Rachel Krantz decided to run a little experiment. Instead of trying to find one ‘real’ job, she’ll try to find 20-something jobs in 1 year. Yup, 20. Rachel looks forward to finding out just what a young college graduate in this economy can earn and experience if she’s willing to work almost any job. Follow her stories here.
When we left off, two other brunettes and I were interviewing to become Peachy’s Puffs Candy and Cigarette girls.
We sat quietly in the cigarette-saturated room, obediently reading our Candy Girl Handbooks. I underlined a couple points I found particuarly interesting.
1. The handbook mentions not once, but twice, not to get drunk on the job.
2. My outfit requirements: vintage skirts or dresses only, always falling above the knee. I must wear makeup including but not limited to: “foundation, blush, eyeliner, mascara and lipstick”. Pantyhose must be worn with every costume though “fishnets are preferred and will bring you more sales… Hair worn down is recommended (sounds weird, we know, but it really does bring higher tray sales!)”
3. I shouldn’t be myself. “Like an actress on stage you must ROLE PLAY a cigarette girl…Don’t become yourself. Stay in Character at all times!”
4. I need to learn how to turn rejection into flirtation, preferably using double entendres. “The most usual answer you’ll get from people is “No thanks I don’t smoke” and the answer is–and be ready to put a big smile on your face for this one–’That’s good, I’m pretty sure you eat, so let’s have a look at my nuts and candies!’”
5. I’m expected to light cigarettes. Splendid. “Matches are free just like your smile! You are a cigarette girl–it is expected of you to light cigarettes while outside of bars and clubs, or to provide matches.”
6. I should always smile. Then I should smile some more. “You should have cramps in your cheeks at the end of the night from smiling so much!”
I’ve read through the handbook a couple times now, though the other girls appear to only be halfway through. Should I look like this is taking me longer, I wonder? No, that’s not my character, or me. My character is a clever Bettie Page, even if H (the boss) says I look more like a young Deborah Winger. Hey, I’ll take either. The point is, my alter ego isn’t slow.
Eventually, H asks us all to introduce ourselves. It turns out the other two girls are in their last years of university, studying business. One girl runs her own mistletoe delivery business, the other has just been hired as a part-time sales rep for a major bank. They both hope this job will improve their sales and business skills. I look at them, trying to keep my mouth from falling open. Are these girls serious?
“And Rachel, what about you?”
“Well, I graduated from NYU last May–”
“NYU! I knew you had an east coast vibe to you!” I should take this as a compliment, he probably means I have good style. Still, years of experience otherwise has made feel that line is code for “I thought you looked Jewish!“
I go on introducing myself, and can’t help but notice that H makes less eye-contact with me than the other girls as he goes on to explain the complexities of the Candy Girl. I wonder if I should have said I had a degree in business.
“This job will put you through the ringer, teach you about sales faster than any job out there. It’s like no other job. It has some of the elements of waitressing, some of bartending. It even has some of the psychology of stripping, though of course you’re not taking your clothes off.”
My mind flashes to the warning my mom made before my interview, after screaming ‘Wowee’ in response to my outfit. ”Just don’t let them rope you into prostitution!” she said, half joking, half worried. I’d laughed at her, but wonder if this is the gateway drug to the world of objectification. First candy girl, next stripper? Doubtful.
H goes on selling us on the perks of the job. He tells the story of the best tip a girl has ever been given: 400 dollars to sit and have a glass of wine. While this sounds more like being an escort to me, it’s clear the job isn’t normally so glamorous.
“You can’t chase the tips. You have to go on selling, and the tips will come. And that girl, with the 400 dollar tip–did she quit for the night after she made all that money? No, she kept working, and made even more money.”
H keeps talking and talking, telling us more about how we should handle sales, how the trays are organized. I start to realize this isn’t so much a group interview as it is group orientation.
“And if a guy says ‘but I can get a candy bar for 2 dollars less at the convenience store’, you say–” One of the girls interrupts him.
“Would rather buy candy from that guy, or from me?”
“Yea, good! I like it. And that guy’s probably a terrorist anyway right? No I’m just kidding.” There’s an awkward pause and some nervous laughter. H moves on to having each of us try on the tray. The first girl, the one who runs the mistletoe business, tries it on for size.
“Not heavy at all,” she smiles.
I’m next, and inwardly disagree. I can hardly imagine walking with this heavy thing around my neck, let alone navigating through bars, collecting money and flirting at the same time.
When we’re done, H hands us all contracts. We’re all hired. There’s little risk to him, since he won’t actually be paying us anything. All our money will be based on commission, and it’s been made clear that whether we make it past our first night all depends on how tough we are.
I tell him I can start next week.
Rachel Krantz decided to run a little experiment. Instead of trying to find one ‘real’ job, she’ll try to find 20-something jobs in 1 year. Yup, 20. Rachel looks forward to finding out just what a young college graduate in this economy can earn and experience if she’s willing to work almost any job. Follow her stories here.
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Well, it would seem that despite all my halfhearted efforts, The Gap has rejected me. My feelings about it fall somewhere in the wide spectrum between pride and shame.
Luckily for me, I’ve found something better. Something even more vaguely degrading than folding khakis.
I’ve applied to be a Peachy’s Puffs Candy & Cigarette Girl. The job is almost exactly what it sounds like. As a Peachy’s Puffs girl, I’ll dress up in retro cigarette girl gear, hoist a 15 pound tray around my neck, and sell overpriced candy and smokes to people in bars. And all with a red lipped smile and a kitschy wink.
I figure the job is exactly what I’ve been looking for–I’ll have to interact with weird people, go outside my comfort zone, and hopefully come out the other end with some good stories to tell. Plus, did I mention the vaguely degrading appeal?
I head towards the Peachy’s Puffs headquarters in San Francisco, doing my best modernized Bettie Page impression. I’ve got the bangs now, and with a little help from wardrobe, imitate her other assets. I’m excited for the interview, confident in my newfound vixen persona, and find myself strutting down the street with an inner smirk of a heartbreaker.
I’m the first girl to get to the group interview, and when I enter the office I’m overpowered by the smell of cigarettes. I don’t know why I’m surprised by the smell–after all, this is what I’ll be selling. But still, the stench is jarring in the Bay Area, where smoking in bars has been banned for years and people are more likely to drink kombucha than smoke.
Hanji, (who for some reason I expected to be a woman), greets me. He has a gerricurl, a slight southern drawl and a slighter gay-affect that puts me at ease.
“I liked your pictures, they were cute,” he manages to say in a non-creepy way. He’s referring to the couple headshots I sent him in order to get an interview. I’ve passed the looks test, and I sense this is all I will really need to get the job. A sort of calm self-satisfaction washes over me, one I’m not used to. While I don’t normally get nervous in interviews, I at least recognize that the words I say are important. But in this new genre of job, I get the sense that my simply being is qualification enough. I relax into the rare ease of it, the confidence that comes with actually feeling like an attractive young woman, and using it.
I realize this is a space for a different kind of intelligence, a more intuitive kind. This is a space where you’re judged not so much on what you say, but how friendly and charming you are when you say it. This is a space where the fact that it matters what you look like is not subtext. For once, I’m quite confident I’m qualified. And now all I have to do is sit back, exist, and read the Candy Girl Handbook. The question in my mind is no longer if I have the makings of a true Candy Girl, but when I should start.
And then, the other girls walk in. They look even younger than me, and I felt a maternal panic surge. I want to tell them not to wear so much makeup and if they’re really 21. They seem so small, with attractive but little-girl faces, delicate fingers, and hardly any curves. I imagine men who like that hitting on them at bars, eyeing the fishnet stockings they’d wear. And I want to protect them. Suddenly, this all seems sleazy, not empowering. At least not for these young girls.
And then I remember: I am one of these young girls. Save for my slightly wider hips and stronger features, nothing gives me away as older, more mature. When Hanji asks for ID, it turns out they’re only a year younger than I am.
See, no one ever trusts we little brunettes can take care of ourselves. We don’t even trust each other. But oh, can we ever handle ourselves. With a wink and a smile, and a tip in our pocket. I look away from the two other girls and go back to reading the handbook. They can take care of themselves, and if it comes down to it, I can take this job from them. I can tell from their curt smiles, the feeling is mutual.
(To be continued)
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You know you’ve made it as a generation when you’re mocked on the most recent episode of 30 Rock. I wish I could find the video, but the dialogue will have to do:
Jack: I’ve cast a wide net, but even the junior executives here… There’s something wrong with this generation.
Junior Executive [walks in with floppy hair and eyes glued to his Blackberry]: Hey, Jack! Sorry I’m late. B-t-dubs, I gotta leave for my ironic kickball league in about 10. Also, I’m not interested in this position unless I’m gonna be constantly praised. And I won’t cut my hair.
This scene came to mind when I came across an article on Youth Radio’s site today about an advertising company called Mr. Youth. The agency, (which specializes in youth marketing), prides itself on its retention of young employees. Apparently, there’s a whole group of us out there who aren’t so much worried about unemployment as they are boredom. Mr. Youth is trying to hold onto these young, talented, ADD employees by offering some pretty sweet perks like unlimited vacation time, no set office hours…and a dodgeball team?
Youth Radio’s article explains:
According to a study done by Mr. Youth, 37 % of “Millenials” (or those born around the 1980s) left their jobs because they just” “needed a change.” They also found that the average 26-year-old has already held seven jobs. Mr. Youth works hard to make sure their young employees stick around.
According to Akin [Mr. Youth's Chief Engagement Officer], between 60 – 70% of their employees are twenty-something, and no one abuses the flexible policies, like unlimited vacation time. “People work weekends and nights, but that’s just part of the passion. It’s less about coming in at nine and leaving at five. We’ve made a fun culture where it doesn’t feel like work,” said Akin.
So call me a curmudgeon and you’d be correct, but these buddy-buddy office policies freak me out. There’s something wrong with being so comfortable at work that you voluntarily come in weekends when you could be cashing in on your unlimited vacation hours.
My friend works for one of these ‘cool’ companies–Apple–and it’s hard not to see the appeal. They sent her out from New York to California for 3 weeks paid training, gave her a 60 dollar-a-day stipend for food, paid for a rental car and just about everything else. But here’s the part that creeped me out: while my friend took advantage of these policies and went out on the weekends, almost all her coworkers opted to stay in their hotel rooms and play video games. For many of them, it was their first time in California, and abomination of abominations, they chose to spend that time in Cupertino. Close to the company headquarters at all times.
Look, it makes sense that a youth marketing firm called Mr. Youth has found the most effective way to market employment to its own youthful employees. They’re probably right that they’ll retain their 20-somethings longer than the average company. But I have to wonder–isn’t the joke ultimately on the 20-somethings themselves? Sure, they’re worth being coddled now in exchange for their youthful insight, but what happens when they hit 30?
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In England, high school graduates often take what’s known as a Gap Year before they start university. In America, college graduates often take a year to work at The Gap.
Or at least, that’s what the movie Reality Bites taught me, which has inspired me to apply for a holiday job at The Gap. OK, so I’m a little late into the season, but some quick research on Gap’s career site tells me there’s an opening at a store not 10 minutes away from home. Now all I have to do is pass the test.
In addition to submitting a resume, to apply to The Gap you have to take a special test online. The test, which was designed by another company, is meant to screen out the people worth calling for an interview. When you apply to The Gap online, the exam is under the ‘More About My Skills’ tab and is filled with potential trick questions. Luckily for me, I have a friend who knows the inside scoop on The Gap’s screening test, and he’s given me a few tips for success:
1. Moral Consistency. Meaning if you answer ‘strongly agree’ to a question like ‘Stealing is always wrong’, but then say you might use your employee discount to clothe your dying grandmother, you are inconsistent.
2. Apparent Passion for Fashion. I only occasionally shop at The Gap for underwear, but I feel confident about this qualification nonetheless.
3. Motivation and Drive. It’s OK to seem motivated and a hard worker, as long as you’re a team player. And you ask your supervisor about everything. And aren’t so motivated you might leave.
I get ready to start the test, which is also timed. In my effort not to take it too slowly (that’s recorded too) I only write down the most striking of the 40 questions.
I’m breezing along, putting confident answers to questions about my work ethic and ability to work on a team, when one question stops me:
“Would most people steal if conditions are right?” My options are “Yes, No, or I’m not sure”.
I think to myself, yes, I probably would. But then again, I’m more morally defunct than your average consumer. Maybe I should I put down No, showcasing my optimistic faith in mankind and deeply ingrained innocence? Or maybe I should put down Yes, revealing my potential shrewd attention to the store’s security. I settle on ‘I’m not sure’, which I’m pretty sure is the wrong answer, but is my honest opinion. And just like that, the test starts playing mind games on me.
Shortly after, I’m shown a mannequin wearing a pair of linen cargo pants. “What kind of pants are these?”, the test asks me. Leisure, cargo, madras, khaki or dress? I settle on cargo, even though the pants look like a combination of all of the above. So much for my sharp eye for fashion, this test already has me questioning the importance of cargo pockets.
Some easier questions come along, but soon, another question hits where I know I have to lie.
“You know a single mother who works at the store has severe financial problems and has been taking small amounts of merchandise to clothe her son. What do you do?” My options are to mind my own business (what I would really do), tell a supervisor ( be a jackass), call HR headquarters (psychotic), or loan her money personally (problematic). I hover over the question a moment, paranoid that Gap Big Brother is tracking, and noting, my hesitation. Gap must know I’m about to lie. After all, didn’t it know I would so enjoy those commercials with those people swing dancing?
Since there’s no option for showing the single mother where the best thrift stores are, I answer that I would tell my supervisor. It’s a lie, but I figure it’s the Gappish thing to do.
Cut to mannequin in a blue shirt and khakis. “What can be done to improve this outfit?” the test asks. My options are: Change the shirt, Add a belt, Add a sweater vest or Ask a supervisor. Again, my test instincts tell me I should ask a supervisor, but my instincts as someone with Passion for Fashion say to add a belt. Yes, I decide, I will take matters into my own hands. In this small yet brave act of Passion for Fashion, I will add a belt. What is this test doing to me?
The last question stumps me most, though it might be the most obvious. “If you got paid for two extra hours at work on your paycheck, and no one would find out, would you tell your supervisor?” This, (I think in the thick of my mind-fuck), must be a trick question. Who on earth would tattle on themselves for taking what would probably be no more than a 20 dollar bonus from a huge company underpaying them? Maybe this the question meant to measure if I’m lying about the rest of my strict moral tendencies. My options are Yes, No or Probably. I hit Probably, as a compromise, and immediately know that was wrong. Moral relativity is probably what the company fears most. I should have lied. I should know by now that telling the truth is no way to get a job.
So am I moral enough to work at The Gap? Do I have the eye for khaki pants they desire? Are the Gap minions reading this blog as we speak, putting me on a Anti-Gapian list? Only time will tell. I fear I failed the entrance exam, and though a part of me is proud of that, the other part of me realizes that is pretty pathetic. I told the half-truth consistently, and that’s likely worse than telling only lies.
After all, at least a liar can commit.
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Lately, I’ve been having a hard time getting myself to write. Aside from general laziness, I’m wondering if there might be another reason I’ve been feeling uninspired: I’m fit.
See, for the first time in a long time, I’ve become one of those gym people. Yup, about 4 times a week, blow off steam with yoga, the treadmill, or rock climbing. I joined the gym only a few days after starting work at the office after it became clear I’d go out of my mind if I didn’t take drastic measures to counteract 8 hours of being slumped over a computer. So I joined the gym around the corner, and have been sweating regularly ever since. (more…)
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I came across an article on the Huffington Post today talking about, well, me. Or at least, my generation of women. The author is Lindsey Pollak, who I actually interviewed for Youth Radio in 2009. (more…)
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I was watching the 90′s classic Reality Bites while I was babysitting yesterday, and of course, it was speaking to me. The movie is filled with Winona Ryder’s adorableness and Ethan Hawke’s greasy charms. In the Gen X film, a bunch of 20-Somethings try to figure out life after school. Winona’s character, Lelaina, is particularly distraught that she can’t find a good job, despite being an overachiever her whole academic life. (more…)
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So here’s the idea:
I’m a 20-something year old. And in the next year, I will find and work 20-something jobs. Whether I work each for a month or a day is not important. What’s important is that I’m hired, and possibly fired. This is my experiment in creativity and desperation; in making it work in this Shitseccesion. (more…)
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