Dream Job

A lot of young folks wander around aimlessly searching for a purpose, for a dream to work toward. They’ll spend years unsure of where to work and who to be. Not Steven. He knew exactly who he wanted to be.

He wanted to be Don Draper, marching through an agency in a polished suit. One hand holding a glass of bourbon, one hand gripping a lit cigar. A pleasant secretary who laughs too much at his jokes, a jolly client clapping him on the back, and an award on his desk. He had it all figured out.

Today, he walked toward the glass tower he had only seen from afar during his visits to Manhattan. He was going to make his dreams happen in the next hour. He pushed through the revolving door and felt a wall of cold air hit him. The air cooled the beads of sweat that had gathered on his brow.

He walked up to the marble semicircle that enveloped the receptionists. A young woman in stiletto heels stepped away from the desk as Steven approached. The stone-faced receptionist didn’t look up.

“You must be here for an interview, too,” she sighed. “ID?”

Steven frowned and looked over at the young woman who was now waiting for her elevator. He thought he was the only candidate at this stage. She looked young and she was chewing on her fingernails. Clearly she wasn’t going to pose a threat, at least. He showed the receptionist his driver’s license.

“Go up to the 17th floor. When you get there, ask for Mr. Roberts.”

Steven walked over to the elevator just as the doors were closing. Suddenly, a stiletto popped out between the doors to stop them from closing.

“Sorry about that, didn’t see you coming!” She smiled at him.

He stepped in and spun on his heel to face the doors, pretending not to notice her.

“What floor?” She asked softly behind him.

He glanced at the elevator buttons with number 17 lit up. “Uh, same.”

He felt annoyed at her intrusion into his world. Who did she think she was? Just another girl in a skirt. No, he thought to himself. She’s not here to interview for this Director role. What was I thinking? She’s here for an open secretary position. Hell, she’ll probably end up being my secretary after today — if she’s qualified, of course.

The elevator climbed up and the doors opened at the 17th floor. Steven marched ahead of the young woman and looked down at the elderly receptionist.

“I’m here for Mr. Roberts.”

The receptionist’s eyes shifted over to the woman behind him. “And you?”

“Oh, I’m here to see Mr. Roberts, too.” She smiled warmly.

This VP sounds like a busy man if he’s even handling the interviews for the secretary, thought Steven.

The receptionist peered down through her glasses onto a sheet of paper in front of her. “Ah yes. Monica and Steven. Well, Steven, you’re almost an hour early. Monica, Mr. Roberts is waiting for you in his office just down this hallway.”

She motioned toward a stiff gray couch on the right side of the lobby and started furiously typing away at her laptop. Steven plopped down on the couch as if it were the beanbag in his room and sighed loudly. The receptionist gave him a quick look that he failed to notice.

Steven was making himself comfortable. He could get used to an office like this. He decided to wait until the end of the interview to ask Mr. Roberts what his office would look like. He imagined a large mahogany desk with a buttery leather chair. Bookshelves would line the walls, filled with pages he would never need to read. He wasn’t like those other oafs hunched over their laptops. He knew he was a once-in-a-generation talent. His mother told him so.

After a while, he heard heels clacking down the hallway. Monica appeared at the front desk with a smile. She thanked the receptionist profusely for helping her with directions on the phone earlier and walked out.

The receptionist called out, “Steven, Mr. Roberts will see you now.”

Without a word, he strode down the hallway and toward a rectangular glass aquarium of an office. Mr. Roberts sat at a sleek desk in the middle. He gestured at the chair in front of him and waited for Steven to sit down.

“Steven, is it? I—”

“Yes,” he interrupted, “and I’m eager to show you why I’m the right choice—the only choice—for this Director role.”

Mr. Roberts didn’t let his amusement show as he corrected him. “Junior Copy Director. This is an entry-level role. No managerial responsibilities. You would be, in essence, directing your own writing with many levels of supervisors above you.”

He paused before asking, “So why advertising?”

Steven let out a condescending chuckle. “Advertisers control how the world thinks. People often don’t know about it, and even when they think they do, they still don’t realize all the invisible forces working behind the scenes to change what they eat, what they think, who they are. We’re sculptors of the modern human consciousness. Masters of the subliminal.” He leaned back in his chair.

Mr. Roberts knew some part of this was the dark truth of his industry. But to so brazenly admit a hunger for control on a societal level seemed twisted. Perverse. Utterly Machiavellian. He saw the beauty of his craft: weaving words together to educate, to inspire. It cut him deeply to hear someone so young sound so… corrupt. He worried that television was giving the new generation the wrong ideas.

“So… why my agency?”

Steven leaned forward and folded his hands on Mr. Roberts’ desk. “Because you need me. I keep up on awards shows. I know you guys haven’t won at Cannes for a few years. I’m not some pencil pusher. My ideas are different. Bigger. And most importantly, they’re going to be award winners. It won’t even take a year.”

Mr. Roberts gave a tight-lipped smile. “You know it’s not all about the awards, son. Awards actually cost us money to enter. And they’re just an opportunity for us industry geezers to pat each other on the back every now and then. It’s great work that keeps the lights on.”

Steven resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This guy has clearly gotten to where he is because he knew the right people. I’m not impressed. He clearly thinks too small, too simply. But I can put up with it for a year or two until I take his job. I know how these ad guys think though. I can fit in.

Steven grasped a delicate gold picture frame on the desk holding a photo of a pleasant woman in her 40s. “This the ol’ ball and chain?” Mr. Roberts nodded uncomfortably. “She’s a…fine girl. My wife, she stays home with the kids. She’s a good girl. Keeps herself in shape.”

Mr. Roberts didn’t blink. He resented when men referred to their wives like that, like symbols of oppression or accessories they picked up at the store. He adored Martha, and she adored him. They supported each other wholeheartedly. His patience was now wearing thin. He’d had enough of this arrogant young man. He stood up and extended his hand.

“Well, Steven—”

Steven shot up and shook his hand aggressively. “So I got the job? Great! When will I meet my secretary—or, I mean, executive assistant? Actually, I think I already met her, that young girl who came in here before me. Did she get the job too?”

Mr. Roberts caught his breath. He was a combination of unimpressed and overwhelmed.

He just wanted this to end. “Oh, she got the job, alright. This job. I just interviewed you as a courtesy because you came all the way here from New Jersey.”

Steven quickly pulled his hand away and balled his hands into fists. “This is a mistake.

Clearly you got our portfolios mixed up. Here, I brought a copy—”

“No, I don’t think I did.” He picked up a manila folder. “Here it is. Steven Thompson. ‘Have a very Oreo day?’ ‘Just eat it?’ These are your award-winning ideas? Get out of my sight.”

“You—you’re going to regret this. You all will. My wife’s father is a big-time attorney and he will take you to court if you so much as think of stealing one of these ideas.”

Mr. Roberts laughed as Steven stomped out, fuming. He spent the entire walk to the bus stop thinking of witty comebacks he would never get the chance to use. He angrily called his house landline on speakerphone.

An elderly woman picked up the phone. “Yes, dear. How did it go?”

“I didn’t get the job, mom, it’s total bull! They had some quota to fill and gave it to this awful girl.”

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay, I’m making your favorite—lasagna for dinner. I’ll take your suit to the dry cleaner’s tomorrow.”

He continued loudly complaining into his phone as people passed and stared. When the bus came, he abruptly hung up the phone and switched to watching Mad Men at full volume. Don Draper’s dapper suit filled the screen. Steven fixed his tie.