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.