am dressed nicely and sitting in the lobby of a company that sells 1-800 numbers. A few weeks ago I applied for a job here—an “account executive” position that pays well—and a few days ago I was selected for an interview. I do not want this job. I need it. I quit my job as a reporter down south so I could move north and live with my wife, who found a job here nearly five months after she was laid off down south.
A man in a tie appears. He has blonde hair and a big, fake smile. He obviously cares about this company, which, it seems, exists solely to make lots of money by helping companies sell shit with a clever, easy-to-remember 1-800 number. If this company disappeared, nobody would care. I smile at the man with an equally big, fake smile. He shakes my hand and I squeeze firmly, because that’s what the Internet told me to do.
We sit in his office and he closes the door. He opens a yellow folder and pulls out my résumé. He looks at it as if for the first time.
“You listed this job twice,” he says.
“Yes,” I say. I do not want to work for Captain Obvious.
“You can probably condense this to one item,” he says. “It gives you credit for working there as long as you did.”
He’s referring to the reporting job, which I loved. At which I felt I made a difference in the lives of those who listened.
“Oh,” I say. “Thanks.”
“All right,” he says, looking up and smiling at me. “Here’s how this works: I’m going to ask you some questions and then of course you’ll have some time to ask me some questions. Does that sound like a good schedule to you?”
“That sounds fine,” I say, with a big, fake smile.
“I’m not going to go easy on you,” he says, “so I want you to just let me have it when it’s your turn, all right?”
“That’s fine with me,” I say.
He asks me about my education and my experiences as a reporter. By now I’m talking about my superb communication skills and how I had to be persuasive as a reporter if I wanted people to give me the information I needed. And I add that those powers of persuasion could be really helpful if I were a salesman. The man with blonde hair gives me his standard issue big, fake smile.
The phone rings.
“Excuse me,” he says. He leans back to answer the phone, as if leaning back in his chair makes him inaudible. “Hey, kiddo, what’s up?
A young man’s voice on the phone asks him what brand of Mercedes he has.
“S series.”
The young man’s voice grows louder. “See!” he shouts to someone else in the room with him. “I told you he had an S series.”
“What are you doing?” the blonde man says, smiling.
“Just hanging out,” he says. “I was joking with [inaudible] about [inaudible inaudible inaudible].”
The blonde man laughs. He does not make eye contact with me. The young man talks for a minute or so. Then the blonde man says that he has to go, he’s in a meeting with someone, so he’ll call back later.
The blonde man looks at me. “So,” he says, breathing deeply. “What makes a good salesman?”
I pause. Then I say, “A good salesman will know what he’s talking about.”
“Hmm,” says the blonde man. “Is that the only thing?”
“No,” I say. “A good salesman will believe in the product. And a good salesman will have to be honest.”
“All right,” says the blonde man. “So tell me, when you’re buying something, how do you expect your salesman to behave?”
“I want him to be a person,” I say. “A real human being. I want him to be able to answer my questions, and if he can’t answer my questions, he should be able to say, ‘Hold on a second while I find the answer for you.’”
The blonde man leans back. “Wait a second,” he says. “Didn’t you say a good salesman has to know what he’s talking about?”
“Well, yes, but. . .”
“Does that make him a bad salesman if he doesn’t know something about the product?”
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