employablog

I think congratulations are in order, for getting in to medical school is no small feat. Back in our childhood, around this time Employee Too (or more correctly, probably, his mom) would host a big Halloween party. There was candy and scary movies and a half dozen wired young boys including one particularly goofy, lanky kid who we now know as Employee Too. If you knew him then, you’re probably be feeling like me: amazed, apprehensive and proud.

Luckily, school doesn’t start for another ten months, so before we hang up the cleats here at employablog, Employee Too’s got a lot of rent to pay. Also, I hear some big career decisions may be on the horizon. Will he continue his meteoric rise in the food services industry? Or take a risk on an entirely new industry? Stay tuned to EMPLOYABLOG…

What do you do?

In college it was: What’s your major?

Now, it’s:

What do you do?

Well, in a country that values people based on their utility (generalization, but, true), this question comes up a lot.  And whether or not you try to, you (that’s right, you) make value judgments based on what people do to pay the rent.  Accounts, musicians, painters, pole-dancers, all these professions carry certain stereotypes.

Me, I’ve avoided that by juggling three jobs, and in true juggling fashion, one of those jobs is always changing, always up in the air.  But they have always been grounded in the hope that I will go to medical school next fall, 2007.  But grounding something in a hope is dangerous.  I can say, “I want to be a doctor,” or “I applied to study to be a doctor, I know that I’m not into two medical schools, but it’s still early in …” and so on.

And just as those are not impressive things to say, they also make me nervous, what if?  One of the questions that medical school interviewers ask is: “What would you do if you do not get into medical school?”

And I say something like, “be a nurse, a researcher, something in healthcare.”  And have a nice packaged answer, that is a fine career, but not the career that I chose.

But today, I tried on the Daddy Pants, and they fit nicely.

I got accepted into medical school.  Everything that I have slaved for, yearned for, nearly given myself an ulcer for and most certainly a few anxiety and sleep disorders for, is in my possession.  So now, without a doubt or white lie, I can say, that I am going to be a surgeon, probably thoracic, but it’s a little early for me to figure out a specialty.

Yeah, these Daddy Pants feel pretty good.

A large part of what I do for a living involves using the Google to track down specific facts, numbers, and statistics about the industries or companies that I happen to be looking into that day.

Of course, another large part of what I do during the day involves using Google to read news, send emails, look up friends‘ blogs (I still don’t know how to spell parantheses), check the weather in Minnesota and find the cheapest price of some classic book that I’ve happened to have decided that I can’t go any longer without reading or at least owning.

This has resulted in Google becoming hopelessly confused about me and my interests. Am I a dedicated businessman interested in tools to help me find cash flow information on the high-tech companies in my portfolio? Am I a marketer interested in buying $100k consumer preference datasets? Maybe I’m an 18-year-old myspacer who might like to watch a Coca-Cola sponsored YouTube video about a couple guys spending the week crossing the country in their new Ford Focus. Or a school librarian who needs more tools for cataloging my copies of The Old Man and the Sea and On the Road.

I’ve noticed the Amazon recommendation engine has the same problem. Its suggestions for me involve lots of scholarly studies of international relations and environmental economics (required college reading), a few John Mayer and Dave Matthews CDs (presents for my sister), and The West Wing, Seasons 2-7 (wow Amazon, really going out on a limb on that one, huh? I wonder what tipped you off?).

The point is, because my searches for work are combined with my searches for whatever else it occurs to me to look at, Google can’t seem to get a good read on where the hell I’m going with my life. Google, I feel your pain.

Really, though, most of what Google decides I might want doesn’t seem to match me at all. Google is laughably off-base. Google couldn’t be more wr— wait, how much did you say that book categorization software is? And actually, that dataset might be kind of useful, I should ask my boss if we should buy it and OH MY GOD Google knows me better than I know myself.

Employee One, let me know when you want to finish that wine, I’m always ready.

Moving to New York took a lot of time — a lot. So much time, in fact, that days were full and still I had yet to have an interview for any job, but then, suddenly I was in demand. And I felt good, no, great. This is what is supposed to happen when you graduate an expensive college, and did well, and did interesting things with interesting people.

I had interviews, some great ones in fact. I spoke to the New York Firefighter’s Skin Bank, I would essentially be a plastic surgeon on dead people. Cutting off skin tissue and brining it in a cooler to whichever hospital needed it. I would check the charts of patients to make sure they were compatible, and check the cadavers for signs of infection. It was exactly what I wanted.

I had another interview to do research for Sloan Kettering, an amazing center focusing on cancer.

I had one day, a twofer, to be:

a) A medical assistant doing blood draws, EKGs and a number of other cool things for a colorectal surgeon. Butts don’t gross me out, I am going to be a surgeon.

b) A health insurance claims investigator. I would actually understand how HMOs work, and in working for one, try and force it to do good from the inside out.

Sitting pretty behind my desk responding to emails, drinking cheap coffee and wearing my headset and a pair of boxers (it was still very, very hot), I had taken New York City by storm.

But then honesty got in the way.

Toward the end of each interview after bushels of good vibrations, they would pop the question:

“When are you going to medical school?”

This question is awkward. It’s like the STD question to a prospective partner.

If everything goes right, I’ll go to medical school next fall. That leaves less than a year for jobs that all have a substantial training investment.

“I’m a quick train,” I’d throw in, or something like that, but always to no avail.

“You sound great, BUT …

We’re looking for a two-year commitment.”

Click. Goodbye. Don’t pass go.

Suddenly I was Charlie Brown.

There are two types of jobs in this world: the kind that give you an email address, and the kind that don’t. Is this the same thing as white collar/blue collar?

Possibly. But while my favorite shirt has white in its collar, it is also Pink and Black, and sometimes I wear a blue shirt. And what kind of collar does Employee Too wear when he’s waiting tables for yuppies? My guess is that he doesn’t wear one at all.

I mean, if we’re going to use broad occupational categories to define our identities and divide ourselves politically, lets at least use categories that make sense.

If you have an email address where the part after the @ is how you pay your rent, this implies certain things about your life. For example, you are not likely to have to talk B-list celebrities from locking you in a cellar (unless you are working at a talent agency). On the other hand, if you do not have a work address, you are not likely to remember the exact time and place when you first understood how VLOOKUP worked.

@Workers, when the Revolution™ begins let’s meet at my house, I have some wine I want to finish first.

A number of strange things have happened.  Most recently, today I yelled at the actor who played Van Wilder not to lock Jesus in the cellar.  Really.

Here is how this happened, I’m going to fast forward today before I rewind to some of the random steps I took falling into this job.

With my journalism degree, prehealth studies, and research and minor in Jewish Studies and Civilization, I am a restaurant manger (amongst other thing *cough* teacher, public health researcher).

But a restaurant manager, it’s unique in two aspects, one that it is my main income, and two, that I am in no way qualified to manage a restaurant.  I am not qualified to wait, or even bus.  But during lunch shifts, I am the busser, waiter, host, manager, and so far — so good.  A friend recommened me to this job, and I got it.  Bussing.  Two, three days later, I was serving, and now I have the keys to the safe, blah blah, etc, and all that would be exciting were it not for the fact that something just really doesn’t make sense.

And, that this job, aside from the fact that I get free food, and am good at flirting and placating *cough* getting tips, is entirely irrelevant to, well, anything I plan to do with my life.  So today, things got a little intense, and forced me to evaluate all that has happened in the brief and insane period since I returned to New York City.
Back to today, I yelled at Van Wilder not to lock Jesus in the cellar.  All day, a huge production crew was filming Definitely, Maybe (due out: 2008) on the block, in front of the restaurant and next door.  And it was crazy.  Rich people, actors, directors, all that stuff and they all came to eat.  One actress really liked me, tipped me for ‘to go,’ explaining,

“I’m in service too, you’re an actor too huh?”

I told her, this may sound crazy, but I’m actually going to be a doctor.  Huh.

But back to Jesus, and Ryan Reynolds (the actor who played Van Wilder, and that guy in a fat suit in that stupid movie).  They wanted to close our basement door, those metal doors that open out of the sidewalk for a shoot.  I said, “No, Jesus is downstairs, I’ll go check on him.”

Van Wilder was wearing a hoodie, and looking sheepish for some reason.  Maybe because I dropped the ‘J’ bomb.  A production monkey asked if they could shut the door once I was down, I said “No.  Then we’ll have two people trapped in the cellar, me and Jesus.”

So I went downstairs to talk to Jesus (pronounced, “Hey-Soos”), “Van a cerrar la puerta para uno o dos minutos para la pelicula.”

Jesus said that’d be cool (”Está bien”).  I went back up, and told it how it was.  But after the scene, I had to remind them to let Jesus out, which they did.  Anyways, the day was ridiculous.  I spent the entire day translating from the film crew to my workers (English to Spanish) so that everyone knew what was going on, and making adjustments, writing checks, taking orders, signing things and managing people, answering phones, taking orders, blah blah.  Irrelevant or not, I am learning something, and even if it is limited to sore feet and English-Spanish translation, and well, shmoozing, those are all very, very relevant.  And certainly, how to flirt with old euortrash women and gay people to make money.  Give free bread, smirk.  It works — table eight said that I was adorable.
To close, Van Wilder nearly trapped Jesus in a cellar in the West Village, oh, and now I am officially an MCAT teacher, and I got a phat tip for helping a stumbling tutor to teach a physics lesson at my restaurant.

Yeah, New York, NY, it’s a hell of a town.

There was a period of more than several days after I moved into my apartment and—notably—several days after I began comfortable white-collar employment, in which I slept under some towels. Depending on the temperature outside, the number of towels ranged from one to as many as I could find, which was always four. Because that’s how many towels I own.

I was excited when my comforter arrived in the mail, prinicipally because I would no longer have to check the weather with trepidation each night to decide how many towels to put on the bed. But also, the addition of a down comforter would allow the display of my duvet cover, which I had chosen to match the walls and the furniture and my young-single-guy-in-the-city attitude.

When the big day came, I celebrated by cleaning up the remaining signs that two weeks earlier my life had been completely encapsulated in some suitcases. I straightened, dusted, put away some embarassing knick-knacks, took out some marginally cooler knick-knacks and hung up a big mirror above my dresser. Finally, my room was completely unpacked.

That night I was startled awake by an enormous sound of crashing glass. My fists clenched and for a terrifying second I realized that I was alone in this apartment. I was no longer surrounded by a girlfriend and roommates and friends and security guards and other college students up all night to watch the O.C. or study for a midterm, and now it was ‘fight or flight’ time and I didn’t feel capable of either and I was in my boxers in bed and WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT NOISE.

In the next second I saw the broken glass from the knick-knack my mirror had knocked over as it crashed to the ground. Heart racing, I pulled the comforter up to my chin and the terror subsidied. Sort of.

I auditioned to work for Kaplan, and got the job. I had an interview coming up for a medical school. I had proposititions to drum for multiple bands. So far the New York City job experiment was going well. But when I really broke it down, it was a facade. Fine from the outside but shoddy, poorly insulated with sloping floors on the inside, much like my apartment.

Kaplan trains their teachers in five low-paid four-hour sessions, coming once every week or two. Beyond that, it is essentially a 20-hour interview. No wonder I have indigestion. Though getting into a medical school would be great, and in fact is all I really want in life right now, it does nothing to solve my current paying-the-rent problem. And drumming offers — well, on my Craigslist posting, I neglected to say that I don’t have a drumset, just sticks. And heart.

Sticks and heart, it’s just how I’m pasting together a life. So, more needs to happen, because $28 per week don’t pay the rent, and grandma needs a new pair of pants. Beyond that, I wake up each day, may some coffee and bang out cover letter after cover letter. I have a folder for each kind of job containing a customizable template. Teaching, researching, writing, labbing, really, anything, plus there is a misc. folder for the misfits.

I feel like the 1950s private eye, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, sweaty, irritable and hot on the case. Except that the private dick has a job, detecting, while I voluntarily shake out job opportunities. And download music at the same time.

The day after Labor Day, I arrived at the office in a pair of black pants and my favorite pink and black striped shirt. Because I am so fond of this particular attire and how hip yet professional I believe I look in it, I had worn the same outfit for each of the three rounds of interviews it took to get this job. But hey, they must have liked it or I wouldn’t be here, right?

Employee training consisted of inching through an intimidating black binder, one section at a time, in hour-long sessions led by the people who in a week would be my coworkers, but at the time seemed like idiot-savants confidently babbling incoherent explanations of accounting conventions, financial statements, Excel procedures and Powerpoint styles.

It didn’t take long to realize that I was the idiot and that it would be really hard to fake ‘savant.’

After ten hours of this I was simultaneously hoping for the end and terrified by what the completion of training would imply about my capability to provide valuable services to the company. The final presentation was on company policies, concluding with a brief discussion of the company dress code. Finally, something I felt equipped to handle. “Alright,” our Managing Director finished. “Any questions on this?”

I looked down at my shirt and smiled. “Nope.” With that, we left the conference room, ostensibly fully initiated and productive members of the team.

It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized I couldn’t wear the Pink and Black shirt again for at least another week.

Employee One:
Flying with my entire life crammed into two 49.5 lb suitcases wasn’t what had me nervous. I had been doing that for four years.

Employee Too:
I had just grabbed life by the fat of its belly and given it a twist.

Bound on a Northwest flight to La Guardia Airport, I was moving to New York City with no job, not much money, and plenty of hope. As far as Maslow’s pyramid was concerned, I was not very high up. I had a job interview in two days: give a presentation on a non-academic subject to prove that I have the personal skills, blah blah etc. to teach the MCATs for Kaplan.

I was Willy Lomaning myself.

Employee One:
Flying is an experience that changes steadily with age, from adolescent novelty (”Mom, look how high we are!!”) to teenage indignity (”Mom, I can’t believe you’re wearing THAT to the airport”) to collegiate indifference (”Mom, my flight’s delayed four hours. I’m going to watch some Family Guys. See you at midnight”). I imagine flying will become an annoyance as our responsibilities increase, and I am pretty sure it will become a nightmare with the addition of any young dependents.

Employee Too:
I went over my outline, pulled out a steno pad and figured my presentation: How to Make a Grilled Cheese Sandwich.

“I see a grilled cheese sandwich as a template for human expression,” I’d start out. I had little diagrams of how to apply olive oil, an inventive way of slicing cheese, proper sandwich assembly, the whole works.

Employee One:
On my flight back to Boston from what are likely to be my last twelve days of summer vacation ever, I was trying but failing to recapture some of that indifference. ‘No big deal’ I lied to myself. ‘Back to Boston again.’

This time was different than all the trips back during school. This time I was returning to move into an apartment with a person I didn’t know and to start a job I didn’t know how to do, and I was returning to an almost certain breakup with a college girlfriend of three years.

Employee Too:
One-hundred grand on four years of pseudo-ivy league schooling and here I am on a flight to start life anew in New York City with some sketches of sandwiches, a hair-brained scheme and a goofy smile that is keeping me from losing it all together.

Employee One:
It wasn’t supposed to be this dramatic; in fact I had chosen to stay in Boston largely to avoid such drama. Nonetheless, this is how it began. I started full-time employment five days later.