The next interview was with a 28-year-old salesman named Jake. I liked Jake. Jake looked like me. He was preppy, had a quick laugh, and didn't seem to take himself or his responsibility too seriously. According to rumors among the other candidates, several of whom were Jake's former colleagues, Jake made a lot of money. He didn't have any formal questions for me, he just wanted to talk shop about the Internet bubble and "get a feel for me." We spent the second half of the interview talking about what we wanted for lunch. I aced this one. Then came the knock and it was time to eat. Jake looked very happy as we walked to the buffet in Spaghetti Junction.

Our schedule allotted an hour and a half for lunch, which seemed excessive. I soon learned why: Vole Man was to give a speech about synergy. After introducing himself by saying that he never took less than half an hour to introduce himself, he took the time to tell us how smart he was. Then he mentioned how rich he was. Then he told us that he wasn't as rich as he used to be because CogentResponse's stock used to trade at $40 but now was at $2.60. This wasn't a problem because he knew that this latest strategy was a world-beater. He shared with us his vision for the company, technology, the future. He was one part Carl Sagan, one part L. Ron Hubbard, one part Martin Short. Again he expressed his displeasure with the "package-slammers coming up out of the dungeon to look around at the fields when they should just be slamming packages."

Feeling sort of sorry for the package-slammers, I was bopping along, fading in and out, eating a turkey sandwich, when Vole Man said something that made me stop and wonder why the hell I was there at all. He said, and I quote, "The dot-com guys got what they deserved because they were all idiots. I would never hire one of those guys. They'll ruin a company from within because they have no discipline, and in the process they'll ruin it for the shareholders."

The guy was showing a great deal of bravado for someone whose company had lost 96 percent of its share value and was facing a class action suit from its shareholders. What worried me, though, was that I learned my every business lesson as a "dot-com guy." Then I took those lessons and applied them to life, first as an "eco-entrepreneur" (helping a friend use his trust fund to build a "fully sustainable yogic retreat center," or "commune" for short, in Panama) and then as a beachgoer who designed a loyalty program for the ice-cream man in exchange for free Choco-Tacos. (I left this off my résumé.) So what if every company I've worked for has abruptly gone out of business within eight months of my arrival? There was no causal relationship between hiring me and filing for bankruptcy. I worked hard; I worked smart; it wasn't my fault. Yet Vole Man saw a massive economic albatross draped around my neck. By the time he finished talking about why someone like him would never hire a guy like me two hours had passed. I felt like someone was standing on my chest and kicking me in the stomach.

Because of Vole Man's prolonged diatribe, the afternoon interviews were scaled back to half an hour each. This was precisely enough time for me to dig myself a very deep hole, fall in, and bloody my fingernails in a futile attempt to climb out. Occasionally, like the serial killer in "Silence of the Lambs," one of my interviewers would throw me down a bone in a bucket. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Take for example my interview with "Jane." Jane's résumé overview is three pages long. Jane is a highly experienced management consultant. A lawyer once told me that management consultants are the kind of people who will steal your watch and then make you pay them to tell you what time it is. A lawyer said this. Apparently Jane is renowned across many an industry for her ability to execute "current state assessment, visioning, and future state definition" for programs that result in "gained efficiencies, reduced headcount and increased billing." In other words, five minutes ago it was 10 of 12. Now it's 5 of 12. In five minutes it will be high noon, and that's a good time to fire one clean shot into as many skulls as you've got bullets and then relieve the dead of their wallets. Looking at her "three-pager," I pictured a small German woman wearing austere black eyeglasses and brandishing a switch.

Jane arrived 10 minutes late and led me into her corner office. She was tall, in her late 30s. Long, dark, curly hair wildly framed her girlish face, out of which looked deep chocolate eyes. She was gorgeous, crow's feet and all. She was also very funny. We joked back and forth for a few minutes about how she hated her job. I started to feel a little better after the lunch speech. Then I slipped up, getting a little too loose for my own good.

"How did you get here?" She asked, seemingly with sarcasm.

"Well, actually, I walked over from the hotel this morning with Alan. You know, we rapped. He's a riot by the way. Crazy little Vole Man." I figured I might as well let her know that I'd been hanging with the big (little) guy. Instead of laughing and engaging in a little witty repartee about her odd little boss-person, Jane lowered her gaze and looked into the back of my skull.

"Right. You can't be serious. I mean -- How did you get here? By what freakish circumstance did your résumé find its way into a pile with the rest of these seasoned professionals? I'm looking at this résumé and I'm thinking, Hey, this guy has never done anything serious in his life. Even the names here are ridiculous: QuantumLeaps, FutureClicks, Luminescence. What the hell are 'boutique eco-bungalows?' How did you end up here, talking to me?"

I was too shocked by her sudden change in demeanor to debate the relative merits of those names versus "CogentResponse."

"Oh, uh, a consultant that my father knows -- Ray Epstein -- he, um, connected me with Bill."

"Right." She had me pegged. "Let me guess -- they are old college buddies. Roommates." Ask without asking: I recognized this Jedi Consultant Mind Trick.

"No, actually, er, he, um, my dad, hired Ray." My father had most certainly not hired Ray. I needed to regain my footing, and fast. "Ray has done some work in the past for my father. My father gave my résumé to Ray, Ray gave it to Bill. I spoke with Bill, Brian, and Julie, and then a recruiter called and offered to fly me down."

There. I got it out in one piece. My stock was rising.

"Right. Listen, we are about out of time, so let me just cut to the chase here." This was a completely different person than the dry, breezy woman who'd so entertained me just 10 minutes prior. This was the cold, hard, killing machine I'd imagined. Maybe she was German. She continued, "In three hours the management team of this firm and several representatives from the sales group will gather together in the conference room --"

"Spaghetti Junction." Yes, I interrupted her to say "Spaghetti Junction." What's worse, I then proceeded to nod my head in a way that one could describe as "knowingly."

"In the Spaghetti Junction Conference Room, yes." She took a deep breath. "And I'm going to have to stand up and tell the rest of these highly skilled individuals with a breadth and depth of experience unrivaled in their industry why we should spend some of our limited budget to bring in you, a guy whose most recent professional experience was not building but planning to build 'eco-bungalows,' which sounds like a cheap euphemism for a Third World commune. To wit: Why should we hire you as a member of our inside sales channel? What makes you more likely to succeed in that role than one of the five other young men your age I've talked to today, each of whom has had at least three years experience selling to C-Level guys in F1K companies? Please, enlighten me."

A long time ago, somewhere in the far, far East, a wizened Asian sage asked the question, "What is it that when you say its name disappears immediately?" The answer, of course, is "silence." I almost had that beat.

"Well, I'm, uh, an articulate guy who can give what it takes to do what has to be done to execute the team and see through its mission." I could have been the president of the United States.

"Right." She hoisted her pen and made a note on a piece of paper. "Articulate. Yes. I think we've got that down. So, my articulate friend, can you please succinctly articulate to me the CogentResponse Value Proposition?"

I opened my mouth. I looked her in the eye. I tried to speak, but I failed. Something had severed the connection between my brain and my mouth. But in retrospect, this was for the better. I say this because what came into my mind was not a paraphrase of the value proposition I'd heard some 12 times already today, but an image of the Fabulous Fox Theater. A light rain fell, and the streets looked black and slick. A tall Southern girl, umbrella in hand, tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder, looked back and laughed. It was the CogentResponse receptionist. On the old-fashioned marquee two words flashed red against a yellow background.

"Chicken Show."

I started to laugh. Much to my surprise so did Jane. My laugh is high and nasal and starts high in my throat with my mouth closed before progressing down into my diaphragm to shake my whole body. Hers started in her belly and stayed there. She bounced little-person fists at the end of tall-woman arms thrice against the top of her desk. We both laughed for what seemed like a very long time.

When the laughter died, and along with it my hopes of moving to Atlanta in five days to start an exciting new job, she "did me a favor" and explained to me for the 13th time today the CogentResponse Value Proposition. She did this with remarkably clarity, in less than 50 words. With the same patience exhibited by my cab driver the day before, she said this was something I needed to know. I thought about slapping my chest with the thumb side of my hand while rocking forward and back and trying to bite my own ear, the international sign for "I'm a retard," but in a rare moment of restraint I decided against it.

Then she told me it was time to leave her office.

The last interview didn't have such a happy ending. Olga was a ruthless 26-year-old salesperson with a $3M quota and very little tolerance. When I entered her office she smiled uncomfortably, spreading her very full lips to reveal small pointy teeth and big gums.

Maybe it was just because it was the end of a long day. Maybe it was the $3M quarterly quota. Maybe she, like my mother, was trying to quit smoking. Whatever the reason, Olga was determined to prove that I was unworthy of even the least amount of respect, never mind a job, within the first minute of my allotted half-hour in her office.

"What's our value prop? How do you sell this to a CFO who doesn't give two shits who you are? What, specifically, are the questions you ask?" She started there and did not let up. My response? Well, I decided to take a different tack this time. Rather than just blurting out strings of words and hoping I said them fast enough and used enough biz-speak and polysyllabic malapropisms to confuse Olga and myself in turn, I opted to stare thoughtfully out the window for a full minute.

I remember distinctly thinking, "C'mon, brain. I know you can do it. I believe in you." Unfortunately, my brain responded not with any of the phrases I'd heard dropped like a NASDAQ stock in the Spaghetti Junction Conference Room. Nope. My brain offered only static and organ music. Soon, as I expected, I began to hear the chant.

"Chicken show. Chicken show. Chicken show." I eventually shut everything out to give my first honest answer of the day.

"I ... don't ... know."

To her credit, Olga was like a bear encountering a dead child at a picnic area. She decided that I wasn't worth eating and I wasn't a threat and left me alone. She, like Jane before her, decided to just give me the answers. She even recommended a few books if I was "actually serious about sales." I was shell shocked. When it was time to leave I got up and stumbled drunkenly out of her office, accidentally slamming the door behind me. I wondered if her lips served as adequate airbags when I heard her walk directly into the abruptly closed door with a thud.

So things weren't going too well. In the parlance of our times, they'd gone to shit. The whole thing was funny, in the way stroke victims are funny. I'd had enough anyway. Walking down the hall I acknowledged I was not going to get the job. The certainty of that provided buoyancy to my thoughts, a certain lightness to my steps. Of course, this is a sensation experienced by many trauma survivors. I cruised into Spaghetti Junction just as the wrap-up was getting underway.

Vole Man was nowhere to be seen. President Bill was giving a speech about CogentResponse values and culture and the importance of family. He reminded us never to confuse family with business. Business was business. If times were tough, he would be the one who'd not hesitate to put us out on the street. Did that include his daughter? Family was different, he said. If times got tight at home no one's mother would say, "Sorry, my child, but you are an underperformer. No food for you tonight. We've moved your stuff into the yard."

When he finished, everyone began gathering up their belongings to leave. Most of the other candidates jostled for position in an attempt to make one last press upon Bill or the head of sales. I made my way over to the cookie basket, which contained a variety of huge, soft, delicious cookies, and dumped its entire contents into the empty front pocket of my laptop bag. Then I walked out of Spaghetti Junction and down the hall toward the door. I must have looked pretty bad, because the receptionist spoke to me as I struggled to push the door labeled "Pull."

"Hey," she drawled lazily. I turned and walked up to her desk. She extended a delicately boned hand. "You want a peach? They're real nice, even if they're grown indoors."

I took the peach, thanked her, turned and left. Outside, I looked up at the sky. It was about to rain. I was still unemployed. But I was eating a peach on a warm January afternoon in Georgia, which wasn't so bad. With two hours to kill before my flight I walked toward the MARTA stop and wondered if I had enough time to hit the Chicken Show on the way to the airport.

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