IT BEGINS with the where and when.
The when: a random Friday shuffled into the middle of last November, before my birthday but after Halloween. The where: North Tempe/South Scottsdale, just north of the 202 in a parking lot joining a seedy strip mall to an even seedier office building. The rusted fountain was clogged with discarded cigarette butts and despair, and the tiny parking spaces were designed for either Fischer Price cars or really huge motorcycles; my steel-colored Accord had squeezed into one like an obese man trying to squeeze into an old pair of Dockers. Strike one, I thought to myself.
I walked across the parking lot and sat on the edge of the fountain. I was early, but I always arrive at job interviews at least a half-hour beforehand. This allows me to chain-smoke while dressed in a suit, which is oddly comforting. It also allows me to do some surveillance, but based upon what I'd seen already, this was going to be a train wreck. Sometimes, however, train wrecks can be amusing to watch, so I walked inside Suite 110 to get my first look at "Vector Marketing".
The previous day, I'd foolishly responded to an ad on careerbuilder.com promising "15.50/hr! Flexible schedules! Great for college students!" These sounded too good to be true, and I quickly was going to find out why. But I'd bitten the hook, and was taking morbid pleasure at finally glimpsing the fisherman that had reeled me in.
Inside, it was even worse than I'd imagined. Piss-colored Rorschach waterstains soaked a majority of the ceiling. The walls were dotted with bogus-looking certificates and awards: "TOP SALESMAN, 8/07: TOM BRECKINRIDGE!"; "START SELLING AND YOU'LL START WINNING!"; "QUALITY: THE VECTOR GUARANTEE!". These signs, much like the ceiling, were also warped by years of leaking moisture.
I was greeted by a woman named Brenda. Judging from her voice, she'd been the one I'd spoken to on the phone, but seeing her in person was a different experience altogether. She looked like one of those puppies you see in PETA videos, the ones that live their lives in Revlon laboratories and repeatedly have mascara smeared across their eyeballs. Her fingertips looked like they were coated in human blood, but later I realized that it must have been press-on nails.
Strike two, I thought.
Brenda led me to the conference room. Same stains on the walls and ceiling, same inspirational posters adorning the walls, but in the center of the room was a steel desk flanked by two dirt-colored metal folding chairs. There was also a small stereo softly playing The Joshua Tree, and when I walked into the conference room Bono was singing "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For". I should have recognized this as a portentous omen that was pertinent to my immediate future; I didn't.
Brenda left me, possibly to self-apply more mascara, and I was greeted by Marcus, the salesman who would be conducting my "interview". Marcus sort of looked like the rapper T.I., except unlike T.I., Marcus was vaguely hispanic and dressed in J.C. Penny's clothing. Also, I seem to remember him sweating a lot, and he constantly stuttered and avoided direct eye contact as he fumbled his way through my "interview". Marcus was absolutely awful.
He began the "interview", and explained the specifics of the job that the careerbuilder.com ad had conveniently neglected to mention. It appeared that, if I got the job, I would be selling knives door to door. On commission.
Strike three, I thought. You're out.
I listened to Marcus talk about knives for an hour and a half. He explained to me that Vector Marketing obtains these knives directly from the manufacturer, allowing them to sell product at prices well below that of the competition. Marcus also explained that the primary demographic for Vector's knives is the elderly, because of their high amount of disposable income.
He also explained that the knives sold by Vector are the best fucking knives ever: he explained to me that they are made out of burnished titanium, and dubiously claimed that they were designed by an engineer who'd previously worked for NASA. Marcus might be able to fool the geriatrics with that line, but I didn't buy it for a second.
Access to endless amounts of sharp knives? Access to homes packed full of helpless elderly people? This is the perfect job for a serial killer, I thought.
"What's the thickest thing you think one of our knives could cut through?" Marcus asked.
"Well, I bet your knives are capable of cutting through a grown man's femur," I replied. Marcus nervously licked his upper lip, and started another round of profuse sweating.
Marcus offered to demonstrate Vector's fucking awesome knives for me. He opened the top desk drawer, and removed a set of wicked-looking ergonomic daggers. He attempted to open the other desk drawer, but after the horrible noise of metal squealing against rough ball bearings, it became apparent that the drawer was stuck.
"Why don't you just cut the desk drawer open with one of those fucking awesome knives?" I helpfully offered. Marcus said nothing in response, but continued to tug at the drawer's handle. This interview obviously wasn't going as he'd planned.
Eventually, the demonstration began. I watched Marcus cut through leather. I watched him cut through a copper penny with a pair of stainless steel shears. I watched him cut through a garden hose, a metal pipe, and through the thick spine of a phone book.
Finally someone has designed cutlery that fits my unique lifestyle! I though. With these knives, I'll finally be able to skin live cattle to make moccasins with! And I can kiss my pesky loose change goodbye if I get those awesome shears! Finally I can cut through all those old phone books I've been saving! Life is finally worth living again! Thanks, Vector Marketing!
This is a total joke, I realized. Marcus was a joke, the job was a joke, and Vector Marketing in general was a huge fucking joke. So I stood up, and without saying a word to Marcus or Brenda, I left as soon as I could.
It was oddly exhilarating, in a way. It made me feel like a million dollars despite the negative balance in my checking account. I'd never be one of them. I'd never sell my soul away, one fucking awesome knife at a time.
I have pride, I realized. I have standards. I won't settle with a life of door-to-door commission sales, because goddamn it, I'm better than that. I left Vector feeling substantially better than when I'd arrived.
But then New Year's came and went and everything fell apart and I desperately wished that I'd decided to become a knife salesman after all.
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