Life Lessons

I rescued a baby bird the other day. I work in a restaurant, and while passing through the kitchen on my way to find coffee, a chef asked me, "Is this your bird?" Confused, I looked to his hands, expecting to find a decapitated chicken carcass. His hands were empty, palms up and open in an expression of helplessness. I followed his gaze upwards to the ceiling, where, sure enough, there was a lively bird fluttering aimlessly, bumping along the broken ceiling like a moth against a light bulb.

"How'd he get in here?"

"Dunno."

"How're we gonna get him down?"

"Dunno."

"Hope he doesn't poop in the food."

"Hmmph."

My search for coffee was triumphant, and I sipped it back in my office while on hold with 311. The first brilliant New York City representative told me that the city would only come to rescue the bird if it were injured or foaming at the mouth. In other words, we either have to throw a stone at it, or feed it alka-seltzer. She transferred me to animal control, and in the process, my call was disconnected. The second representative did not waste my time as much, and readily--and successfully-- transferred me to animal control. Their response was blunt and concise. "A bird? We don't do birds." And on to the Yellow Pages.

I had no idea there were so many animal trapper companies in Manhattan, considering the only animals in Manhattan are rats, squirrels, and little dogs adorned in booties and Burberry ponchos. A dozen phone calls later, and I had yet to find a single person interested in helping us trap the bird.

And more about the bird... This bird was obviously not a New York street bird, meaning that it wasn't a pigeon, or a boring brown finch. It had a slight figure, like a finch, but its belly was a striking yellow. It seemed too clean, too pretty to be from the streets. How did someone's pet finch get into our kitchen?

Unanswerable questions aside, I finally found a trapper to come and net the bird. $375, just to catch it. As I get up to share the news, an extern from the kitchen runs up to me and tells me that one of the porters, Diego, had finally caught the bird! I run down to the kitchen and ask where it is. Diego had placed it in a short, wide box, with crudely punched holes. I felt a dirty grit on the outside of it, and immediately resolved to find a better box.

Finding a better box was easy. Trying to transport the bird into a better box was impossible. I locked myself in our small office bathroom with the old box, the new box, and the determined, frightened bird. The thought of touching the bird scared the crap out of me, not because I was afraid of a disease, but because I knew how light, and fragile it would feel, and how there would be a blast of scratching claws and punchy feathers in my loose fist. This fear prevented me from getting a firm grasp, and whoosh went the bird, flying crazily around the bathroom. It bumped into the light, failed to find footing on the door, and dove for cover behind the toilet. I called in for back up, so then there were two of us trying to catch this bird in his futile dash around the bathroom. He plummeted behind the garbage can, which was when I finally caught him. I gingerly placed him in his new box, which offered cleanliness, height, and an abundance of breathing holes.

The bathroom encounter left me so frazzled that my hands shook visibly. His frantic dips and swoops had my heart going at such a rate, that I was afraid we'd both die from arrhythmia. This bird obviously had guts and stamina, and after spending time with him in close quarters, I positively determined that not only was he not a street bird, he was not even an ordinary pet bird. With that in mind, I set out to find him a better dwelling place, and began to consider what fun it might be to adopt this bird.

Petco, which is located around the corner from where I work, is the Walmart of pet stores, that is, if Walmart was overpriced. It's huge and has everything. But you do not go there for quality service. I picked out a little pink cage for transporting birds, as well as a blue water dish with help from a Petco employee. He said that if I brought the bird back, he'd be able to tell me what kind of bird he was. It sounded good to me, so I headed back, prepared to transfer my new bird friend into his new home without fucking up as badly as I had before.

This time, I reached my hand bravely into the dark box, found him trying to fly out of the box, and cautiously repositioned him into my hand. From there, I adeptly inserted him into his pink kingdom, complete with newspaper (the Onion) lining. I used the extra newspaper to cover his cage, and carried him back to Petco.

Once there, I could not find a soul. Could everyone have possible dematerialized in the past 20 minutes? I stared at anyone who passed by in a Petco polo, looking needy and helpless, yet everyone ignored me. I could not remember what the gentleman who had originally helped me looked like, although I think he had a grill. "Excuse me, may I please speak to the gentleman with the grill?" was a little to outrageous for me to ask, so I accepted my plight as the silent-pleader, and hoped that someone would finally take notice of me. A gentleman in the fish department identified the bird as a canary, which I found preposterous. I mean, here was this finch, obviously a finch, with brown feathers and a yellow plume, stuck in our kitchen. But wait, the brown feathers actually look green. And the plume was a canary yellow. And canaries are finches, after all. Another Petco employee that I was able to corner concurred that it might be a canary, and was, at the very least, a finch. We went about the aisles looking at food, the perfect cage, a cuttlefish bone, mirrors, and various bird toys. She told me that the bird would require perches of different sizes so as to prevent arthritis in the future. She examined the bird through his ridiculously small cage, and determined that he was just a baby, but that he seemed to be in good health, as his eyes were clear, his feathers weren't spotty, and there was no evidence of diarrhea.

Happy with the determination of his kind, and glad to hear he was healthy despite the terrible trauma of the day, I headed back to work, and gave a quick call to my mom.

"Do I want a canary?"

"No."

"But, I rescued it, and it's really adorable and I think I'm already in love with it."

"No. You have cats--it won't work."

"I still want to take him home, but you're right. Okay, bye."

My new resolve was to give the bird up to the chef who wanted it originally; the one who first pointed out the bird to me. I shared this news with people who asked about the bird's well-being and where it was headed next, and they all retorted with the same question: Are you sure he'll take good care of it? Their questions and doubt inspired me to ponder his laid-back attitude, the laziness of his eyes, and his kitchen lifestyle. While I had my doubts, I thought he would take care of it. But I was more confident that I would be a better guardian for this little, lost bird. The chef wanted to buy the bird an avian mansion. I wanted to buy it the perfect-sized cozy cage, complete with those funny bird toys I saw at Petco. He wanted to buy it fellow, feathered friends. I just wanted to see this bird relax and be happy again.

I continued to think about it, and after another talk with the chef, I was confident that he would take care of the bird. While he finished up his shift, I sat at my desk, with the bird showcased in front of me. I cooed to it, and whistled made up songs. He chirped back a little, too, although I'm not sure whether we were having a conversation, or if he were just barking commands or concerns like, "Why is my cage pink?" and "Please get me out of here!" Even in his confined but open space, he still struggled maniacally to escape. I covered his cage with newspaper, comforting him with the cool darkness of a censored world. As he settled down, I felt a palpable bond between us. To be honest, I fell in love with him before I even opened up the first dirty box. But our run to Petco together, and seeing him in the cage that I bought for him, cemented my affection for him. And I empathized with him. I mean, he had become a "him" after all. To be small, and vulnerable, and lost in a world that is so big, confusing, and unkind. Who has not felt like a little finch trapped in a kitchen? All he wanted was a safe place to perch. I could certainly relate.

Suddenly, the chef came in and took the bird away. He quickly covered the cage in a jacket, to keep it warm, and left. I sat dumbfounded, amazed that I had not been able to say goodbye, and wondered if it were perverse that I felt the need to memorialize our parting. I quietly cried, pitiful single tears sprouting from each eye. At least there was a happy ending for the bird in sight, even though my heart was broken, and regret was already taking hold.

By the time I got home that night, I cursed myself for not keeping the bird. I felt strongly touched and affected by the bird's trauma from the day, as if it were my own. I was depressed and worn out, feeling lost and tattered.


The next day, I ran into the chef. "How's Diego?" I asked. He had named the bird after its rescuer. "Not so good," he mumbled.

Oh shit. Putting on a brave face, and attempting indifference, I said, "Don't tell me he died."

"Well. When I got him in the big cage I bought, I saw that his wing was broken. He wasn't able to fly, and just sat on the bottom of the cage. By the time we went to bed, he was covering his head with his wing. And when I woke up this morning, he was in the corner."

"Are you going to take him to the vet?" I interrupted.

"No, he's already left us, you know?" He's already dead, get it? He died last night, in the bottom of his bird palace.

"Why didn't you try to take him somewhere, like a vet?"

"We were going to take him to a bird store, but when we called to see how late they were open, it turned out that they had moved to Brooklyn." Brooklyn: kryptonite for this Manhattan-isolationist.

I shrugged my shoulders, managed a smile, and said, "We tried." Yes, we did. Maybe that would make us both feel better, alleviate the guilt that we both must be feeling? I don't know if it worked for him, but it failed miserably for me. I dropped my binder and told a colleague that I needed a minute. I locked myself in the bathroom, the same bathroom where I struggled to put the bird into the cleaner box, and sobbed.

First was the anger. Why did I leave the bird with him? Why didn't he take it to the vet? Why didn't I just take the bird?

And then the guilt. I should have taken him to the vet. What if I am the one who broke his wing?
And finally, the thick fleece of sadness. I tried so hard to help him, did all I thought I could. I might as well have just dumped his cage into a trash can. His last day was full of confusion, frustration, terror, and panic. He died alone in a gigantic, brand-new cage, in an over-priced Gramercy loft. They were sleeping when he died.

I would expect that not many people would have such a strong reaction to a bird's death. But it destroyed me. I needed him to be okay, and he died. And I could not do anything for him. In a small way, it felt like losing my father all over again.

Admittedly, I am not immune to anthropomorphizing. If my cats were just cats, life would be pretty boring. And I am inclined to love animals, with the added twinge of my sex's instinctual mothering tendencies. I would still like to think that there was something greater there. That the bird was really more than just a bird. His life meant something, his outrageously random appeareance in our kitchen was not just a fluke.

There must be a life lesson in this.

I'm just not sure where or what.

Need Job, Will Beg

Have you ever watched a cat clean himself? He is meticulous, in a way that he never demonstrates elsewhere. Just look at the care with which he picks at his toes, lapping with thick, slurpy licks and then diving down low to crunch around his nails. But how fickle his effort is! Just after getting started on one paw, he quickly abandons it for another, and then that paw is cast away for a tail, or a nose. I saw a program about cats once, and it was said that cats clean themselves when there are bored, frightened, or confused. While watching my cat groom himself, I examine him, trying to read his emotions in his tongue's inflections. Is he frightened? If so, was it something I did to scare him? Was it my outfit? Or have I confused him in some way?

Maybe he is as confused as I am about my inability to find a job. We both thought that my new Ivy League education and consistently proven success at my current job would be enough. If not that, then my charming personality, bubbling over the top of my perfectly pressed and matched grey suit. Or perhaps my unbridled passion for excellence in whatever task I undertake? No? Really? But, I don’t understand…

What else am I supposed to have? What else am I supposed to do?

My inability to secure a new job is almost comical. It seems to only to worsen as I go. Since I am a qualified candidate, with a pulse and a personality, I can only imagine that my failure to find a new job is somehow chalked up to bad luck.

It’s not about luck, you say? Well, I don’t know what else it could be, if it’s not about luck. Yes, it should be about being qualified, and talented, and a hard-worker. But it’s honestly not, at least not in New York City.

My bad luck started about a year ago, when I first felt inclined to dive back into job searching. I scheduled a meeting with a woman who is well-known in part for her position as food editor for one of the nation’s best food magazines. We spoke at length about my desire to work in television and produce food-related shows, which would be a perfect outlet to blend my passions for television and food. I was willing to start at the bottom, to take a pay cut. I would do anything.

She hooked me up with a small production house based in Connecticut that did a couple of food shows for a large food television network. I met with the president of the house, and wowed him with my humor and heart. He said he wanted to find a place for me, and could always use someone who is extremely passionate and detail-oriented, regardless of my lack of production experience.

A month later, I emailed him to see how the rest of his interviewing was going. “Believe it or not,” he wrote, “I’m still in the middle of the interviewing process, but as soon as I’m done, you’ll know.” I took it as a kindly, “I find your tenacity annoying. I’ll let you know as soon as I can.” So, I curbed the emails and patiently awaited word. And awaited. And awaited. And…

It’s now been a year.

So, I posted my resume on Monster.com. Monster.com has a lot of crap postings, but there are always a few gems.

I applied for an “events planner” position at large Internet company. Against all odds, I got a phone call from them, requesting that I speak with their hiring manager. I spent three hours preparing for this phone interview. I took over four pages of notes. On the evening of the interview, I patiently sat beneath the architecture section in Barnes and Noble, anticipating the call. Twenty minutes go by. I call California, inquiring if the manager will need to reschedule our interview. Ten minutes later, while in the ladies room (awkward), I get a phone call letting me know that the manager was caught a meeting, and would give me a call in a half an hour. That’s thirty minutes.

Eighty minutes later, I was finally on the phone with the manager, blowing him away with my extensive knowledge of his company’s philosophies, and my overflowing passion for what his company does. It is all very sincere, and energetic. The manager was very gracious, apologizing for the wait. Honestly, I would have waited all night. He said that out of all the candidates he has interviewed, I was the only one who inspired him. He promised to happily recommend me to his manager, and assured me that I would hear back soon.

A week and a half later, I send am email to inquire where they are in the hiring process. My email is returned by a personal phone call from the hiring manager I spoke to, letting me know that his manager chose an internal candidate. Oh well.

But I really should have gotten that job!

Anyway. About a week after that, I got a phone call from a recruiter. She was looking for an executive assistant for the president of a company that developed software used to put restaurants’ point-of-sales data to work. I was familiar with the company, because the restaurant I work at uses their software. I mentioned this to the recruiter, and then explained that I was not looking for an executive assistant position (“But thanks so much for considering me!”). She did not take “no” for an answer, and counter-pointed with the salary. “The base is $80,000.” Maybe being an executive assistant isn't so bad? “Oh, really? When can I interview?” She said she’d give me a call back soon with an interview date and time.

The next four days were spent fantasizing about what I could do with $80,000 a year. I’d definitely buy some new furniture. Hire a cleaning woman. Get a massage and a facial once a month. I’d never do my own nails again. Maybe I’d buy a car? Why not?

So, on the fourth day, I called her to check in. After about two minutes explaining why she should recognize my name, it finally clicked. “Oh,” she said, “I was just about to call you.” Yes? “I spoke with the president, and he won’t hire you.” He doesn’t even want to interview me, or meet me? “No, he doesn’t hire employees that belong to his customers. Sorry, and good luck.” Ouch. So much for my new fabulous lifestyle. But wait a second—I was duped, and for no reason! I didn’t even want to be somebody’s assistant! That bitch!

Most recently, I applied for a campus recruiter position for perhaps the largest financial institution in the world. Ten days later, I interviewed with three managers, separately, for over two hours. I left the interviews feeling confident that I had a job, and was so tantalized by the prospects of what was soon about to be my new, incredibly busy life. Would I still be able to make it down to Mexico next month for my friend’s wedding? What about that concert on that night, or my friend visiting? Would I be away recruiting at colleges? Would I ever see my boyfriend again?

Yes, I would see my boyfriend again. And I would be able to attend my friend’s wedding, and make it to the concert, and be there when my friend was visiting. Why? Because I would not be away recruiting at colleges. I would not even get the job. At least, that’s what it looks like.

Once again, I was told that I would hear back very soon. The whole point of meeting with three managers in one day was so that they would be able to extend an offer to me without my having to come back in for another interview. The HR person assured me that I would have an answer by the following afternoon (either “yes”, “no” or “maybe”). How perfect, I thought. I had dinner plans that evening, and I excitedly wondered if it would be a celebratory dinner, or a consolation dinner. I prayed for the former, and kept my cell phone in the pocket of my skirt all day, awaiting the call.

Yes, there is a pattern here.

The day went by without a call. I did not even receive a response to any of the thank-you emails that I sent out to those managers who interviewed me. So, now I’m left to wonder: good news or bad news? Could anyone blame me for thinking the worst?

All right, so even if this is a "no", life will go on. If my life could change so quickly in over a week, it can surely happen again. You never know.

Eh, enough with feigning optimism. If I don’t get this job, I’m going to lie down on the sidewalk of my massive failure, and forfeit. And you can be there to watch and trample me.

That said, to all of you fellow job-hunters out there… Let’s all let loose a collective sigh, and keep our chins up. Or start our own company so we can take our turns as the assholes not hiring us.

UPDATE: Five days, four emails, and one voicemail later, still no word.

UPDATE II: Finally, six days later, was told that there were some more candidates (read: you're not getting the job) to be met with, and I'd hear back after Labor Day. And the luck continues...