How many of you ever want your daughter to grow up and declare, “Oh, dad, I really want to be a professional hustler!” Standing before you, ladies and gentlemen, is a woman who—on her honor—almost became one.
Like a lot of people in this country, I’ve been out of work for two months now. Last week, my uncle called up to tell me about a job fair the following morning. He had heard about it all on the news. He said the news anchor suggested candidates “dress for success”—which meant smoothing out your best dress suit, straightening your wild locks, and sharpening your Stilettos. The next day, there I was in my dad’s immaculate Mustang convertible headed out to take someone for a ride.
After registering my name and email address with the vultures in the foyer, I was handed a 37-page pamphlet and ushered in to the coliseum. Just like Daniel in the Lions’ Den. The leaflet was crammed with too many useful bits of information to be helpful, so I stuck to reading the map. My first booth, a trade school.
“I wouldn’t work in this industry,” the young man confessed as I stood there with my arms full of resumes. “It’s really more of a business.”
Oh really? I’ll trade you professional job-seeking, and throw in broke, for a chalkboard. “Do you have any room for English teachers?”
“We don’t teach English, no.”
I was beginning to wonder if they used it in the classroom at all. “Can I give you my resume anyway?”
“Sure.” He looked down at the first location on the page. “You worked in Korea?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How was it?” he asked eagerly. “I’ve been thinking about doing that myself.”
“It’s worth it. You should totally go.” There I was, putting myself out of a job—in another country no less!
I scoured booth after booth looking for a warm body to pawn off my 8-and-a-half-by-eleven “I Love Me” stationery. And each time it was the same response: “Oh, we’re not taking resumes. Apply online.” The only reason that first guy took it was to get my number.
Moving along, I quietly passed a power company. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I was told as I skirted the booth, “we don’t have openings for secretaries or office work.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. Shouldn’t there be an equal opportunity here? Or is this industry just rigged? Success for them must have meant a well-proven track record of grit under the fingernails.
Before I rounded the bend in the event hall, I came across an opportunity to be a corrections officer for the GEO group. Translation: professional jailor. I could teach a class on how to win friends and influence prison wardens.
Finally, I had reached an oasis amid the throng, a booth nicely decorated and peopled about with gleaming upper management. They still wouldn’t take my resume, but at least I was qualified for the job. The position? Professional complaint consultant at a local call center. I would be up all night with the screams of protest ringing in my ears. I could have made a career out of this growing up for all the times my twin brother rained on my parade… Wait, maybe I could still cash in! …
Further down the line of headhunters was posted a sign for a mattress company. Expert salesmen needed, it read. Conscientious need not apply. Now, I wasn’t one to swindle anyone out of a good night’s sleep, but what I saw next to the booth was my golden opportunity.
Just opposite the mattress guys stood a flashy display that caught my eye—either that or it was the skinny guy next to it making googley eyes at me. “Drive Time” read the bold, green letters across the top of his nametag. At least as a used car salesman I’d look the part.
I only hesitated a moment before offering my hand. “Jennifer.”
“Ryan,” he said as he slipped his fingers over mine. It was official—we were now engaged… in conversation.
As any betrothed couple does, we chatted about the most important things—the weather, Korea, my job history. But, alas, we had come down to business. “Well, Jennifer, if you can communicate like you’re doing now, you can sell a car.”
What?! That’s almost like saying, “If you have a pulse and breathe air, you’re hired.”
“But I can’t sell a thing!” I sputtered at him like a beat-up station wagon.
“Let me take your resume and have you talk to my supervisor.” I knew it—he just wanted me for the Stilettos!
I was ushered past other potential tricksters right up to the man himself. “Dominic,” he stuck out his hand. “So what has my colleague told you about Drive Time?”
“That you’re… looking to expand your network,” I told him sheepishly.
“Good. We’ll set something up this week.”
There I stood, writhing like shark bait. I, too, would be asked to lay down my chalk to become… a used car salesman.
The next day as I sat relaxing peacefully at a friend’s house, the dreaded phone call rang three different times. These guys are nothing if not persistent—that, or someone on the other end is desperate.
They must have decided on a different approach because I soon began receiving made-to-order email spam. “I called the number on your resume and left a message,” read one of the notes, “but I thought an email might be ignored just as well.”
After three days of email tag, my inattentiveness had worn them out. They must have seen through the façade of hair and makeup—and the Stilettos—to where my real interests lie: in waiting out pesky used car salesmen. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lowery,” the note read sweetly, “but we’re looking for someone who… will answer our emails.”
I knew I wasn’t cut out to be a professional swindler! “After many attempts to contact me and subsequent follow-ups,” I wrote to my dad, “the good folks at Drive Time have asserted that they… just can’t keep up with my laziness.”
So I didn't become a car salesman. Maybe it's because I didn't live up to my potential--but really, who wants to be involved in legalized what collar crime? Rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, that your pocketbooks are safe with me.
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