I love how you've decorated your office. This desk is oak, right? (courtesy of http://myesllab.files.wordpress.com)

I had a job interview for an Account Manager position… a very odd job interview. I don’t really know what to make of it. So maybe teasing out my thoughts into an epic blog post, laced with humor and vitriol, will clear things up. What would really clear things up… having this post picked up by a publisher, expanded into a book bought by millions of people and turned into a movie, with the part of Norm, the fearless unemployed blogger, played by George Clooney. Maybe it wouldn’t. And George might not want to endure the months of gym time necessary to fully become the character. But I really think we should try, just to be sure.

I arrived early for my interview. So I stood outside the nondescript downtown office building, scrolling through emails on my phone. A leisurely stroll from the subway, past City Hall and through the neighboring park, didn’t kill enough time. Nor did a quick and depressing stop at the bank machine. But being early is good. It shows eagerness. It shows discipline and drive. It shows that I have nothing better to do.

The company’s office sat at the end of a meandering hallway, next to a sketchy-looking medical office. I walked in to find the receptionist vacuuming around her messy desk. It was jammed into a corner with some boxes and a couple of broken fans. A narrow walkway, lined with shiny metal chairs and blurry pictures of New York City, led to three offices. Had they furnished the space with leftovers from the previous occupant? The place was uninspiring for a marketing company. It was uninspiring for any company.

I asked to use the bathroom, and the receptionist directed me back out of the office to a door marked “Out of Order.” “Ignore the sign,” she explained. “It works.” And technically it did, thanks to copious amounts of duct tape. The bathroom appeared to have exploded recently and been pieced back together by MacGyver. Times are hard even for former television stars. I went about my business quickly, touching only what I had to.

The receptionist handed me a clipboard upon my return. A basic information sheet was attached, along with an interesting questionnaire. It contained 20 or so groupings of four adjectives, with directions to choose which of the four most and least describes me. The purpose was to create a psychological profile and ferret out the people who would excel in a certain role. I’ll make up an example to illustrate…

• Watchful
• Theatric
• Fucoid
• Helpful

I would probably check off “most” for “helpful” or maybe “watchful” and “least” for “fucoid,” since I’m not “of or like seaweed.” But the appropriate answers weren’t always so obvious. Sometimes none of the words applied, leaving me to pick the best of the worst. Sometimes all of them applied, forcing me to pick the “least” tag for something positive and sell myself short.

After completing the application, I was called in to interview. The interviewer’s office was dominated by a huge curtain-less window overlooking Broadway. Sunshine streamed in. Still the room was only slightly less depressing than the waiting area. It contained a desk and a couple more metal chairs. I don’t even remember a computer or any personal effects. The office seemed to belong to no one.

My interviewer was tall, well dressed and barely out of college. Being closer to 40 than 30, I’m increasingly aware of people way younger than me in positions of power. He asked questions as if seeing my resume for the first time. “So… you worked at company X. How was that?” I answered simply, praising the company and the experience of working there. He didn’t really listen. His cellphone rang at one point, and he checked it. After a few stale exchanges, he asked why I was applying for an entry-level job. This was news to me. My rather direct response was that I didn’t know I was. Account Manager isn’t usually an entry-level job. He ceded my point. I ceased to care about the job.

With the interview portion of the meeting out of the way, he launched into his spiel. This is the type of company we are. This is our way of doing business. This is the project we’re hiring for. He’d obviously delivered the words many times and been instructed exactly how to do so. He maintained strong eye contact throughout, as if trying to hold me in place. He leaned slightly forward, as if trying to engage me more. There was a thought-out method to all this.

I listened and tried to figure out the angle. Everything sounded reasonable, sort of like a pyramid scheme does until you actually explore a little. This seemed like a scam, but I couldn’t figure out why. I just knew that I wanted no part of it.

I imagined all the applicants who’d sat exactly where I was sitting. I imagined all the applicants who would sit where I was sitting. I felt stupid and small. Stupid for putting on a suit and dragging my unemployed ass halfway across the city for something I suspected would be a waste of time. Small for not having a choice. Putting up with such nonsense is so frustrating.

He handed me a business card at the end of his little speech. He was a partner. The company would decide quickly who to bring back for a more in-depth interview. I could expect a call as soon as that afternoon. He instructed me to keep my phone line open. I said that I would, though I was really looking forward to actively ignoring the call. I didn’t even get that chance. He never called.

Bully! (courtesy of www.oldtimestrongman.com)

I was walking down Broadway last Friday evening, south of Madison Square Park but north of Union Square. This is a ritzy part of town, where nannies pay other nannies to push strollers and restaurants offer $25 lunch specials one week a year, by reservation only. Design Within Reach – whose name assumes the customer makes seven figures – has a store selling furniture too expensive to actually touch. Canvassers plied their trade on the sidewalk up ahead of me. I tried to swing wide, not needing a piece of garbage at that moment. But one of them made eye contact and held out a flyer. For some reason, I took it.

It was a three-day pass to a high-end New York City health club. I needed to shake up my routine, and I could resist the sales person’s hard sell. Monday morning, bright and early (for an unemployed slacker), I arrived with my gear, ready to work out. I even wore a nice gym shirt – one without stains and holes that still retained some semblance of its original shape. Upon first glance, one might mistake me for respectable.

I’ve tried many different local gyms, as a change of scenery rather than a first step toward switching. Sometimes it’s more convenient to feign interest and take a tour to get a free workout than trek halfway across the city. This isn’t really lying. I am interested in other gyms… in the general, long-term, information-gathering sense. I might even make a switch someday, if a big pile of money magically appears in my living room. Switching at this moment just isn’t going to happen. The average gym membership in NYC runs about $75/month. My gym membership – a college graduation present many years ago – costs me less than a third of that. And lest we all forget, I’m unemployed.

The sales associate – a former pharmaceutical rep in Jackson Heights I would soon learn – asked me the usual questions. How often do you work out? What are your fitness goals? Have you ever had personal training? Each question began with an implied, “given that you’re so incredibly buff…” Or maybe that’s what I inferred. Who can remember these piddling details? She then gave me the grand tour of what might be the nicest gym I’ve seen, definitely the nicest in NYC. My perception might be different if I’d attended a division one university or my alma mater had renovated its athletic facilities the year before my graduation rather than the year after. The place is four floors and 4000 square feet of new, clean and in working equipment. (I’m used to old, dirty equipment that stays broken for weeks.) Trainers wander the floors putting away weights and offering advice or a quick spot. Classes with names I can’t pronounce and punctuated with exclamation points are available throughout the day, as are massages and physical therapy. There’s a boutique and a cafe. I could go on and on, because that’s what I do. But let me sum it up in three words… cool eucalyptus towels. They’re available on every floor to wipe my sweaty brow.

Back in her office, the sales associate showed me the membership plans and asked if I was ready to join. I was, if she was ready to wave the membership fees (Initiation: $645; Monthly Dues: $173). I love me some cool eucalyptus towels. To get out of the conversation, I said I would need to discuss the matter with my wife. She might also be interested. And I couldn’t make a final decision without working out, of course. This being a high-class joint, she didn’t push the matter. There was no pressure, no hard sell.

The first trial workout was the best, probably because I felt the most gung-ho and the least self-conscious. The facility is light and open and not especially crowded. Many people there had personal trainers putting them through their paces. The rest, I can only assume, were surrogates – paid to work out on another’s behalf. And then there was me, wandering around wide-eyed, trying out all the equipment. Everyone was beautiful. Everything was shiny and new, from the filtered water fountains to the fancy Macs for class registration and music downloading. The house speakers played model runway and swanky club music. I worked out near a huge window overlooking Broadway (the road, not the theater district), thinking “look at me, mom, I’m a fancy person now.”

The weird feeling didn’t hit me until the next day. I was on a cross-trainer machine that mimics a running gazelle. I looked stupid, but everyone does on that machine. The middle-age woman next to me discussed kitchen remodeling with her friend. The issue was where to live while the work happened. She leaned toward Florida, because she likes it there in the fall, but hadn’t made a final decision. Her friend agreed. I didn’t have an opinion, having never remodeled a kitchen or been to Florida. Money didn’t seem to be a concern at all. Renovating a kitchen to them was a little like buying a cup of coffee is to the rest of us. I felt a little out of my element.

I switched to a recumbent bike with a video screen, and tried to run down riders on the redwood forest course. The pedaling avatars just disappeared as I approached. The machine wouldn’t even let me off the path. Where’s the fun in that? So I tried the college campus course, where I could pick off a few Abercrombie & Fitch-wearing coeds, or at least a mascot with a giant head. Again, no luck. I worked up a good sweat, but still felt a little off, a little on edge, like I was someplace unfamiliar. I needed a cool eucalyptus towel and a massage to bring me down. The massages cost extra, so I settled for the towel.

I was self-conscious, which led to the anxiety. It wasn’t because I had no intention of joining the club, but because I had no choice. I couldn’t join. Places that I walk past all the time – places like this gym – are off limits. I can look around, take it all in, but then I have to leave. Unemployment gives me free time, but then takes away most of my options. I felt like an impostor, like the people there knew I wasn’t a member and couldn’t afford to be. I don’t have a job or the money for fancy things, or really anything. If gainfully employed, I wouldn’t spend my money on a high-end gym membership. But I could, theoretically. The choice would be mine. Everyone around me had chosen to be there. They are rich and can work out mid-morning on a weekday. I am poor (or at least feel poor) and would really rather be at work. But I can’t, so I work out instead.

I didn’t put all this together until after my last workout. I was in the shower, where I do my best thinking, using up the gym’s fancy conditioner. Hot water streamed from the deluxe shower head. Wooden slats the kept my feet from touching the floor. And that’s when it occurred to me. I dressed, packed up my stuff and went to Quiznos for lunch, which I bought with a coupon.

Where working out meets rocking out.

Unemployment took away my last excuse not to go to the gym… work. And for that I will never forgive it. If you’re reading this, unemployment, consider yourself out of the will. The cats now get my ever-shrinking pile of assets. (Wifey will have to take it up with the furry ones.) My gym membership is cheap and paid through some time next year. All that prevents me from going these days is laziness and achiness (by which I mean laziness).

My gym has three reasonably convenient locations and many more totally inconvenient locations. One is in midtown, across the street from a previous employer and a short subway ride from home. Working out was so convenient until layoff #2. I still go there sometimes in the late morning to avoid the lunch-time and after-work crowds. Another location a few stops further downtown in Chelsea is bigger and better, but also more crowded. Working out during off-peak times is still perfectly pleasant. And then there’s the Elmhurst location within walking distance of my apartment, where I go if I’m pressed for time or – like today – just don’t feel like riding (or paying $4 to ride) the subway. That place is a madhouse.

I left for the gym at about 9:30 this morning. It was drizzling and sunny, and the sky threatened thunderstorms, portending another day of confusing weather. There was also a 30% chance of snow, a 20% chance of tsunami and 10% chance that the atmosphere would solidify into some sort of jello-like substance making it impossible to do anything. I crossed underneath the subway tracks as the 7 train rumbled overhead, and wound through Elmhurst past the hospital and the park. I turned down through a neighborhood of houses, most of which have been converted into apartments, judging by all the doorbells and Direct TV dishes. A few have been remodeled or torn down and rebuilt into some blocky, tasteless monstrosity. Many more are just kind of drab. At Queens Blvd., I crossed over to the gym.

The one-story box of a building sits right on the boulevard of death next to an LIRR overpass, some used car dealerships and a few hotels that probably rent rooms by the hour. One dealership I’ve watched shrink over the last year from two lots and 60+ cars for sale to half of one lot and about ten cars. And one motel I’ve watched go up right next to it; all they forgot was a sign big enough for passersby to actually see. A huge billboard on the overpass advertises Big Macs at McDonalds with the words, “Sobrang masala may kasamang extra bun.” Who knew that “two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions” could be boiled down to four words? A huge public intermediate school sits behind the gym, and buses line up next to it. If I go around 8:00 or leave around 3:00, I inevitably end up following a group of 13-year-olds and looking like a total perv.

The gym was packed, because it’s always packed. Every person in Elmhurst is required to hang out at this gym for two hours each day; working out is optional. I signed up for a couple aerobic machines at the front desk. The earliest available was in an hour. Every machine looked to be occupied when I got inside. Some people were working out, some were talking on cell phones, and some were trying to do both. I jumped on a recumbent bike when one opened up.

As if the crowds weren’t bad enough, the noise levels were just ungodly. Pumping club music covers of 80s songs blared from the aerobics room, as the instructor yelled instructions into her headset microphone. Some of the TVs played corporate music videos of beautiful, disaffected white guys rocking out in construction sites and on the tops of buildings. The accompanying audio came through the club’s speakers. Other TVs tuned to CNN played the news. People yelled into their cell phones over all of this and to their friends across the gym. I hoped my head wouldn’t explode.

I moved from the bike to a cross-trainer when my turn came up, kicking off the woman who tried to take my spot and putting my towel in the drink holder not lined with hardened bubblegum. The air conditioning wasn’t really on, and I was sweating profusely. Soon after, a 40-something-year-old woman busting out of her stretchy black and white gym outfit took the machine next to me. She was all silicon and botox, and damn proud of it. I glanced over, and she flashed me a smile through her lipstick, at least what amounts to a smile for someone who can’t move her face. Distracted from a New York Times Magazine article about aesthetically unpleasing construction, I looked over again a minute later. The Williamsburg Bridge may be ugly, but who could possibly ignore a living, breathing disaster two feet away? She smiled again. I cringed.

When construction lady was done, one of the two people I know at the gym – an unemployed engineer – took over the machine. We chatted about what would happen once unemployment insurance ran out. He has his eyes on a job at McDonalds. I’m thinking Starbucks. My reasons are simple… I don’t want to get fat, and I’d much rather be scalded by coffee than grease. The conversation moved on to the situation in Iran and places to play ping-pong in Flushing. I finished up on the cross-trainer and went for some water.

By the water fountain in the locker room, I ran into the one other person I know at the gym – a heavyset retired guy who enjoys science fiction and Broadway shows. We met many months ago when he commented about The New Yorker magazine I was reading. He was surprised to see it in a gym where no one even speaks English. We chatted briefly about the drag cabaret show I saw over the weekend and what movies we wanted to see.

My time on the elliptical trainer was uneventful, except for the OK Go’s brilliant orchestrated treadmill dance routine video, which came on. Someone programming the music videos for Big Gym TV has a sense of humor, or not. It seemed appropriate either way. The old Jewish guy who works out like he’s on a mission was nowhere to be found. Nor were his right-wing buddies, whom he greets by yelling political nonsense across the room. The Tourette Syndrome guy who spouts off randomly in Italian wasn’t there around either; I think he comes in evenings. The stretching area was unusually quiet. The crew of old ladies who sit around telling dirty jokes was noticeably absent. I finished up my workout in relative peace.

Leaving the gym, I passed an employee returning from her smoke break and waited at the corner for the traffic light. I was tired and had the beginnings of a headache. It had been a relatively quiet workout, but I was still less relaxed than when I arrived. Tomorrow I’ll spend the four bucks and go workout in peace.

I need a job because I need money to pay my bills. I’ve grown attached to food, shelter, Netflix and other necessities of life. Life without access to every DVD known to man is just death by another name. My situation, like most people’s, is pretty straightforward. I’d love to make a lot of money – money enough for my own island and sports franchise, “f**k you money” even – but I’ll settle for enough money if the circumstances are right.

The years have taught me that jobs can pay in ways beyond money (until they go away and leave you on the dole, of course). Enjoyment is another important form of compensation. A fun job is worth the same to me as a boring job with twice the salary, provided the lower paycheck supports my modest standard of living and raging cookie habit. Work that doesn’t feel like work isn’t. It’s entertainment. It’s something we’d consider doing for free. The days go by quickly. And when they don’t, who cares? That moment of dread following the alarm each morning disappears when work is fun. That Sunday evening lethargy born from the anticipation of another workweek goes away. Moods improve, and life improves. The return in quality of life – on and off the job -  is well worth the smaller paycheck.

Perks are another valuable method of compensation. And they take many forms. A friend of mine once had a job three blocks from his apartment. By cutting his commute down to five minutes each way he added over an hour of free time to his life every day. Another friend with a similar commute managed to add a lunchtime nap to his daily routine.

Lucky for me I’ve had jobs that offer great perks. My first job out of college was a low-level administrative position at a now-reviled trade association. It paid what one might expect it to. The higher-ups had lots of meetings with lots of legitimately important people. Important people meetings differ from normal people meetings in a couple key ways. For one, the stakes are higher, as they’re dealing with the fates of companies and industries. For another, their meetings are catered. Here’s the best part, at least for normal people on little budgets… important people don’t eat the food at important people meetings. They get fed all the time, and earn enough to buy the food they want anyway. This all added up to free meals for staff multiple times a week – a great perk  for a poor college grad. And I totally lucked into it. The more industrious among us even worked out an office-wide paging scheme to discretely notify each other when meetings let out, and lunch was served.

Entertainment-related jobs have (or at least had) the best perks for music fiends like me. One of my positions included free tickets to concerts all over the city, provided I wrote something about the band. Sometimes I didn’t even have to do that. Certain extremely popular shows were off-limits. Those bands (and their PR people) didn’t need the press from me and, as a result, wouldn’t put me and my +1 on the guest list. Attending concerts was part of my job, so the perk made total sense. And technically I was working while rocking out. But to my point about fun jobs, it often didn’t feel that way.

Another job included free compact discs and a stereo in my office. These perks also made total sense given the position and company – CD packaging editor for a music label. I initially took full advantage, and have the CD piles and storage headaches to prove it. But there’s only so many hours of music that can be heard in a day; my extensive double-blind studies put the number around 24. Once I made my way through the company catalog, the perk became a burden. There was nothing more I wanted. But not taking advantage of free CDs was a sin against the music gods akin to Ace of Base, Maroon 5 or Disco. I had to continue accumulating CDs, even though I’d grown out of the perk.

Wifey might have the best perk an unemployed spouse could ask for, aside from a company-sanctioned “Jobs for Unemployed Spouses”  program. She gets free passes to Broadway shows. Now that we can’t afford flights to Paris for dinner, we can still spend the evening at the theater (excuse me, theatre). There’s a lot of excellent productions out there. And our circumstances – poor sans kids, but too old to be out past our bedtime – allow us to enjoy them. So please buy lots of theater tickets (rent can wait) so wifey can keep her job and I can forget about unemployment for a couple hours every so often.

The holy grail of the job search is a high-paying position that offers enjoyment and great perks. Let me know if you come across anyone this lucky, so I can kick their ass and take their job. Most of us settle for something less than perfect, and that’s fine. We try our best and do what we can. But it’s worth considering factors beyond the paycheck if possible. Your life may be better because of it.

Tell us what you do for fun when money is tight in the Jobless and Less Unemployment Forums…