stepping stones are cracked

unfortunately, i can’t be a recluse until i do the shmooze. my solitude has to be earned.

if it was a perfect world, the hustle and hobnobbing would be left to those who enjoyed it, whereas the rest of us, the anti-social homebodies, could simply wait for the proverbial call. but in light of the challenge every potential employee faces on a daily basis, i swallow my pride and venture into the uncomfortable.

an old acquaintance from college is offering an essential service: advice on landing the elusive reputable talent agent. his fee is $35, but the real difficulty lies in the actual interaction; years ago, conversation was stilted at best. his personality epitomized the stereotype of hollywood shallowness, and his talent was divinely questionable. to this day, i have never witnessed a more self-indulgent melodramatic performance than the monologue he presented for my feedback back in the day. a minute in, with him huddled in the far corner of the room panting with a crazed expression, i thought i had entered the twilight zone.

still, at this point, i’m just looking for strategies to re-approach the industry, and who better to offer some perspective than this soap opera ghost from the past. well, perhaps there are many others who could be equally helpful without the underlying pseudo haughty vibe, or even the price tag, but this was an opportunity that presented itself.

although i wasn’t expecting to meet over a four-course meal in a swank hotel restaurant, i was tickled to discover that my information session would take place at a wendy’s. i was told to dress to impress, which seemed rather contradictory against the orange vinyl booth backdrop.

‘i just want to ask: is this you dressing to impress?’

surveying my outfit into which i put some thought, i proudly proclaimed ‘yes, these are my semi-casual duds.’

‘okay, you should know that agents won’t really take you seriously if you wear sneakers. you should be wearing shoes like these’ - as he indicates his loafers - ‘and you should be dressing in a blazer, like this one i’m wearing’. i was waiting for him to produce an ascot for me to try on. in the decade since we last spoke, his pretension is securely intact.

from the get-go, i felt the need to appear as sophisticated as possible, which led me to order a salad with my burger, instead of fries. he went ahead and ordered fries. apparently, i don’t need to eat to impress, i thought, while bitterly munching on salad, watching him enjoy his greasy fries.

when we were done eating, it was time to show the expert my resume. again, wiping salt and ketchup off of my hands before handling my envelope felt like professionalism was left in the parking lot. i fidgeted under the table as he perused my credits, as if it was an important job interview. finally, we arrived at the activity i arranged the meeting for in the first place: writing the cover letter.

meticulously, my mentor constructed the sentences. it felt like i was watching a child writing an essay for homework. i struggled not to interject, allowing him to have the satisfaction of doing me a service.

once he completed his masterpiece, he turned to me. ‘i’d like to ask, did you find this helpful?’

i thought of my clothing critique, greasy resume, and half-baked cover letter template.

‘yes, thanks.’ then, i needed to know: ‘what feedback have others given?’

‘actually, you’re the first person that i’ve met with’.

i cut him a cheque, and had a silent chuckle on the streetcar ride home, replaying the most outlandish monologue interpretation in history in my mind.