Smashing, Baby

I was sitting at my desk, crafting yet another version of my resume (because I am, as always, job hunting), when I realized my foot was sitting in something sticky.

I looked down and saw a small pool of blood trickling out from under the ball of my right foot.

Huh. Weird. It doesn’t hurt, how did . . . oh.

Duh, you dumb psycho bitch. What did you think would happen?

When I first moved to Chicago, my father gifted me with a hickory baseball bat and gave me some tips on how to concuss anyone who tried to break into my apartment. I hadn’t used it for much of anything until the day before. On that afternoon, I got a phone call for which I’d been waiting for over a month.

“Hi there. We wanted to follow up with you about the voicemail you left yesterday.”

The one where I called asking about the job? After I flew over 2,000 miles for an interview, and you never deigned to reply to my thank-you note,  or give me any sort of response, for two weeks? That voicemail?

“We’re moving forward with other candidates for both the positions you applied for. We thought you were a really lovely person, but we just don’t feel that you’re the right fit for the firm at this time.”

No different than what I’d been hearing for months. Except: I had been through two phone interviews with these people plus an excruciating Skype interview, and that was before I got an invitation to come in for a visit. Out of my own pocket, of course. But clearly, I was qualified or else they wouldn’t have spent so much time talking to me. I just needed to seal the deal by taking the leap and visiting in person.

Or so I thought.

I met with a team of psycho-babbling Gen X pseudo-hippies who sat across a conference table from me, and for nearly an hour, refused to discuss the reason we were all there (the job, and when I could start). Instead, husband-and-wife owners, plus a staffer whom I suspect was a sister-wife, spoon-fed me the things a bad motivational speaker might say while f**king me on Freud’s swooning couch.

“Remember: You’re awesome!”

I mean, I’m pretty good at some things.

“No, not just ‘some things.’ You.  Are.  Awesome.”

“You’re more than just ‘things.’ You – just you -- are Enough. Do you know who Brene Brown is? I just love her. You should watch some of her TED talks. Especially ‘The Gift of Imperfection’ and ‘The Price of Invulnerability.’”

“You know what I see? I see someone who’s constantly Image-Managing herself."

Jeez, man. Isn’t that what we all do? Isn’t that life? What do you want from me?

“We believe you can really only achieve happiness through serving others, and you can only do that when you’re being your true self. And you should realize that your true self has something unique to offer.”

“We’d really just like to get to know you better. What are you passionate about? Where were you born?”

(I’d answered some of these questions in previous interviews, but apparently those answers weren’t “honest” enough.)

I took a deep breath and commanded myself to be brave. This was starting to feel like Meisner Technique acting class, where you don’t get anywhere unless you get vulnerable. No meaningful interaction can happen if you just say the things you’re “supposed” to say, while your scene partner(s)’ efforts at connection bounce ineffectively off of your world-hardened exterior shell.

So I did what I’d trained myself for years not to do in a job interview: I talked about myself. A lot. How I grew up, the places I’d been. Why I was never able to “grow out of” acting. Why I don’t really want to be a journalist anymore, which led into a discussion about the movie Spotlight, which led to me talking about my following of the Academy Awards and movies in general. I talked about vulnerability and emotional honesty and empathy, about coming apart in my Meisner class while my teacher screamed at me to GET MAD, and not worry about the consequences, or how I might be perceived as an unstable bitch. I talked about wanting, no, needing to take the next step in my life, whether that was a new career field, grad school, or a new city. I talked about my friends, my parents, my partner who was interviewing in a nearby city and how much I wanted to find a job in the area so we could stay together.

The yuppie-hippies nodded and smiled and encouraged me to keep going.

Eventually, they let me go. I shook hands and smiled, and walked out feeling like I’d just left my carefully-selected outfit in a heap on the table, lucky underwear and all.

Fast-forward two weeks to the phone call:

“ . . we just don’t feel that you’re the right fit for the firm at this time. All right?”

That’s IT? After ALL THAT? After I practically went to a marriage counseling session with you people?

“Thank you so much for your time!” I said, hoping she could hear my strained smile through the phone. I took a breath to ask for additional feedback. I had earned that much.

“Okay, bye now.”  Click.

I put the phone down, and slumped against the refrigerator.

Suddenly I looked around, and my kitchen counters were mysteriously devoid of the dishes that had been sitting on them a second before. They were all on the floor, many of them shattered. And why was my face wet?

 I had no one to blame but myself. I was dumb enough let my guard down around these people, because they convinced me that that was what I needed to do to earn their trust and finally get the job. And after I’d laid myself bare, they treated me just like everyone else had.

Yeah. I’m “enough.” Sure, I’m “awesome.”  Yeah, well.  Apparently not. 

I give up. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.

But you must. There’s no other choice. You can’t just decide not to work, Princess.

I’m NOT a princess. I’m an unstable bitch, and I deserve to GET MAD.

I threw a plastic cup across the room. Without much weight behind it, it sort of spiraled lazily through the air and landed with a soft, harmless plop on my couch.

Well, that won’t do.

I opened my cabinets and plucked out a martini glass, part of a set I’d won at long-ago Christmas party and never used. This time, the heft of the glass sent it sailing into the far wall with a fantastic spraying shatter, and a crash like a movie sound effect.

YES! Oh, MAN that felt good! Maybe this is what it’s like to fire a gun, or beat a man to a pulp. Except I won’t go to jail for this – look how responsible I am! WOO!

Martini Glass was followed in death by his brothers, a couple of dusty shot glasses, and finally two empty wine bottles I’d been meaning to re-purpose. I methodically set the gleaming green vessels on top of two stacked milk crates I use for bookshelves. Then I went and got daddy’s bat out of the hall closet.

The Cubs are down, no score, bottom of the ninth with the bases loaded.  Their last hope, a rookie who has defected from Missouri, is stepping up to the plate.

For more control, I set my hands far apart. Then I imagined the skulls of all the people I’d known who showed up late to work, hungover, in shitty clothes with shitty attitudes, while sporting huge egos . . . yet the powers that be still loved them. Somehow, those people were “enough,” but I wasn’t.

 

The cheap red from the drugstore went off like an emerald firework. The more expensive Merlot bottle from Trader Joe’s split disappointingly into three chunks, and I decided I’d had enough.

Leaving the apartment covered broken glass and the cat bewildered and terrified under my bed, I went for a walk.

I enjoyed the hedonistic look of the mess until the next day, when I predictably cut my foot. After a solid hour and a half of sweeping and vacuuming and chastising myself for throwing such a temper tantrum, I was able to sit down to once again troll Craigslist and re-work my resume.

Back to the worn-out drawing board.