Immediately upon entering T@rget Headquarters for a job interview, one is faced with a long, tall escalator, as though one may be on the long trip to heaven, should the trip to heaven start with the scent of Starbucks triple mocha lattes and end with a dozen security guards the size of The Fridge who have wire curled around each ear, presumably to communicate with whomever will drag you back down, down, down the freezing metal tube to the cold Minneapolis streets should you not give adequate reason to be Checked In.
There is a vase of tropical flowers at the summit, with pointy, angry, fur-tipped pussy willows that thrust upward like claws that, if they could talk, would scream “Haw haw haw! Now I’ve got you, my pretty!”
To get past the escalator, one must choose a lane: the lane for T@rget “family members” or the one for “guests.” “Family members” go through what looks a bit like airport security. There is much scanning and beeping, and clenching of Starbuck's cups and rolling of luggage. No joke: some of them must be carrying product samples, but a good deal of them are rolling with actual suitcases like they're going to stay for a week or two.
I chose the guest lane.
"Why are you here?" The Fridge said, deadpan, no eye contact.
I said I’m here for an interview in room 617, but that was not enough.
"With whom? At what time? For what position?"
"I don’t know. The temp agency sent me. Room 617, man."
His forehead scrunched and he looked at me like a kid who was suppose to know that that means I knew I was in trouble for something I now knew we both knew I did wrong.
"What?" I said.
"Your appointment was at 3:00,"The Fridge said. It was 3:17.
"No, it wasn’t," I said. "I don’t want this damn job anyway. You people freak me out, and I’m not afraid of you." Okay, I didn’t say that last part, but I really wanted to.
"It was at 3, he said." He picked his teeth, like he just polished off the girl who interviewed at 2:30.
"No, you’re wrong, I said. It’s at 3:30. In 10 minutes. If you could just let them know I’m here."
He handed me a badge. I sat on the couch embroidered with bullseye logos. The coffee tables, too, were also bullseye shapes. It all was. Everywhere.
I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be in any corporate office ever again, and there I was, interviewing for an admin position. My heart wasn’t in it. It never will be. For a long time, I thought if I tried hard enough, I could make my heart be okay with fucked up places like this. I know now that that will never be. Yet! Here I was. Here I was, in the lobby, ten little T@rget logos imprinting themselves onto my butt.
Do not despair: I won’t take the job. I have another offer coming down the pipe, and I’m only here for a backup, Just In Case of Financial Emergency.
Now it was 3:45, and no one had collected me for my interview. The Fridge headed toward the T@rget Café and returned with a gallon-size T@rget Soda in a T@rget branded up. When he walked, a mass of keys big enough to be the morning star on a medieval ball and chain bounced on his rock-hard thigh. The Fridge smiled at me, and nodded. I imagine, if I got in, this man has been trained to throw himself in front of a speeding train to save me. After all, I would be in charge of one of the 79 Vice President’s Blackberry.
A gaggle of chicks scanned their cards and dragged their luggage past me, and I swear, 9 of them were streaked-blondes with knee-high black boots pointy enough to pierce one’s coal-black heart. I saw that most of them had similar hair highlights as me. I became very afraid. FINE. It’s true. I have the exact same Goddamn hairdo. I could be one of them. With only 80% more morphing, I, too, could, gulp, fit in here. I wanted to run, but it was too late.
I have a confession: I dated one of them. The men, I mean. Yes, yes, very briefly when I first moved here. I’ll call him by the first two letters of his last name: Ew.
Ew was dashing. On our first date, he pulled up to Zeno in Uptown in a 2005 Jetta (it was 2004) and a three piece suit, just after work. He had that hair thing going on—the one where guys look like they tried to open the bathroom stall door with their forehead? He was gorgeous, romantic, attentive. He told me he didn’t vote because nothing mattered except music and… shit, I don’t remember. Then… suddenly he seemed so metro. He had a suspicious disinterest in boobs. Then, he revealed his serious obsession with New Kids on the Block (I’m not exaggerating. Kate? Kate was a witness. She can back me. Once Ew requested “Hangin’ Tough” at the Wild Onion and flailed about the dance floor alone while we watched, aghast. Carson Kressley would’ve been proud.). Then this one time, we were walking through the MF skyway and he said “Oh, that pink purse is awesome! I wish I’d been born a
girl!,” which sent him straight from Questionable Sexual Orientation-ville into Questionable-Sex ville, and onward into increasingly distant history.
I thought I saw him coming through the skyway now. I buried my face in my Creative Process book. I had to know, so I looked up. Oh, thank Christ. Not Ew, but a guy who looked like Ew. Then another guy who looked like Ew. Then another. And another. And OMG—except for The Dozen Fridges, they ALL looked like Ew. Ew! Ew! Ew!
My generalizations were disproved immediately. “Cavu? I’m Turtle.” My interviewer was old and balding with gray teeth. He looked like The Turtle (The one Samantha dated?) on Sex and the City. He didn't look plastic and probably did not get manicures. Despite the fact that he was in a t-shirt that said “Welcome Home” on the back, with the two “o”’s the shape of the bullseye logo, I liked him immediately.
He led me back to a conference room. Everything one would need is here: a branded café, a gourmet coffee shop, a gym with showers.
I asked Turtle what department the job was in, and what they did, and what he did. “Well, we’re somewhere between IT and business unit managers, the BUMs, and we’re kind of the liaison group that takes care of the tracking of data and scheduling for things, you know, executives and, well, business and so forth.”
And?
“You wouldn’t really understand unless you’re familiar with the systematic organizational development hierarchical demographical flow-chart of our corporation. Do you have any experience with Microsoft products?”
This is how the interview went.
Then, “Great, well, we hope to add you to our team. Is $40,000 enough to start out?”
Okay, the last part isn’t a direct quote, but the job is basically doing NOTHING and it is for far too much money considering the tasks at hand.
Later, I stood under the bus stop heat lamp reading Creative Process until my bus came. Eunice, my recruiter called. “Are you still interested?”
“I’m considering a few offers,” I said. I am. I’m considering working for a company that eases human pain and suffering and feels really right and good. I should have an offer from them soon. “But you can call me and let me know what they have to offer,” I say, sincerely. I’d really like to know what on God’s green Earth they think they actually have to offer. If they come up with anything, I’ll let you know.
