To earn a buck, I’ve donned three piece suits or farmer bibs. An epoch ago, it was a Saugus summer, hotter than Ella Langley in a cowhide bikini and partial come-hither smile. I was relocating tumbleweeds.
Of all the jobs I’ve held, outdoor work has been the most serene. No deadlines. A stump not pulled, hay not bailed? On horse or tractor, there’s always tomorrow’s fresh air. But, paycheck-wise, ranch work rivals begging with a clay cup in Old Calcutta. Same retirement package as well.
Years ago, I had resumes out for the Life White Collar. Pre-cellphone days, I had an answering service. Taking a break from Irrigation Pipe Relocation Engineering, I checked messages. A breathless mogul with his own Beverly Hills skyscraper loved, luh-luh-luh-LOVED, my resume and was desperate to see me! Small problem? Said mucky-muck was flying out on his personal jet that afternoon and would be gone a month. Could I be a darling and cross two mountain ranges, break the California Vehicle Code 22,006 times and drop by in a couple hours? Amen boy howdy. Yes. That’s what we can-do people do, don’t we?
I shaved, showered, jumped in a clown suit — er, excuse me — business suit. Ranch truck and I miraculously arrived in tony Beverly Hills.
You have to be careful with body language whilst job hunting. I stepped off the elevator directly into the penthouse suite somewhere between — Bond, James Bond, One Million In Baccarat Chips, Please — and — the enthusiastic Professor Harold Hill from, “The Music Man.” Two supermodels posing as executive secretaries jumped from desks the size of the Polish Steppes. One handed me a crystal tumbler of whiskey — at 3 in the afternoon. Checking for lint, the other tut-tutted and wouldn’t take her hand off my chest. I was going to — like — working here. Mid flirtations, the boss’s office door bursts open. He greets me as if I had saved his daughter from both drowning and killer whales.
Then, my future boss hugged me.
This was decades before the sissy custom of men greeting one another via an embrace.
We sank into overstuffed chairs, amiably chatting. Finally, he apologized that he had to catch his own jet (I didn’t see why, if you had your own airplane, and pilots, you had to worry about being late). He gushed about my work, my unique resume, my life and who I was as a human being. Finally. I felt — loved. When I cut to the chase about how I could help his zillion-dollar corporation, he laughed and replied, “Oh, no! You’re not at all right for my company — too much the free spirit and frankly, too creative. I just loved your resume so much, I just HAD to meet you!” Frantically, he glanced at his watch and said help myself to more whiskey. A final hug. Suddenly, I’m alone, staring at a cartoon puff of smoke while clutching a glass of unsipped whiskey. First thought? Could I get a to-go cup?
The swimsuit models/secretaries mumbled a goodbye. I’m shell-shocked. In a fantasy’s blink, there went a seven-figure job and wasted day where I could have been softly singing country/western ballads to myself while bailing horse feed.
Years would pass. One summer’s afternoon, I was on the polar opposite of this little kabuki performance, sadly and alas, minus the leggy two-woman steno pool. I was sitting in the old Signal conference room, with Tim Whyte, then, managing editor. I have ambivalent feelings toward Tim. Love him like a dear kid brother and best pal. Don’t particularly care for him because, often, he’s funnier than me.
We were interviewing to fill the vacancy of Signal Business Editor, a lofty position requiring the tact of St. Aquinas, the butt-kissing acumen of Barney Fife and the typing speed of Wile E. Coyote’s nemesis, The Roadrunner. With a four-year requirement of just two units, a journalism degree has a little more wiggle room than say, atomic brain scientist. For some strange reason, reporters also come with metric tons of emotional baggage. You know it’s going to be a long darn afternoon when an applicant asks, “Can I bring my snake?” or, “… my mom?”
Tim and I should have received Oscars for our interaction with this one job-seeker, for neither one of us did a cartoon double-take. The following is gospel. This guy shows up in grungy shorts — SHORTS — flip flops exposing diseased feet and soiled sleeveless T-shirt. The applicant didn’t apologize, just announced he didn’t bring any writing samples or resume. Bright side? No ankle monitor. He actually asked how serious we were about keeping track of his whereabouts during working hours. Our potential liaison with Santa Clarita’s august and noble business community slouched all interview. Both hands rested casually behind his head, proudly displaying orangutan-esque, tangled, hairy armpits from his sleeveless and feculent wife-beater tee.
Tim’s wearing a tie. John Boston’s wearing a tie. Neither one of us are chin-level with the conference table. Señor Cro-Magnon Potential Signal Business Editor? He’s one rabbit pelt away from a loin cloth. Which, of the three, doesn’t belong in this job-interview picture?
That darn Tim Whyte. The candidate asked if we checked references. Me? I almost detached a retina, not laughing.
Tim? He fell all over himself, reassuring the beatnik. “No! No! Don’t you worry — AT ALL! Not in your case …”
Years later, I ponder. I crafted the perfect, custom, creative resume. Captain Kirk in the Starship Enterprise couldn’t have rushed faster to the job interview. I’m dressed like 007, offering heads-of-state testimonials assuring I could turn around Europe’s mismanaged economy and not once did I set my wet whiskey crystal on a priceless antique end table. This mutt, dressed like a disinterested Cuban boat person washed ashore, shows up in tattered boxer shorts.
Neither one of us got the job.
Who’s the knucklehead?
Do pick up “Naked Came the Novelist,” John Boston’s sequel to the international bestseller, “Naked Came the Sasquatch,” at JohnBoston-Books.com. A lifelong SCV resident with 119 major writing awards and nearly 12,000 columns, Boston is Earth history’s most prolific humorist and satirist.
