How NOT to make a good impression
Today was my first interview in four and a half years. I hate interviews, because they bear a remarkable similarity to dating.
This morning I actually got off to a good start. I managed to get up after only one 'snooze' session. I didn't slice up my face until I looked like Freddy shaving. The printer didn't crap out printing out my revised Trial-Level Brief that the US Attorney's office requested. Kinko's didn't have a line, and I was able to make extra resume copies, copies of my transcript and copies of the brief in record time.
The major obstacle would of course be the 35 mile drive from Naperville to Loyola. First there was the East-West Tollway(I-88) to deal with; once that was conquered, I'd have to overcome the Eisenhower Expressway (I-290). That would put me at the south entrance to Wacker Drive, one block south of the Sears Tower. From there, I'd have to negotiate my way around the Loop to the Near North Side and the Water Tower, where Loyola is. The traffic reports were saying it was forty minutes from Wolf Road to Downtown (Wolf Road is where the I-290 extension and I-88 merge to form the official beginning of the Eisenhower; just west of this road is the infamous "Hillside Strangler," so called because at that point, I-88 goes from two lanes to one, just as traffic exiting off of I-294 (the Tri-State Tollway) merges in, and I-290 joins I-88. It's called the Hillside Strangler because a.)it's located in the suburb of Hillside, and b.) this used to be the worst backup in the state; with new construction, the backup has now moved east, to 25th Street. "Downtown" refers to the Old Post Office, which serves as a gateway to Congress Parkway and the entrance to Wacker Drive). On a good day, with no traffic, it takes fifteen minutes to get to Wolf from my apartment. But on a Friday morning, it can be easily double that. So thirty minutes plus forty minutes meant an hour and ten minutes from Kinko's to Downtown; count on another ten minutes from Downtown to school, and then some time to find a parking spot. Since it was 8:20, I was worried about cutting it close to the 9:50 interview time.
I shouldn't have worried. I made it to the entrance to Lower Wacker by 9:10. Lower Wacker was mostly empty, so I quickly circumnavigated the Loop. Amazingly, I immediately found a meter spot just across from school. By 9:20, I was at school, parked and on my way to Seattle's Best for a cup of coffee. Even that went smoothly. I made it up to Career Services by 9:30, twenty minutes early. Since law school interviews are twenty minutes, the person ahead of me should be starting shortly.
But they weren't. They hadn't even checked in yet. I made my way back to the back of Career Services, where Mandy was supposed to show me where Room 7 was. But she wasn't there. I asked the woman who came in if she was Mandy; she said no, but could she help? I asked for Room 7, and she apologized, but she didn't know where it was. Suddenly, a woman came out from one of the rooms, dressed in business attire:
Woman: This is room seven.
Me (smiling): Hi! Thanks, but I'm not the person you're looking for. I'm the person after the person you're looking for.
W (looking at list posted on door): You're Greg
Me: Yep.
W: Hmm.
Lady Behind Desk (to me): You're not the 9:30?
Me: No, I'm 9:50
L: Hmm.
(Lady disappears)
W: Well, I guess I'll wait five more minutes, and if she doesn't show, we'll just get started
Me: Fine by me. I'm flexible. I'll be right over there, reading my paper.
W: Ok
(Lady returns)
L (to W): She hasn't checked in yet
W: Well, I'll wait five more minutes
I retired to a chair, took off the suit jacket (I was hot) and sat down to read my copy of the Financial Times. Five minutes later, and my mysterious classmate had failed to arrive. As a result, I got an extra ten minutes on my interview.
As for the interview, I think it went well. We started off with small talk about how far Naperville was from Chicago, and how bad traffic seemed to be here (she's from Western Michigan). She seemed impressed by the fact that I worked two jobs and went to school, and she was very impressed by the fact that I went to Europe this summer. She asked about the similarities between the Italian and American legal systems, which I was only too happy to answer. In between, she told me about the work I'd be doing, how I'd be involved in criminal work, and how they would not hire me upon graduation, because the US Attorney's office only hired experienced litigators. Oh, and how only two of the four openings were paid positions. She asked me if I was interested in criminal work, and I said yes (it's true). I told her how I was a Discover Channel junkie (she admitted to being one, too), and how my grandfather was an Illinois State Trooper (which he was, prior to WWII).
On the one hand, the work would be absolutely fascinating, and the experience would look awesome on a resume. On the other hand, I'd have to move to Michigan for the summer.
One interview down, one to go. But that's not until October 3rd. As for my no-show classmate, she's screwed. The rules for OCI clearly state that if you cannot make it to an interview, you must call and notify OCI before your scheduled time. If you fail to show without calling, you are banned from any further use of OCI. Any interviews you had scheduled will be cancelled, and the next person on the wait list will move up. Even worse, the ban is permanent. That means not only does she lose out on interviewing for summer associate positions this year, she won't be able to interview for permanent positions next year. So hopefully, she'll get an offer from whatever firm does hire her. My suspicion is that she's like my friend Anita. Last night, Anita told me she'd put in for several interviews, but hadn't heard if she'd gotten any. When I asked if she'd picked up her packet at Career Services, she said no, she didn't know she had to. So she went back upstairs and got it. Maybe Miss No-Show didn't know either. But then, that's why the sent four emails reminding people to pick up their packet, and why they tell you to watch your email and your mailbox. It's too bad she missed the interview, but I don't feel sorry for her. We're all adults, and we have adult responsibilities.
Friday, September 12, 2003
Thursday, September 11, 2003
Empty Sky
I woke up this morning
I could barely breathe
Just an empty impression
In the bed where you used to be
I want a kiss from your lips
I want an eye for an eye
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Blood on the streets
Blood flowin' down
I hear the blood of my blood
Cryin' from the ground
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to the empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to the empty sky
On the plains of Jordan
I cut my bow from the wood
Of this tree of evil
Of this tree of good
I want a kiss from your lips
I want an eye for an eye
I woke up this morning to the empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to the empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Two years ago today, I was standing outside the clubhouse at Harborside Golf Course, a substitute golfer in the annual Exelon Charity Golf Outing, waiting to be told which foursome needed a golfer. Kathy Namors, the Building Manager for Exelon's Warrenville Office, and one of the organizers of the event, came out onto the portico where I was standing, just outside of the clubhouse doors. It was a conversation I'll never forget:
K: A plane just hit the World Trade Center
Me (Turning to face her): What?
K: A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center
Me (thinking Cessna-type plane, not 747): What, it wasn't big enough the idiot couldn't see it?
Looking back, that was stupid and insensitive to say. But I had no idea what the heck was going on. I went inside, where CNN was showing the burning tower. Corbin McNeal, then Chairman of the Board of Exelon, was desperately trying to turn the sound up on the only TV in the Pro Shop, to no avail. His son worked five blocks away, and no one was sure what was going on. At that time, registration for the outing was going on; people were milling about, talking, and ironically buying golf equipment, oblivious to what was going on behind them. Suddenly, without warning, plane number two hit the second tower.
The charity outing is one of two hosted every year by Exelon; the one out east raises funds for a favored PECO charity, the one in Chicago for the James J. O'Connor Scholarship fund. It's a very high-powered event; all the major executives show up, and many heads of ComEd and Exelon customers and affiliates do as well. There are six nuclear power plants in Illinois, and that day, the heads of all six, as well as several junior executives were all at Harborside. In fact, Corbin had just decided he wouldn't be golfing that day, and not more than five minutes before Kathy came out, I'd been asked to take his place in the foursome. Not being stupid (and not being a scratch golfer), I demurred. Instead, my boss' boss, Rob (who is a scratch golfer), took Corbin's place, and I later took Rob's place in his foursome.
I called my counterpart out east to tell her the news. That conversation went like this:
Me: Freddie, did you hear? A plane hit the World Trade Center
Frederica: No, no, it hit the Pentagon.
Me: No, Freddie. The World Trade Center. It's on CNN. See if you can get CNN on the TVs there (Exelon has a number of TVs scattered around their buildings. They mostly show company-related stuff, but they can pull in CNN and the Weather Channel, which the company monitors for weather issues which may affect service)
Ken (in background): They hit both!
Freddie (to Ken): What?!
Ken: Planes hit both the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. And they think there's another that crashed.
Freddie: Oh my god....
It only got more surreal from there.
Harborside has two courses; Port (North) and Starboard (South). The Port side has probably 14 of the 18 holes that have views of downtown Chicago, and all day long, people kept looking downtown. The skies grew very quiet as well. Those with Motorola text pagers (the higher-ups who hadn't immediately left) kept the rest of us updated: The FAA had grounded all airplanes, 50,000 people worked in both towers, hundreds of emergency workers on the scene. Then, the worst news: the first tower had collapsed. Not having access to a TV, we could only imagine it (though most of us thought the top half had toppled over, not the pancake collapse that had actually happened). Around the 15th hole, we heard the distinct sound of a jet engine, but saw nothing. "Military," said a former Navy Captain, an Exelon employee, and member of the foursome ahead of us, "F18 probably. They're patrolling the sky now." It was a very somber moment. Someone cracked a joke to break the tension.
Eventually, we finished the round. Part of the outing is dinner and a charity auction, and before that part began, we had a prayer and a moment of silence. Because of its nuclear plants, Exelon hires heavily from the Navy, and if George Bush had asked for volunteers, eighty percent of the room would have up and left right then and there. I can't describe the mood, but there was anger, anguish, sadness, and helplessness all combined.
When my coworkers heard that I was going to the outing, I got razzed for "taking a day off" and "getting out of work early" and so on. Ironically, the company would send them all home at ten a.m. By noon, they'd be home, watching TV with the rest of the world. I didn't get home that day until after six-thirty. My roommate, who worked afternoon shift (2-10), came home at seven. He hadn't really done anything - everyone was watching TV at work. Testing clutches suddenly wasn't that important.
Let's hope none of us ever live to see anything so horrible again.
I woke up this morning
I could barely breathe
Just an empty impression
In the bed where you used to be
I want a kiss from your lips
I want an eye for an eye
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Blood on the streets
Blood flowin' down
I hear the blood of my blood
Cryin' from the ground
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to the empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to the empty sky
On the plains of Jordan
I cut my bow from the wood
Of this tree of evil
Of this tree of good
I want a kiss from your lips
I want an eye for an eye
I woke up this morning to the empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to the empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Two years ago today, I was standing outside the clubhouse at Harborside Golf Course, a substitute golfer in the annual Exelon Charity Golf Outing, waiting to be told which foursome needed a golfer. Kathy Namors, the Building Manager for Exelon's Warrenville Office, and one of the organizers of the event, came out onto the portico where I was standing, just outside of the clubhouse doors. It was a conversation I'll never forget:
K: A plane just hit the World Trade Center
Me (Turning to face her): What?
K: A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center
Me (thinking Cessna-type plane, not 747): What, it wasn't big enough the idiot couldn't see it?
Looking back, that was stupid and insensitive to say. But I had no idea what the heck was going on. I went inside, where CNN was showing the burning tower. Corbin McNeal, then Chairman of the Board of Exelon, was desperately trying to turn the sound up on the only TV in the Pro Shop, to no avail. His son worked five blocks away, and no one was sure what was going on. At that time, registration for the outing was going on; people were milling about, talking, and ironically buying golf equipment, oblivious to what was going on behind them. Suddenly, without warning, plane number two hit the second tower.
The charity outing is one of two hosted every year by Exelon; the one out east raises funds for a favored PECO charity, the one in Chicago for the James J. O'Connor Scholarship fund. It's a very high-powered event; all the major executives show up, and many heads of ComEd and Exelon customers and affiliates do as well. There are six nuclear power plants in Illinois, and that day, the heads of all six, as well as several junior executives were all at Harborside. In fact, Corbin had just decided he wouldn't be golfing that day, and not more than five minutes before Kathy came out, I'd been asked to take his place in the foursome. Not being stupid (and not being a scratch golfer), I demurred. Instead, my boss' boss, Rob (who is a scratch golfer), took Corbin's place, and I later took Rob's place in his foursome.
I called my counterpart out east to tell her the news. That conversation went like this:
Me: Freddie, did you hear? A plane hit the World Trade Center
Frederica: No, no, it hit the Pentagon.
Me: No, Freddie. The World Trade Center. It's on CNN. See if you can get CNN on the TVs there (Exelon has a number of TVs scattered around their buildings. They mostly show company-related stuff, but they can pull in CNN and the Weather Channel, which the company monitors for weather issues which may affect service)
Ken (in background): They hit both!
Freddie (to Ken): What?!
Ken: Planes hit both the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. And they think there's another that crashed.
Freddie: Oh my god....
It only got more surreal from there.
Harborside has two courses; Port (North) and Starboard (South). The Port side has probably 14 of the 18 holes that have views of downtown Chicago, and all day long, people kept looking downtown. The skies grew very quiet as well. Those with Motorola text pagers (the higher-ups who hadn't immediately left) kept the rest of us updated: The FAA had grounded all airplanes, 50,000 people worked in both towers, hundreds of emergency workers on the scene. Then, the worst news: the first tower had collapsed. Not having access to a TV, we could only imagine it (though most of us thought the top half had toppled over, not the pancake collapse that had actually happened). Around the 15th hole, we heard the distinct sound of a jet engine, but saw nothing. "Military," said a former Navy Captain, an Exelon employee, and member of the foursome ahead of us, "F18 probably. They're patrolling the sky now." It was a very somber moment. Someone cracked a joke to break the tension.
Eventually, we finished the round. Part of the outing is dinner and a charity auction, and before that part began, we had a prayer and a moment of silence. Because of its nuclear plants, Exelon hires heavily from the Navy, and if George Bush had asked for volunteers, eighty percent of the room would have up and left right then and there. I can't describe the mood, but there was anger, anguish, sadness, and helplessness all combined.
When my coworkers heard that I was going to the outing, I got razzed for "taking a day off" and "getting out of work early" and so on. Ironically, the company would send them all home at ten a.m. By noon, they'd be home, watching TV with the rest of the world. I didn't get home that day until after six-thirty. My roommate, who worked afternoon shift (2-10), came home at seven. He hadn't really done anything - everyone was watching TV at work. Testing clutches suddenly wasn't that important.
Let's hope none of us ever live to see anything so horrible again.
Monday, September 08, 2003
Just Another
Pete Yorn
You and I , we’re two of a kind,
I hate to say it but you’ll never relate,
What makes you tick?
It makes me smile
You said that I should get away from it all
And bury my head in the sand if I want to,
I think you…..should thank me now
You were lying wide-awake in the garden
Trying to get over your stardom
And I could never see you depart us
And you’re my baby,
You’re just another girl
Just another girl
I never mind the way I had to see ya
My working on a day show never explains why I see you
And I feel your pain.
I love to wear my work inside of my head
I can’t complain but you should never react the way you did
I feel your time
You were lying wide-awake in the garden
Trying to get over your stardom
And I could never see you depart us
And you’re my baby,
You were lying wide-awake in the garden
Trying to get over your stardom
And I could never see you depart us
And you’re my baby,
You’re just another girl
You’re just another girl
You’re just another girl
Jonas Vargas drove southwest down the Adlai E. Stevenson expressway, the weight of thirty-seven years of frustration bearing down upon him. At a time in his life when he should be raising children and earning a decent living and worrying about college costs, he was single, foot-loose and fancy free, and frustrated. He had never been married, had no children – hell, he hadn’t even had a date in six months, and sex? What did they always say in the mob movies? Fahgetaboutit.
When you haven’t had a date, much less sex, in a while, you begin to think about all the ones who got away. The oh-so-close, and the not-so-close. The ones who would have married you in a heartbeat that you just couldn’t commit to, and the ones you were desperate to marry who could never commit to someone like you. You think of all the “you’re a nice guy, but…” speeches, and the pretty blonde girl who wanted nothing more than to be your girlfriend that you never bothered to call back. You begin to wonder why you couldn’t see that the girl you dated in your sophomore year in college (and who willingly gave you your first blow job) was a wonderful, loving person who liked you for who you were. Or why you did call back the brunette you dated your first years out of college, even when all the red flags pointed to heartbreak. Most of all, when you’re thirty-seven years old and never married, you hear your relatives talk about their “single cousin” in the hushed tones and voices that people use when they wonder secretly if… you’re….well…..you know. How do you explain them that your longest relationship lasted more than eighteen months? Because of the few who’ve made it past date three, the family has never met any of them. And what would they say if they found out that some of your best friends are…..you know.
And then there’s your friends. Happy, married (although some, admittedly, for the second time…you swallowed beers and heartbreak with them when they went through the first divorce), many with children (those without never wanted them anyway), they all are further down the road of life than you are. It was a road that, long ago, terrified you, back when you were thin, in shape, and had a full head of blonde hair and a bright future. But the light at the end of the tunnel was an EMD locomotive, and the future is more uncertain today than when you were eighteen. Back then, thirty-five was old – and by then you’d be married with a successful career and a big family with lots and lots of kids. The children are just ghosts now, memories long faded by the harsh reality that is your psyche, a dream never to be realized. You’ll never be the scion of a successful family, ala Joseph Kennedy. You worry more now about dying alone, being the lucky son-of-a-bitch fortunate enough to outlive family and friends, and be the person some poor Fed Ex delivery person finds three days dead and bloated when the packages you order in your senility off of QVC and E-bay start piling up. The anguish overwhelms you, as you get lost in the music on the radio, and wonder if things will ever get better.
Send lawyers, guns and money…
Dad, get me out of this…
Pete Yorn
You and I , we’re two of a kind,
I hate to say it but you’ll never relate,
What makes you tick?
It makes me smile
You said that I should get away from it all
And bury my head in the sand if I want to,
I think you…..should thank me now
You were lying wide-awake in the garden
Trying to get over your stardom
And I could never see you depart us
And you’re my baby,
You’re just another girl
Just another girl
I never mind the way I had to see ya
My working on a day show never explains why I see you
And I feel your pain.
I love to wear my work inside of my head
I can’t complain but you should never react the way you did
I feel your time
You were lying wide-awake in the garden
Trying to get over your stardom
And I could never see you depart us
And you’re my baby,
You were lying wide-awake in the garden
Trying to get over your stardom
And I could never see you depart us
And you’re my baby,
You’re just another girl
You’re just another girl
You’re just another girl
Jonas Vargas drove southwest down the Adlai E. Stevenson expressway, the weight of thirty-seven years of frustration bearing down upon him. At a time in his life when he should be raising children and earning a decent living and worrying about college costs, he was single, foot-loose and fancy free, and frustrated. He had never been married, had no children – hell, he hadn’t even had a date in six months, and sex? What did they always say in the mob movies? Fahgetaboutit.
When you haven’t had a date, much less sex, in a while, you begin to think about all the ones who got away. The oh-so-close, and the not-so-close. The ones who would have married you in a heartbeat that you just couldn’t commit to, and the ones you were desperate to marry who could never commit to someone like you. You think of all the “you’re a nice guy, but…” speeches, and the pretty blonde girl who wanted nothing more than to be your girlfriend that you never bothered to call back. You begin to wonder why you couldn’t see that the girl you dated in your sophomore year in college (and who willingly gave you your first blow job) was a wonderful, loving person who liked you for who you were. Or why you did call back the brunette you dated your first years out of college, even when all the red flags pointed to heartbreak. Most of all, when you’re thirty-seven years old and never married, you hear your relatives talk about their “single cousin” in the hushed tones and voices that people use when they wonder secretly if… you’re….well…..you know. How do you explain them that your longest relationship lasted more than eighteen months? Because of the few who’ve made it past date three, the family has never met any of them. And what would they say if they found out that some of your best friends are…..you know.
And then there’s your friends. Happy, married (although some, admittedly, for the second time…you swallowed beers and heartbreak with them when they went through the first divorce), many with children (those without never wanted them anyway), they all are further down the road of life than you are. It was a road that, long ago, terrified you, back when you were thin, in shape, and had a full head of blonde hair and a bright future. But the light at the end of the tunnel was an EMD locomotive, and the future is more uncertain today than when you were eighteen. Back then, thirty-five was old – and by then you’d be married with a successful career and a big family with lots and lots of kids. The children are just ghosts now, memories long faded by the harsh reality that is your psyche, a dream never to be realized. You’ll never be the scion of a successful family, ala Joseph Kennedy. You worry more now about dying alone, being the lucky son-of-a-bitch fortunate enough to outlive family and friends, and be the person some poor Fed Ex delivery person finds three days dead and bloated when the packages you order in your senility off of QVC and E-bay start piling up. The anguish overwhelms you, as you get lost in the music on the radio, and wonder if things will ever get better.
Send lawyers, guns and money…
Dad, get me out of this…
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