In the Summer of 2007, I turned in my emergency credential, stopped referring to myself by my last name, and quit my job as a teacher. I remained unemployed throughout the entire swimsuit season (which I vicariously enjoyed through viewing Facebook albums). As is standard practice for a teacher, I was still being paid for my previous labors until the start of the next academic year. I chose to spend more of my subsidized leisure time writing a terrible novel than seeking employment, which is not to say that I didn't strive to achieve a healthy balance between the two pursuits. In fact, right after I tendered my resignation, I answered a classified ad for a marketing position. Naturally, I presumed that, based on my complete lack of marketing experience, I would be developing advertising campaigns and my work would appear on billboards. I bought a suit from Target (which still serves as my Sunday Best to this day) and I made it through the first round of interviews. To be honest, I doubt anyone didn't. We were all called back to go through a day-long interview, which consisted of shadowing a campaign representative in the field. There were about 50 of us, applicants and campaign reps together, all of us mere kids just out of college, gathered at 7:00 A.M. in a West Los Angeles boiler room that was filled with whiteboards displaying target numbers and sales leaders. I still didn't get what was happening, so I left my car in the parking lot and I got in my campaign rep's car as we headed "east" to a "meeting". Leaving my car behind would prove to be a critical mistake, as "east" turned out to be El Monte, which was a MetroLink and two connecting busses away. The "meeting" turned out to consist of walking down the main street and cold-calling on business owners to persuade them to switch their long-distance carrier. So "marketing" as in tele-marketing, but in person instead of over the phone. As soon as I realized the true nature of the position, I considered myself marooned for the day, both because I wasn't entirely sure how to get back to West LA using public transportation, but mostly because I was so afraid of telling my campaign rep that I didn't want to do with my life what he was doing with his life. Also, a part of me wondered if this was in fact my life now. Fortunately that didn't turn out to be the case, mostly because I was so horrible at sales. Even though I was supposed to spend the first day silently shadowing my campaign rep, I'm certain I cost him a couple of sales. I had recently cut my hand on a shard from a broken toilet tank cover (don't ask), so after the charming campaign rep shook hands with a would-be AT&T customer, I would follow up by extending my noticeably bandaged hand in way of greeting. Plus, I hate people, and it shows. I mean, it really shows. My campaign rep was tall, had obviously played varsity sports in high school, and had probably slept with some of the female campaign reps who had gathered in the boiler room that morning. I had the sense that if I went back to the whiteboard I would find his name among the sales leaders, but on that day he didn't fare so well with me in tow. At the end of the day we hadn't convinced a single business owner to switch to AT&T. My campaign rep informed me that this was called "rolling a donut" and that he had never done that before. He said it as more an observation than an accusation. Thankfully, around 4 o'clock, we got in his car and headed back to West LA. During the ride back he asked me questions about the philosophy of sales, and I eagerly responded with thoughtful answers because I thought it would be awkward if I betrayed any disinterest in his career. I was supposed to have one final 30-minute interview with his supervisor when we returned to West LA, after which I would presumably be offered a position. I said that another interview sounded like a fine idea. When we got to the parking lot, I thought about leaving right then and there, but I chickened out and I let my campaign rep walk me back to the boiler room. Then I was escorted to a chair just outside of the supervisor's office and I was told that my interview would take place in about fifteen minutes. I planned on leaving as soon as my campaign rep was out of sight. Due to the commotion of everyone gathering in the boiler room to compare notes for the day, I lost track of my campaign rep after a few minutes. Figuring the coast was clear, I bolted out of the boiler room and down the hallway to the parking lot. And of course, just as I was about to exit the building, my campaign rep came through the door and accosted me. "Hey Richard, where are you going?" "To the bathroom?" I asked, since I was really posing the question of whether he believed I was going to the bathroom. "It's over here," he said, pointing back towards the boiler room. "Come on, I'll show you." "Actually, I'm going home. I'm sorry, but this job is not for me." Looking back now as I write this, it seems so ludicrous that I preferred to waste an entire day just to avoid a few uncomfortable seconds of saying these words, which I ended up saying anyway. My campaign rep tried to convince me to go through with the interview (I presume because he would have received a cut of any sales I made), but I declined his offer and finally made it back to my car which I had been so foolish to leave. I muted the radio and drove back to my apartment listening to dead air, as if I was giving myself to silent treatment. When I got home, I heated a DiGiorno's pizza in the oven and I ate the whole thing.