Working Stiffs: Lessons from a Full-Time Freelancer

Trust your gut.  It's a cliched rule in life, but when it comes to careers and employment, we sometimes trust the promise of an opportunity or paycheck rather than our instinctual reaction that a job is going to be bad news.

Anyone who has ever scoured the "TV/Film" job listing section of Craig's List knows the utter disappointment lying in wait behind all the overzealous advertisements: "seeking PA for company X. 60+ hours a week, no pay but great experience" or "seeking an attractive, young, open minded assistant to film producer." Hidden among the solicitations for slaves and skanks I found a promising gem: "Multi-media Entertainment Company seeks reliable, honest, upbeat assistant. Duties will include general office assistance as well as working on various film, fashion and music projects. Great opportunity to learn about the business." Jackpot!

I sent my resume and immediately had an interview. I put on my one and only blazer and went to meet my destiny at their Manhattan offices in the Meatpacking district. (This was when the Meatpacking district was just on the brink on becoming trendy—meaning, the Meatpacking district was actually filled with meat, not meatheads.)

After climbing the seven flights of stairs to the loft suite I was greeted by a huge poster of a very well known and controversial rap artist (of whom I conveniently was a fan). On the other side of the room, outside the Head Honcho (company president's) office, I noticed a painting sitting on the ground. The Head Honcho was in L.A., so I wasn’t going to be meeting him today, but the painting was (I assumed and later confirmed) of him, his wife, his daughter, and their dog.  It was a watercolor print, and it must have just been delivered as it still sat half wrapped in packing materials. From the painting, he looked nice enough. I mean, he had a kid and dog.

Then I met with the VP of marketing—a short, handsome, Italian guy who asked me the standard job interview questions without ever even offering a glimpse of a smile.

As the irritated Italian went on to describe what they do and how great an opportunity this was, I told my gut to shhhhhhh. I mean, chic loft space + huge hip-hop star = career connections. Right?

Then Mr. Frowny Face's phone rang and he excused himself to speak to his mother in Italian. My parents always taught me that Italians love other Italians, and this is supposed to hold true even if they're assholes. (Really, I could be mugged and beaten by a thug and if my parents knew the suspect was a fellow amici they’d probably invite him over for dinner.) So, when he hung up the phone, I, in a last ditch effort to make this guy grin, and assuming my paisan knew about this code of camaraderie, said something to the effect of, "Italiano mamas, eh? Pazzo (crazy)! Right?" Not only did he not laugh or smile, but he also he shot me the coldest, dirtiest look (which I interpreted as, "You are a stupid piece of shit.")

On my way out, I noticed that the other two employees also looked miserable. The accountant looked to be on the verge of tears and the tech guy seemed as though he may strangle himself with USB cables at any moment.

I walked outside and put on my sunglasses to hide the fact that I was crying. I find myself doing this quite often—walking the streets of Manhattan, sobbing behind my shades. New York City is amazing in that way. You could walk around crying, laughing, screaming—hell you could probably walk around naked—and everyone is too busy, too fast, too jaded to notice.

Oddly enough, however, about twenty minutes after I left the loft of lost dreams, I got a call from the angry Italian saying, "Can you start tomorrow at 9 a.m.?" I wanted to tell him that me and my tacky blazer didn't need his miserable job and that he and his pazzo mama could go va fanculo (Italians, you know what this means.) I wanted to tell him that he was a social retard and that his arrogance didn't change the fact that he was still five foot four. I wanted to tell him I'd rather work in the butcher shop across the street cleaning up rejected sausage fillings with my mouth than work for a unhappy loser like him.

But instead I said, "Sure, see you then. Thank you. Sounds great. Thanks again."

I showed up the next day where was given a long list of frequent callers and what to do when each person calls. The list, six pages long, was split into three categories:

• People who immediately get put through to Head Honcho
• People whose name you write down on a memo, hand to Head Honcho in his office, and then wait for him to decide what to do.
• People who never get put through to Head Honcho, just have their message taken.

Later, I finally met Head Honcho. He invited me into his to tell them more about me and my goals. I said I was an aspiring writer (for some reason I was scared to tell him I was also a comedian and actress) and he told me that if I did a good job, he could introduce me to anyone and everyone in Hollywood.

I thanked him for this "great opportunity" and returned to my desk, where I stared at the large poster of the hip-hop artist who made this "great opportunity" possible and day dreamed about the "great opportunities" in my near future. The rest of the day was fairly quiet and I went home that night feeling better about my new gig.

The next day, I spent my usual morning hours doing absolutely nothing at my desk. Then the phone rang. The caller was some guy named Jon. Let’s pretend his last name was Smith. He was in the "people whose name you write down on a memo, hand to the president in his office, and then wait for him to decide what to do" section of the list.

I wrote down JON SMITH and walked into the head honcho's office. He was on the phone, so I handed him the note as instructed.  He took one look at the note, one look at me and said to the person he was talking to, "Can I call you back? I have to deal with something." He slammed down the receiver and said to me, "Um, who called?"

I replied, "Jon Smith."

Head Honcho: "And, is that Jon as in J-O-N or John as in J-O-H-N?"

I answered, "It's Jon, I didn't ask if it was with a H or not. Sorry."

Head Honcho: "Look, names are very important in this business. You can’t just write down names the was you assume they are spelled..."

He went on for about ten minutes finishing with, "How would you feel if people spelled your name wrong?"

To which I retorted, "Actually my name is Giulia with a G, so it gets spelled wrong all the time."

He didn't appreciate my honesty and screamed, "Don't let it happen again! Do you understand?”

Oh, I understood. I understood that some people in power positions get boners belittling "the help." That success in Hollywood equated with being a total dick. That the guy in the watercolor was a lunatic and an egomaniac and was probably cheating on his wife and probably beats the dog.

So, I just responded, "Yup" and walked back to my desk.

The president called me at my desk and screamed: "Just to be clear, you understand right?"

I decided it was a good time to take my lunch break. I wanted to throw myself down the seven flights of stairs to the exit so that I could collect workers comp. I walked around the corner with my sunglasses on so that I could—you guessed it—cry through the streets of Manhattan. I took out my cell and called everyone to tell them that I hated the job and I wanted to quit, to which they all replied with their personal version of, "Oh Giulia, you're just having first day jitters! You always quit jobs. Stick this one out!"

I tried to explain that I knew this job was shitty before I even started and that I knew I shouldn't have accepted it in the first place. But no one listened to me, the same way I didn’t listen to my gut.

I got home that night and was sick to my stomach. When I got to work the next day I was afraid and disgusted. I decided to tell the other assistant what happened and as she reassured me that the job wasn't so bad, her phone rang. It was the Head Honcho calling from LA. I couldn't hear what he was saying—all I heard was her saying the following:

"Hi! What? No I called them for...wait, what? No, I didn't. But I. But you."

Then she slams the phone down and runs out of the office crying hysterically.

When the angry Italian came in, I went to his desk and said, "I feel awful every time I walk into this office and I do not want to work here any longer."

He didn't seem surprised, and I knew I wasn’t even close to the first assistant to walk off the job here. So, I walked out, and this time I didn't need to put on my sunglasses to hide my tears because I wasn't crying. I was smiling. I was so happy that I listened to my gut and got out.

And, wouldn't you know, later that day I got a call from a lovely non-profit documentary film company asking me to come interview for an office manager job for which I had applied a few months before. When I entered their offices, everyone was happy and friendly. When I was interviewed, I proudly and immediately told the HR director that I was a comedian, actress, and writer and she loved that I was ambitious and creative. My gut told me this was great job and my gut was right—I was offered the position and stayed with that company for a whole year (a long time for a job-hopper like me).  This time, the job actually did offer "great opportunities" like the opportunity to work with really cool people (with whom, years later, I still keep in touch) on cool projects (on which, years later, I'm still involved).

But, most importantly, it gave me the opportunity to be myself at work: comedian, actor, writer, smiley-faced me. So repeat it with me: trust your gut!

Copyright 2008 Shoestring, LLC.