been late for my first two interviews, so it would be poor taste to be on time for my last one. On the train back to Manhattan, I call Robin and she’s not feeling much better. She says that she’s scared and it’s made worse by the fact that no one seems to be around. She’s alone in her house and I’m four hundred miles away. I tell her that it will be okay- that I’ll be home as soon as I possibly can. I’m calm and collected when I tell her that she’s healthy and that it’s probably nothing at all. I say this, and maybe I believe it- but my stomach is a ball of poisonous lead. By the time I get to the building in Times Square where my final interview awaits, I don’t even care anymore. I feel good about the marketing job. If this internship can’t pay more than a lousy $100 a week stipend, screw ‘em. David wouldn’t tell me about the income of someone at entry level with their company, but it couldn’t be much less than $29,000 with 401k and benefits.
I forgo the hotel I had reserved in Jamaica and catch the next train back to Philadelphia. My phone’s battery is nearly dead and I don’t even open it, afraid I’d make it lose precious juice when Robin called, needing someone to talk to. I sit in Philadelphia for another three hours before the next train to Pittsburgh leaves. The place stinks worse than ever before. A pair of fat girls wearing low cut jeans and thongs assault a young couple from Minnesota about how they’re following the Insane Clown Posse on their tour.
My phone beeps at me and announces that it’s just about ready to die.
I find a security guard and ask him if there’s a place I can plug it in to charge. He tells me no, so I head over to the pay phones. I want to call Robin to tell her not to panic if she tries to call and I’m not around. The payphones don’t seem to work when you try to use a credit card on them, and I don’t have enough change to cover a 3-minute long distance phone call. However, there is an outlet nearby, and I set my suitcase beside it. Like the secret agent spy I am, I manage to sneakily plug my phone into the wall and cover it with my jacket. In this post-9-11 age, I could probably get thrown in jail for doing it, as various cords being hidden beneath a jacket on top of a suitcase isn’t the least incriminating thing that I could do. Nonchalantly pacing nearby, I eventually unplugged the phone after about an hour, figuring that would be enough juice to get me home. I call Robin briefly to tell her that the next bus out of Pittsburgh into Indiana will be at 3pm the next day- that I should see her at 4:30 in the afternoon or so. She insists on picking me up in Pittsburgh instead. My bus will get there at dawn, and I ask her if she’d rather just wait awhile, that I’ll be there pretty early. She says that she’ll leave around 7:30, so I’d just have to wait a little while in Pittsburgh. I like this plan better, because staying most of the day in Pittsburgh would be hell. Until then, I’m still in Philadelphia, and my train doesn’t leave until midnight. I can’t read because I start to doze off when I do. I can’t let myself doze off, because the place is filled with people who I barely trust when I’m awake.
The baggage guy in New York told me that there was no need to recheck my suitcase, so when I’m about to board the bus to Pittsburgh and the check guy tells me I need to check the suitcase, I’m a little miffed. There’s a long line for baggage check and I ask him if they’d leave without me. The next bus leaves at 2:30am, and there’s no way in hell I’m waiting around for it. He says that the driver won’t leave, but there’s a little doubt in his face. He tells me just to go to the desk and tell them what’s going on. That they’ll take care of me and let me on. I apologize as I slide my way to the front of the line. I ask if I can get my bag checked and the guy behind the counter rolls his eyes.
“Gonna have to wait in line, man.” He says.
I start to panic a little. I tell him that I have to get this bag checked, and I have to get the hell out of here.
“Back of the line, sir.” He says.
When the attendant outside peers in the door to check on me, he notes my position in line with displeasure. He asks if they could just check me and let me get on the bus.
“He coming over here with an attitude, acting like he’s all important and shit- I told his ass to get to the back of the line.”
This is ludicrous, because, in a sweaty, rumpled suit, complete with oily hair and bloodshot eyes, I can’t help but know exactly how unimportant I am.
“I’m not trying to piss anyone off.” I say. “I just need to get the hell out of this damned city!”
This is the wrong thing to say to a pair of guys who probably live here, but I don’t really care. From the back room comes a young lady in the same outfit as both the guys I’m dealing with, but it fits her better. She smiles sweetly at us both and asks if she can help. They let her check my baggage, and she wishes me a safe trip before going again into the back room.
Sleeping on a bus is impossible if you’re taller than five foot. There’s no legroom, the bus rattles like an enormous garbage disposal, and your head bounces merrily on the hard window every time the bus rolls over anything larger than a pebble on the road. To my left, a tiny lady stretches out on her seat, a bag under her head, and falls asleep as comfortably as if she were at home. Another broken few hours of sleep, and Robin will rescue me from Pittsburgh.

A few days and a doctor’s visit later, I’ll receive a call from the marketing firm, asking me to come back to New York for a secondary interview. I should be there at 9am sharp, they say- the process will last the whole day. The best part is that Robin has been asked to do a similar interview process with a marketing group in Mineola, a small town outside of Queens. We arrange our interviews to be in the same couple of days, and reserve a hotel room in White Plains for a couple of nights. Instead of the long bus trip to New York, we decide to drive instead. I-80 is a miserable stretch of nothingness and we do nothing but talk ourselves hoarse the entire trip. We’re excited and scared as we make our way into White Plains. Robin is in love with the town instantly. The goal has become to live here. It’s a lofty and beautiful goal- White Plains is an ideal place to live. We pay for our room in advance, and come away nearly broke. We’ve had a long trip, but the sight of that beautiful little city is enough to lift our spirits. Neither our empty pockets nor the sweltering room we’re staying in can dampen our goals. We both feel good with the opportunities we’ve been given, and both vow to make our goals a very real way of life.
I wake up at 7, and I’m out by 7:30 for my 9 o’clock interview. I go to the corporate park’s cafeteria and sit in the same seat I sat in some week and a half ago. I eat a muffin and sip some juice while I wait for a time that shows me to be early but not fanatical. 8:30 comes and I make my way back to the same secretary as before. She tells me to have a seat and I do. It’s 9:30 before someone comes out to see me. She calls myself and a young lady sitting beside me. We are introduced to Sarah, a woman who has worked here for six months. She takes us outside to her car, explaining that we’ll be shadowing her today so we know what the job entails.
The fact that we’re leaving the corporate park sets a warning alarm off immediately.
We haven’t even left the park before I’ve decided that I want out. The distance from the parking lot to the gates of the park is enough time for her to tell us that we’ll be working completely on commission, and that there are no benefits.
“We’re working on getting them, though.” She says.
She tells us how we must be freaked out to hear that the job only pays us based on commission.
“Yes.” Is all I can say.
She assures us that she makes a whole lot more than her roommates, and that she wouldn’t have it any other way. If you know me, you know that this is the part in the story that I’m supposed to start waving my arms and pointing a finger in her face and scream “Bullshit! Bullshit!” And perhaps that’s why this story is so shameful for me to tell sometimes; because I simply sit in the backseat and silently nod my head all the way to the neighborhood she’s currently working.
This is how it goes: the marketing firm is not a marketing firm. Well, it is in the same sense that telemarketing is marketing. Except telemarketing is high-tech compared to what we’re expected to do. Hell, telemarketing might be more polite. Essentially, we go to each small business we find, and harass business owners in person. We’re trying to get them to switch to our credit card service. For each person who says yes, Sarah gets $100. She says that she makes usually 300 to 400 a week. This is not a great deal, considering Sarah works from 9 until 6 or 7, and as I look over to the other prospective employee beside me, I see that I’m not alone in this opinion. This other girl at least lives in the area- her name’s Mary and she’s a photography major, ready to graduate at around the same time as me. She gets the bright idea to tell Sarah that she was wrongly told that she only had to stay until noon.
“Oh, well that’s not true,” says Sarah. “Do you have to go at noon?”
“I have class.”
Clever little bitch. Wish I’d thought of that ruse.
“Well,” says Sarah, eyeing me in the rearview mirror. “I’ve got you until five!”
Shit.
“Now, this job is not for everyone,” says Sarah to us both at one point. I nod in agreement, finally sensing a bit of sanity in this woman. Yes, some people wanted money that they knew would be there week after week. Some people wanted to know exactly what they were getting. Some people wanted base pay.
“Some people,” says Sarah, “Aren’t willing to do the work that it takes. Some people want stuff handed to them on a silver platter. We don’t support that here.”
The idea that I’m being lazy for wanting a steady paycheck is enough to make me want to force us all over a cliff.
After we’ve harassed thirty businesses, Sarah totes us back to the corporate park so that Mary can go to “class”. I’m sitting in the lobby, dreading the next five hours, when Sarah asks if I’d like to go, too.
“I noticed that you’re from Pennsylvania- are you leaving today?”
I lie and say yes.
“That’s a really long trip- you’ve got a good idea of what we do here, right?”
A little too much, in fact.
Sarah tells me that she thinks I could really do well with their company. I thank her.
I call Robin on the way back to the hotel room. She’s exactly what I need, her voice bright and optimistic as she asks how the interview went.
“Do you think you got the job?”
I tell her about the day, and she continues to be exactly what I need, telling me not to worry- we’ll get lunch when I come back, and try to forget about the day.
Over sushi and General Tso’s, a thought strikes Robin.
“Oh my god- that’s probably what my interview tomorrow’s going to be.”
We groan and try to figure out how to get out of it. In the end, she decides to go anyhow- we might be wrong- it might be the opportunity that she’s looking for. Still holding onto to the dream, we get up good and early for our trip to Mineola.
The trip takes a little over half an hour, and on the way, I tell Robin that if it turns out to be the same thing, to get the hell out of there.
“Try telling them you have class,” I say.
The area this marketing firm is located in is less opulent than my own was. My marketing firm was part of a large corporate area in a beautiful area. Mineola looks like suburban Pennsylvania, and her office is situated beside a Blimpie’s. I wish Robin luck and watch her leave for the interview. I park on the street around the corner, and crack into a fresh book I recently bought, not sure when to expect her back. I’ve relocated to inside the Blimpie’s by the time she calls me. It’s been eight hours, and I’m almost done with my book. Her voice is cheerful, though, and for a moment I’m really excited. I ask her how it went.
“Good!” she says.
I hear someone in the background and groan inwardly.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“I’m on my way back to the office.”
“Was it the exact same thing as my interview was?”
“Yep!” she says in the same cheery tone.
On our way home, she recounts the horrible day. She shadowed a sleazy part-time actor who mumbled, asked what religion she was, and used her cell phone four times. The job offered nothing but commission, but at least had benefits.
“I’m fucking hungry.” She said. “Let’s get out of here and buy some chicken nuggets- I deserve to eat whatever I want after this crap.”
I agree, and we make our way through Manhattan on our way to Jersey. Driving in Manhattan is a nightmare, as many people know, but I was actually grateful to do it. We hadn’t seen the city together in almost a year, and it was fun to take a quick tour through the city we both so dearly loved.
We both hungry and pissed off by the time we fly out of the tunnel and get onto the Jersey Turnpike. Robin and tired and freshly frightened by the prospects of finding work in New York- I’m just plain tired. We snap at each other a bit, a common side effect of being hungry and in a relationship. We want to put some miles between the city and us before we stop to eat, so we keep our eyes open for fast food through the early stages of New Jersey. The problem with that is the area of Jersey that surrounds New York City is rural at best. We’re almost an hour into the worst state in the Union by the time we finally see a little civilization. After taking several back roads and cursing the state three times for each one, we stretch our legs and order as much greasy food as we think we can handle. In the florescent glow of the lights above, Robin and I bitch about our adventure to each other, repeating the same complaints we’ve issued a dozen times already. And in the heated facilities of that food chain, we laugh at it all like it means nothing. The wasted money, our impending graduation and undeniable need for work is forgotten in those moments. Putting food and physical miles between our tormentors and ourselves soothes our fears for now, and the rest of the trip feels like we could be coming home from doing anything at all.