I graduated from college with a BA in English believing that I was on top of the world. I was anxious to become successful and finally make the big bucks. I bought a couple of suits, and a truckload of shoes to match the suits, to begin my quest for the perfect job. Nothing could stop me or bring me down, as I thought that I was bound to find and be accepted for the best of the best position that Western Pennsylvania had to offer me. Though I had tons of sales experience, I decided that I would be miserable in sales and tried to stay away from any retail position.
My first interview was for a service writer position for a tire company. I wore my black suit and new sexy black sandals because it was warm and nearly summer and believed they looked great. The manager asked, “Why are you interested in this position, Holly?” To which I replied, “Well, I need to get out of sales and am very interested in writing.” He looked dumbfounded. “You know this is a sales position, right?” No. No I didn't, thanks. I was pissed. I felt that they had fooled me into believing the position had something to do with writing. I mean, why in the hell did they call it a service writer if it had nothing to do with writing? I walked out, passing the man in the wool suit waiting (sweating) for his interview in the lobby, and decided to only apply to copyediting positions.
“SO you don't have any experience in copyediting?” How can I get around this one? “No. No I don't. All that I can tell you is that I read with a pen in my hand to correct, but mostly to find great quotes that I wish I had thought of.” They hate me. They all hate me. I said, “Listen, I may not have any professional experience, but I know how this works. It just isn't real to me yet.” They never called back. I felt like screaming, “You are all idiots! I am intelligent and I can do anything that you need me to do! How can you pass me up?” But I didn't. I took it to heart and decided that I wasn't as smart as I had thought. On every interview I had, I felt like the dumb girl with the open toed shoes. Who the hell cares if my toes are showing? What does that have to do with my ability to work well? It's not like I didn't look everywhere for cute closed toed shoes. They don't exist. The shoes that I need don't exist for my black suit. I don't want to feel like a man in my suit. I want to feel like an intelligent, sexy woman with awe-inspiring shoes.
I finally started going on interviews for sales positions and was offered a job in sales. Great. Quite possibly the only type of job that I didn't want. I attended classes for sales techniques and how to approach customers. Everyday, I imagined what it would feel like to quit. I am not a salesperson. If you told me that you didn't need something, I would say “Okay.” I don't care if I make the sale. I don't want to approach people who don't want to be approached. And I don't want to wear closed toed shoes in July. That is just stupid.
Everyday now I am given sales quotas to hit. I am spoken down to by customers who have no clue whom Anne Sexton or Edmund Spenser are. They have no idea what I am worth. They scream at me and ask to speak to my supervisor because I gave them half of the attitude that they gave me. People are hysterical nutcases when it comes to buying. I worked on one woman's account on Monday and told her about all of the charges that she was about to receive. She came in Wednesday screaming about the same problems she was having before. But there weren't any problems. She called me a liar and I had to stand there and take it. I am expected to say “I know that you are feeling frustrated, Mrs. Smith. I will do the best that I can to help you out of this situation.” I want to say, “Piss off, Mrs. Smith. I don't care that you are frustrated. You are a miserable human being who comes here every other day to complain about your problems that have nothing to do with me. Your problems are caused by your inability to add, something that I learned in elementary school. It is not my fault that you cannot comprehend the basic skills that you need to balance your checkbook.” I simply have no desire to help anyone who treats me like crapola. But I have to in order to keep my ten-something per hour job that helps me to pay off my student loans that helped me to get into this miserable hell-hole.
Still, I pay the loans and help the customers that yell. I then go home to down a few glasses of wine before I pass out and wake to find myself in the same place as I was the day before. And each summer morning, I stare at my rack of beautiful open toed sexy sandals, and dream about a place where both the sandals and I can be accepted.
