Day 700 and Beyond

Day 700 and Beyond

Bad news, kids: The story’s over and its time for bed.

It’s been over two years since the Japanese pharmaceutical company hired me. I’ve bought a house, gotten engaged, and even ran in the Chicago Marathon again. California is behind me, but from time to time I still glance in the rearview mirror with more than a touch of nostalgia.

Almost a year to the day after leaving California, received a call I knew would be coming: Rose had died. I was too surprised to even ask what had happened. A month later, the house was up for sale, and a month after that it had sold. Jan, Nathan, Jason and Jared are scattered to god knows where. In many ways, this story is the only account that the impossible, unlikely situation that was this family ever really happened.

And with that, I think it’s time to wind this story down. For a little bit, I thought about having a go at writing about my current workplace. Believe me, I’ve got a ton of material. Ultimately, I decided to end it here. There are two reasons for this. First, I don’t like writing open-ended stories. Often times, they noodle around a little too much for my taste. Second, I think writing about different people and places muddles the narrative. In Project Alcatraz, we have Rose and Jan, the sons, the bosses from hell, etc. All great characters. If I were to keep going, the cast would change completely. Different characters, different stories. 

C'est la vie. Settings can change and characters can die, but stories never really come to a close. All they do is change. So long as we keep looking for them, they’ll always be there.

Until next time.

Day 195 to 203

Day 195

First day at new job. Unsure as to when work officially starts, I arrive roughly 90 minutes early. As you can see, I am about as confident as a rape victim in a whorehouse. It occurs to me as I’m waiting for others to show up that this is the first “real” job I’ve ever held in my life. At 29, I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

I had barely settled in when Mickey appeared. “Noah,” he asked in a guttural, no-nonsense tone, “do you like to drink?”

Mickey was either unaware or unconcerned with putting me on the spot.  In an American company, alcoholic tendencies are often suppressed, denied, or at least hidden under the auspices of happy hour.  Indeed, being “the party guy” in the office is seldom the way to advance one’s career.  Looking at Mickey though, my gut told me that somehow Mickey didn’t give a shit what corporate America thought.  Looking into Mickey’s unblinking countenance, I made a judgment call.

“Yes I do,” I answered.

Mickey’s eyes narrowed slightly.  “I drink… every day,” he proclaimed, punctuating the statement with a thump of his chest. 

I had answered the sphinx’s riddle. I was in the club.

Day 202

Rose emails me. They miss my calming presence, she says. Her new tenants are boring, she says; they don’t speak much English. She thinks they’re Korean. I try to imagine being from another country, alone in America, listening to Jan and Rose battle constantly. And what would the Koreans think of Jason?

Day 203

Day two at work. New boss Mickey does the following in a two minute span: measures his foot against mine by pressing his shoe sole against mine, asks me if I play sports and – upon learning I enjoy soccer – informs me I will be playing indoor soccer with the Astellas team. Starting tonight. Playing soccer was not much of a priority for me at that moment; I had been out of work for a long time and I was poor.  Nevertheless, I lacked the balls to tell my boss at this early stage that I very literally was not a team player.  If you want to create a mental image of Mickey, imagine an enforcer for the Yakuza: heavily muscled, thin mustache, and an aura that says ‘we’ll be doing things my way.’  In real life, Mickey was a hard-hitting rugby player who’d played at a high level.

So I caved. I used my credit card to buy a pair of soccer shoes and forked over my last ten dollars to the team captain.  Mickey showed up to play goalie, decked out in a karate-esque headband. After warm-ups, he pulled me aside. 

“Noah, you will score a goal,” he announced in his usual gravelly voice.  I detected no hint of this being a question.  I turned towards goal and Mickey slapped my ass.  At this moment, I was truly concerned that my job security rested on my rusty soccer skills.    

Mercifully, sixty seconds into the game, I poked the ball into the opponent’s net.  It was my only goal that season.

I soon learned that Mickey was a sportsman and a competitor by nature, and he made good-natured but firm demands that his employees stay in shape.  Katsu, Mickey’s aide-de-camp, relayed one such of story of his own arrival.  After a multi-day travel itinerary from Japan, Katsu arrived in Chicago on a red-eye flight, exhausted and on his last legs.  He was met at the airport by Mickey who, instead of taking him to his new apartment for a nap, took him to work for introductions, and then to the gym, where he strong-armed Katsu into joining.  Four hours after landing in America, Katsu found himself in borrowed workout gear, bench-pressing more weight than was advisable, all the while being spotted by his new boss.

Next Time: Let's wrap this one up: The epilogue to the story.

Day 176 to 182

Day 176

 I drive to company headquarters to give a talk. Talking about scientific minutiae to a group of strangers is harrowing, especially when your subconscious is screaming “Don’tfuckitup!Don’tfuckitup!” over and over. Nevertheless, things go very well for about three minutes, until a guy walks in late. As I’m talking, I’m watching him, and am becoming increasingly worried as I see clouds of confusion building up on his face. Moments later, he raises his hand.

Science questions from someone who’s not following at all are extremely dangerous. One must simultaneously answer the question, avoid making the crowd bored and answer in a manner that suggests you do not think the questioner is an idiot. In addition, I have no idea who this guy is, and how important his opinion is for whether I get hired.

Wincing slightly, I called on the upraised hand’s owner. As feared, the question was incomprehensible.

New guy: I don’t understand how this drug works. What are you trying to treat with it?

Noah: I’m not testing a drug. I’ve been talking about stem cells.

New guy: [trying again, apparently] What drug were you trying to develop with these stem cells?

Noah: I wasn’t trying to develop a drug.

New guy: So you’re not a pharmacist? This is a pharmaceutical company.

Noah: I have no experience developing drugs.

There it was: a tacit admission that I had no experience whatsoever with the job for which I was applying.

Following the talk (which went comparatively well), I meet with the senior management.  The director of the institute speaks Japanese that is so heavily accented that I simply nod each time he pauses.  This seems to work well.  I have no clue what he is saying. Had he asked me a question, the charade would have been over.

Mickey gives me a lab tour. After chatting with some potential co-workers, we go to a bar (again, Mickey’s idea that this is a standard part of the hiring process).  Driving there, I realize that I haven’t eaten all day.  On an empty stomach, even a tiny amount of liquor will overwhelm my sensibilities.  I will tell people exactly what I think of them.  In my experience, few people are capable of handling an unfiltered assessment from a near-complete stranger.  In a job interview, honesty is the last thing you want. 

The obvious solution was to eat something, anything.  I furiously rooted around Susan’s car, looking for comestibles.  For some reason, there was a two-pound bag of M&Ms in the car.  I tore into them, not questioning whether a pound of M&Ms would be even remotely helpful in staving off drunkeness. 

I walked into the bar with one pound of Hershey, Pennsylvania’s finest chocolate roiling through my stomach. 

We sit down en masse and order appetizers and drinks. Mickey twice asks how many calories are in the mozzarella sticks. I guessed wildly, wondering if this was some sort of test.  Mickey, having outdrank me four to one, turned the topic to movies.  He asked me what my favorite film was. 

I had no goddamn clue at this point.  It was paralysis by analysis.  All day, I’d answered questions.  I had described my efforts to peel back the frontiers of ignorance that baste science.  I’d addressed issues in molecular biology that few people in the world could understand, let alone answer.  I’d probed and prodded and examined every facet of every problem to the point that I could no longer simply open up my yap and just blurt out any old movie that recently tickled my fancy. 

There was also the fact that I wasn’t doing so well physically.  I was sugar high. 

The clock had been running on the question for an uncomfortably long time.  Soon, I would be the weird guy who thinks too hard about an easy question.  My potential colleagues would assume I only watched pornographic films, and was trying to remember the name of the real film Edward Penishands was based on.  I opened my mouth, no idea what would really come out. 

‘What came out’ turned out to “American History X.”

Hmmm.  Not a bad choice.  Decent movie, decent critical reviews.  On the other hand, it’s about a white supremacist who reforms after a stint in jail for murdering a couple of black guys trying to steal his car.  Oh, and there’s also a violent homosexual prison rape scene.  Hardly the sort of things to associate yourself with on a job interview.  “Ever seen it?” I asked Mickey.

“No, but I will,” Mickey promised. 

Take your time, I thought, maybe don’t even watch it until you get around to making me an offer.

Day 182

It’s been over a week. Desperate for something to take my mind off the waiting, I am hanging out at Susan’s hospital, performing an autopsy on a cat that was hit by a car. I’ve just identified the fracture in the spinal column  when the phone rings with the call. They make me an offer. A good one, more than twice the money I was making at the University of Chicago or at the McCompany. Then they ask me if this is acceptable. The idea of trying to negotiate slips into my head. They say you should always negotiate. As I open my mouth to say something, I have a brief memory of a guy who looks like me accidentally opening up a porn site during a job interview and – no pun intended – blowing it. Don’t get fancy, Noah, don’t get fancy. Done deal, I say. We agree on a start date.

It’s over.

At least that’s what I think.

Next Time: First Day at work.

Note: I’m taking a vacation, starting today. We’ll pick this up after Thanksgiving. Don’t worry, we’re almost finished.

Day 167 to 169

Day 167

Our second meeting was at a local restaurant*.  I arrive early and skulk around, psyching myself up. Mickey and Katsu arrive.  Katsu is wearing a boot.  I make a joke about him winning an ass-kicking contest.  He does not get it.

Our waitress’s name is Flo.  She is sixty, extremely matronly and reeks of smoke.  Immediately, she calls Katsu a stud.  Whether Katsu gets it or not is irrelevant, the reaction is similar.  I silently will Flo to take her cigarette break for the remainder of the meal. 

No such luck.  Flo comes back with our drinks.  Mickey has taken off his jacket.  “Jesus, would you look at these?” Flo exclaims, as she seizes and kneads one of Mickey’s rippling biceps.  My hopes of obtaining employment fade.  I order the Caesar salad.  It is flavorless, but I eat it anyway.  Still no clue who is in charge. 

I give Mickey a copy of my book.  Tears literally well in his eyes, and I can see I have touched him.  I am pleased.  Flo arrives and forces us to order a wedge of tasteless pie.  My joy fades. 

Upon our exit, Mickey and Katsu offered me a ride home.  I demurred, but they insisted.  Mickey drove a Rav4 and listened to classical harpsichord music. Improbably, this destabilized me further, to the point where my navigational powers failed completely.  Three miles later, I realized I’d sent the three of us in the wrong direction.  There was no way I was going to admit to having forgotten where I lived.  I ask to be let out at the next corner. 

“You live here?” Mickey asked, as I scrambled out. 

“Sure do,” I replied.  As Mickey and Katsu drove away, I noticed I had gotten out in front of a methadone clinic.  I got on the bus and rode back into town next to a heroin addict.

Day 169

Two days later, I got a call.  They wanted me to give a presentation.  I’ve been crashing at Susan’s place since the marathon, and have gone through my limited supply of interview clothes. Susan buys me a shirt and tells me not to fuck this opportunity up.

Next Time: Noah makes his move.

---

*Later, I learn that it was Mickey’s idea to hold this meeting in a bar.  HR pooh-poohed this unorthodox-yet-bold move.

Day 162

Day 162

I have another interview. As always, there’s good news and bad news. The good news is that it’s a scientist position at a real, honest-to-god pharmaceutical company. A real one, with 20,000 employees, actual products, and a website that I didn’t have to design. The bad news is that the branch of the company I would be working at is in Chicago, literally about ten miles from where I started this whole journey at the University of Chicago. In my current state, the bad news was akin to learning the supermodel you’re going on a date with has a pimple. In other words, I could give a shit. The lab could be in space for all I cared.

Based on my, ahem, recent hands-on experiences, I was noticing a disturbing trend in which I shoot myself in the foot, often snatching defeat from the proverbial jaws of victory. In this case, I was interviewing at a Japanese company, and losing this one over an inadvertent unforgivable cultural offense would be more than I could handle. My experience with Japanese business culture was based on two things: the movies Rising Sun and Robocop 3 (from this I learned I might be required to fight ninjas if our business deal went south) and a college friend of mine who interviewed with a Japanese non-profit for a job teaching english in Japan. All I could remember of her account of the interview was the interviewer asking her to list three negative stereotypes about Japanese. She’d popped out a couple of generic answers, like compulsive smoking and Godzilla, but couldn’t think of a third. Finally, she’d blurted out “small penis.” Even then, I think she got the job.

So, to recap, I knew nothing, other than not wearing a ‘I’m huge in Japan!’ T-shirt to the interview. Nevertheless, I made up a list of rules:

(1)      Do not mention dropping of nuclear bombs. That’s probably still a sore spot.

(2)      Do not make small talk about sushi.

(3)      Do not tower over short Japanese businessmen.

While my first contact with the company had been with HR types, eventually I had to meet my potential bosses. My first meeting with  occurred at the Society for Neuroscience meeting in Chicago.  The organizers of the meeting had set up a cube farm for potential employees to meet with their prospective bosses. From afar,  I watch two Japanese men enter.  One is heavily muscled, with a pencil mustache and jet black hair that’s slicked backwards.  The other is a tall, thin man with close-cropped hair.  I give them a moment to settle in, then knock and enter.  I stoop low to avoid banging my head under the door.  My height apparently intrigues them.  “Oooh!” they utter with genuine delight.  “So tall!”  I am pleased.

Asians love me.

Introductions are made.  Mickey is the muscular one and does most of the talking.  Katsu sits quietly in the corner, watching.  As we talk, I realize I have no idea which guy is in charge.  I begin to worry that Katsu is in charge and I should be addressing him more frequently.  My head whips back and forth like a bobblehead doll’s.  I have no idea whether this is going well.

Mickey tosses another wrench into the machinery by refusing to talk about science, presumably the reason I am being considered for a job.  Mickey asks me how tall I am, whether my parents are tall, and what I eat.  I answer him, deftly steering the conversation back to science, only to be thwarted at the next juncture.  Several ideas occur, ranging from them having already decided to hire me (improbable) to them having decided to not hire me (sadly, much more likely) to this not being a pharmaceutical company after all, but rather a cult.  As I ponder this, I struggle to keep up my end of the conversation while simultaneously keeping an eye on Katsu.  I fear that any minute, Mickey will turn to Katsu, receive a tiny, wordless shake of the head, and I will be escorted politely but firmly from the interview by Mickey the interviewer/bouncer. 

In the last three minutes of my interview, Mickey decides that now is the time to discuss my research prowess.  I am handed a sheet that asks me to rate my skills at various tasks from “poor” to “outstanding.” 

“You know I’m biased, right?” I ask as I fill it out the form. 

“The truth,” Mickey replied, pointing to the sheet in a no-nonsense manner.  My hopes sink.

On the way out, I smoothly bang my head into the low door frame.  “Ahhhaha,” Mickey chuckles.  “Big man and little door!”  He appears to write this as a note.  I am concerned. 

Next Time: The dance of seduction continues.

Day 158 to 160

Day 158

Sweet Christ, finally, a job interview. 

After having my self-confidence reduced to tatters by two email firings in six weeks, a second frantic job search had produced fewer options.  To date, I’ve done half a dozen phone interviews and a couple of face-to-face interviews, but this was the first time an organization was flying me in.  Without a job, I will run out of food within a month.  No pressure.    

OK, maybe some pressure.  The night before the interview, I was sitting in a nearby Marriott, trying to come up with some sound bytes that sounded brilliant yet unrehearsed, when it occurred to me that I was terrifically nervous. 

Grappling with anxiety, I pondered the solutions.  Generally, the most effective treatments for apprehension are the three B’s: barbiturates, booze and blowing a load.  I pondered the merits of leaving the hotel in search of recreational drugs, before rejecting the idea.  But there are few who can casually ask a gas station attendant where one can score some pot, and fewer still who can polish off a bottle of scotch without a hangover.  Fortunately, the hotel provided free Wi-Fi, allowing me unfettered access to the red-light district of the internet.  In no time I was relaxed and drowsing comfortably, swimming in the endorphin-induced feelings of goodwill that only a proper orgasm can summon. 

Over the course of the day I was scheduled to speak with no less than a dozen potential supervisors and co-workers of varying seniority.  By the time I’d reached the last interview of the day, I was tired but confident.  I was killing it, due in no small part to my stress-relieving exploits of the previous evening.  My final interviewers two potential co-workers.  At this point, I was playing the prevent defense that all confident applicants play: all I had to do was not say something stupid and the job would be mine.  This made even more sense in light of the fact that I had been interviewing for almost six hours and was flagging badly. 

The position I had applied for called for particular expertise in writing and editing.  Not unsurprisingly, one of the interviewers asked if I had any additional writing samples on me.

“Of course I do!” I bellowed cheerfully, tearing into my backpack and cracking open my laptop.  At no point did I think to question whether a spur-of-the-moment unveiling of my personal computer to two complete strangers would be a good idea.  At least until the unit finished powering up and the screen came alive to an open internet window of the rather explicit webpage I had so enjoyed so much the previous evening. 

Fuck.  Moving only slightly slower than the speed of light, I wrenched my laptop away from prying eyes.  “Hmm, let me find it,” I mumbled, desperately lining up the arrow over the “close tab” button and hammering desperately.  After a harrowing half-second, the naked figures on the screen disappeared.  Relief rushed through me for one blissful moment, only to be driven out by cold terror when another window popped up to replace it.  Like a death trap in an Indiana Jones movie, the designers of this particular erotic website built in a failsafe in the form of a pop-up window sporting a large-breasted woman in a nurse costume.  Even worse, this spectacle came complete with audio. Before I could quell the second window, a sultry woman’s voice emanating from my computer’s speakers asked everyone within earshot, “Who’s been a baaaad boy?”

Sound travels at a pedestrian 1,100 feet per second, far slower than light.  As such, I saw the danger before I heard it.  Sadly, this was irrelevant.  I had, as the saying goes, failed to keep my shit in the toilet.  

“What was that?” asked the first interviewer, a chunky redhead who thus far had not indicated a soft spot for hardcore porn. 

A properly functioning neuron transmits information at a rate of roughly 217 feet per second.  With a typical distance of six inches between the cortical processing centers of the brain, roughly a thousand permutations can be considered during a typical latency period following a question.  As such, the odds of giving a well-thought-out lie to a difficult question are, statistically speaking, rather long. 

Fortunately for frequent liars, the biophysical limitations of the brain does not discount the possibility of escaping such jams.  Enter the prepackaged lie, a ready-to-go story for the times we’re busted.  For some reason, most of mine involve claiming to suffer from some sort of disease.  For example, if a movie theater usher ever discovers the grocery store candy I am attempting to smuggle in, I claim to be diabetic protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act.  If I’m ever losing a fistfight, I will attempt to elicit sympathy from my attacker by claiming to have hemophilia.  Sadly, no disease – other than pornography addiction – could get me out of this one. 

Fortunately, there’s always a weapon of last resort: misdirection.  Like any good bullshitter, I knew that you could get people to drop just about anything – no matter how damaging – if you confused them sufficiently.  This is a delicate art, and a precise script must be followed.  It generally works if you say something stupid, but also is fairly handy if your computer does it for you.

Computer lady: Who’s been a baaaad boy?

Redhead: What was that?

Noah: About sixteen [note, this can be any bit of nonsense].

Redhead: Huh?

Noah: Sure.

Redhead: I’m afraid I’m not following.

Noah: [Here’s where you show confusion] No, no, what did you say?

Redhead: Huh?

Noah: Never mind, here’s the document you wanted to see.  

Day 160

They hired the other guy. 

Next Time: Another, slightly stranger job option emerges.