Through years of unsuccessful job searching, I am somewhat wary when an opportunity does come along. I've got an interview next Tuesday with an advertising agency. It's a job involving trafficking out and monitoring different campaigns to various departments. I should be excited, because it means more money, working closer to home, and being much nearer to my ultimate goal of writing professionally. But something in the back of my mind is sending warning signals. It's a woman's job. It's for someone younger. It's demeaning. I snap back into perspective: It doesn't matter if it's any or all of these things. It's not this.

I wonder to myself, What have I been doing wrong? If I had the time, I guess I would follow up on every résumé I send out. There isn't always an address or phone number accompanying the ads I see (the ones that reveal the company name often state "no phone calls please"). Do I skirt around that technicality? Will it show me to be driven or obnoxious? I guess I get discouraged easily. I've been here almost two years, and have been trying to escape for most of that. I wonder what that says about me. Maybe it's not the company. But then, as if on cue, the managers pass out a note saying, "Thank you very much for your dedication. There are bagels in the conference room for you. We thank you again!" The bagels are actually from a managers meeting earlier that morning, and the ones that are leftover remain to be picked over by us. It might be me, but it's definitely not all me.

The day of the interview, I'm nervous. I don't get many of them, and each one must count. A woman who's probably five years my junior interviews me. I try to say all the right things, but it's difficult to remember my tenets, much less believe them. I leave feeling I've done a good job, and she tells me that the second interview (if there is one for me) will be next week. The next day, I send a thank-you letter from work, and hope for the best. Meanwhile, there are new positions being posted on the company bulletin board. I debate internally whether I should apply, knowing that the chances of being hired are slim, and I doubt I'd care to work for this company anymore, anyhow.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

It is the following Thursday. No call yet. How do I approach this? Do I call her? She said she would call this week, and there's still one day to go. Besides, I haven't received a rejection letter, so I assume they haven't decided who will get a second interview. I wait.

On Friday I decide to call. The bright, cheery, recognizable voice of my interviewer informs me that the company is "restructuring," and that "it may be a while" before I hear from them. I awkwardly inform her to keep me in mind and that I'm still very interested. My words sound as if they're coming out of a large balloon being deflated. We say goodbye, and I know I'll never hear from her again. (Note: I called a few times after that and never spoke with anyone directly. I got a polite "thanks but no thanks" in December.)

I'm going to be here forever.

Tonya has been here forever. She's been passed over, walked on, ignored, disrespected more than anyone here. After seven tries, and four years, she was finally promoted to customer service. She's a very big complainer. She's seen it all. When I would try to get meetings together, or suggest a new approach, or try to get a policy looked at, she'd just laugh and say that she's been there, done that. And she's right.

Today they're asking her to move her ensconced bunker to another open cubicle. She politely declines. They ask Karen, the new rep, and she also refuses. They come back to Tonya and inform her that she can start moving any time. It's funny. She knows that they know that she'll do it, too. Oh, she'll bitch and moan to anyone within earshot, but ultimately she'll relent. She has too much respect for authority. She tells me once to watch my numbers because if I'm on hold (for example) too long, they'll find out. Who? "The managers." Then what? "Well, you won't get promoted." Honey, there's nowhere to be promoted.

Because they need you on the phones.

And the phones do not stop.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

In desperation, I meet with a corporate recruiter in Cary for advice. He usually only deals with very high salaries. Nevertheless, he sits with me because he likes my résumé. He tells me three things. I should be making $1,000 a year for every year I've been alive, I lack focus on my résumé, and I'm overqualified. I am grateful, at first. It slowly dawns on me, though, that he is not giving encouragement. He is giving an indictment. Why are things as they are?

To be fair, I have been extremely negative. Mumbling epithets between desk poundings, I feel like I am coming apart. I have been disciplined a few times, and each time makes me angrier. I am giving it off. I must be. I am angry with my co-employees. I am angry with the company. I am angry with myself for not getting out. Why don't people like me? I probably would not like me either.

I go on another interview with an Internet business. I am excited. Two interviews later, and that old dance started again. It does not end in disaster. They were restructuring, true. However, they would know in two months what their status was. I will be first in line when the position is created. This news somehow encourages me. Work is a little easier this day. The hope (fake or real) makes things here easier for weeks. It's funny how those things affect you like opium. Good news. Self-esteem. The feeling that there might be an escape. A rebirth. Another chance to keep promises you made to yourself long ago, but failed to. You're still in jail, yes. Now, however, people are coming to visit you.

Then a friend gets me an interview for a copywriting position with his company. They are desperate. I am, as well. Therefore, I accept the contract position. It took me a good day to get over the fact that I was going to be leaving this job.

When my mother died, it was nothing like I imagined it would be. I had imagined my soul being shattered to the point of no return. The guilt eating my life from the inside until I decided to jump off a roof. It was nothing like that. I was stronger than I thought I could be. I miss my mom. I accept her life and death.

The reason I say that is that leaving the company was sort of the same thing in reverse. I had always anticipated ecstasy. Me, dancing around, giving the "finger" to my enemies, real or imagined. Dancing in the halls, throwing paperwork around. All I felt was sadness.

Management, Bonnie especially, had some right to be angry at the lack of a two-week notice. She understood. I had to do what I had to do. That reminded me of how truly forgiving she was when I needed time for this or that. She was not a wordsmith. She was not the best "people person," but she understood.

It was sudden and abrupt for all concerned. People wanted to like me. They wanted to be friends on their own terms. I was simply too negative. Too defeated. Too bitter. As I said my goodbyes, people gathered around like I was ... leaving! I figured they would be happy to see me go. They were not happy to see me go. Hugs passed around. Sadness. Handshakes. Shaking hands with Ron. Sadness. The only person to see the terror in my eyes as I left to see my mother for the last time (and the first to see me when I returned) was Annie. If I had had inner thoughts of haughty smugness before then, I lost all of them. We hugged. Sadness. Goodbye, Glen, Mary, farewell Penelope. Sadness. Goodbye, Gina.

Not one thing was as I imagined it would be. I almost wanted to turn around and say, "Please don't forget me! I'll be back ..." So finally, I walked out of the place. The new job seemed relatively daunting -- no excuses now. Long hours, but no phones. Closer to home, but leaving for work earlier. What I do would be seen by millions of people. No longer the anonymity of being one cog in a machine. No strict hours. Lunch when you go. Breaks when you want them.

The phones have stopped.

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