Tales from the Back Row (16 page)

Overhearing this aspiring intern's interview was calming, in a
way. I remembered when I was in her phase of career, fighting for gigs and my place in the media industry, and mostly failing, and feeling like I'd never get an internship much less a job. Now here I was, on the twelfth floor of the Condé Nast Building, waiting to interview for a position at
Vogue
.

• • •

After the chipper intern prospect said good-bye and wheeled her suitcase onto the elevator, Mark Holgate came out to get me. He is a comforting sort of Brit, and I view him as a rare fashion intellectual—interested in fashion in much more of a cerebral way than a bragging-rights sort of way. From what I gather, he's not in it for the front-row seats or free shoes; he's in it because he finds fashion interesting in the way people find art or music interesting, and wants to decode it the way we are taught to pick apart literature or art. Contrast this with the way many young people get “in” to the fashion world today, by starting blogs full of photos of themselves to show off how they wear shirts. Quiet study or internships that involve untangling necklaces or packing trunks just doesn't take as well with this “look at me” generation. I never felt comfortable sharing photos of my clothes on the internet, so we should theoretically get along.

As a prominent
Vogue
staffer, of course, Mark gets free shoes.
Nice
shoes, too. As he led me into his windowless office, I glimpsed a pair of flashy black Christian Louboutin shoes with silver spikes sticking out all over them sitting neglected in an open box.

“Christian Louboutin sent me these shoes,” he said, either to calm my nerves via small talk or so that I wouldn't think that he
had purchased them himself. “They've been sitting here because I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with studded shoes.”

At this moment I was
soooo
thankful that I had gone to Bloomingdale's and purchased my nude peep-toe pumps rather than worn a pair of studded black pumps I had in my closet already. If Mark Holgate and I have the same ideas about what footwear looks passé, maybe I
did
belong here! Actually, seeing as I still wore my studded pumps, like, all the time, maybe I didn't.

As we talked, the phone began to ring. Anna (or her assistant) had called Mark's office a healthy five to seven minutes before I was due. Mark informed the person on the other end of the line that we were still chatting and asked if she needed to see me now. He would hang up the phone, and this person would call again. “Does she need to see her now? Can you find out?” Mark would say each time. Before we could exchange even another complete sentence, the phone would ring again. After a few of these exchanges, it was determined that I would go to see Anna now. Now? Now!

As I walked down the hallway, I reminded myself not to barf. As if I were a tennis ball in play, Mark lobbed me over to one of Anna's two assistants in the hall. (Maybe she views hiring as a series of matches in which prospective hires are volleyed from staffer to staffer until she slams them right out the door.) She was totally gorgeous and at least as tall as me—and I had to have been six feet or taller in my heels. It was as though she hadn't merely been hired for this job, but
cast
. She nervously asked for my name twice so that she could announce me properly as I entered
chez Anna
. I don't remember how she introduced me, because as soon as we got to this corner nook of the twelfth floor of 4 Times Square where Her Office was located, I was made even more lightheaded by how it
looked exactly as every movie or story about the place depicted it. If you're going to Hawaii, this kind of thing is thrilling. If you're going to a job interview, it's a nightmare because it somehow also suggests that all the things you thought couldn't possibly be true about the place are true.

Though I had imagined all the wonderful things about working at
Vogue,
I had never thought about the
consequences
of being so intimidated by a boss—how that affects the work and product you put out—but it must be like the personality equivalent of owning a Chanel suit. It's not necessarily attractive, but it means something to a certain group of people. And to many of those people, it's just intimidating.

The double-wide doorway to Anna's office was flanked by two assistants' workstations that looked remarkably similar to the workstations in
The Devil
Wears Prada
. That legendary walk up to her desk was as awkwardly long as everyone says it is. Just long enough for her to stare you down, judge your outfit, and make you feel embarrassed about being in her presence. While the rest of Condé Nast's office facilities were depressingly gray and dimly lit, Anna's were a bastion of white light. Facing her desk were two silver metal chairs. To the left, as you walk in, is a sitting area with a couch. You know it: you've seen it in the
Vogue
documentary
The September Issue
and in
The Devil
Wears Prada
. The ceiling in Anna's office felt lower than I imagined, which made sitting in front of her feel that much more intimate and therefore that much more ­unnatural—intimacy being neither a state nor word commonly associated with Anna.

Anna's desk faced into the office, away from her windows, which looked out onto Times Square and the landmark midtown intersections lit at all hours of the day and most definitely not
made to be observed at eye level. No wonder she wears sunglasses inside all the time. But if she faced away from those lights, it means anyone sitting and having a conversation with her was looking straight into them.

So as I approached Scary Flashing Light Anna, she stood up from behind her desk. She was wearing a long-sleeved printed blue dress that looked more expensive than any single piece of furniture in my apartment, mattress included. She reached across the desk to shake my hand. I don't remember what it felt like because I was too busy noticing
my résumé sitting on her desk all by itself
. This woman was not only aware of my existence but
had my résumé in front of her and was going to read it in my presence.
I felt my cheeks turn red as a hot flash settled over my body. Menopause in your twenties: it's not impossible. But lots of urban-dwelling overworked women probably already know that.

As if lifted by the neon beams of light coming out of P. Diddy's head, or whatever celebrity's fragrance billboard was lording over Times Square those days, she leaned forward and extended her right hand. She grinned. We shook.

“Lovely to see you,” she said.

“Thanks for taking the time,” I managed.

Conversing with Scary Flashing Light Anna requires the utmost concentration just so that you do not behave like a cat that sees a laser pointer dancing behind her head. Half the time, I wanted to bat at my own face; and half the time, I wanted to bat at
her
face. Obviously, if you go into an interview with anyone, Anna Wintour or not, if you treat them like a cat toy, you're not exactly setting yourself up for success.

“So you're one of the people who stalks me on the Cut,” she said with a half laugh. So this got real awkward
real
fast.

“Haaaa . . .” I said.

She then asked me standard job interview stuff about what I do with my time all day. I explained that it essentially involved being at my desk all the time so that I could put up a blog post every forty-five minutes and edit posts that came in from other people in the office or freelancers, etc.

“Do you go out?” she asked. “To events?”

“Well, my job is to be at the office most of the time,” I explained. “When you have to aggregate a news blog, that doesn't leave a lot of room to be out and about, unfortunately.”

“I like everyone to be out, seeing everything,” she said. This probably meant events, but also showroom visits, which means going to look at clothes hanging on a rack. Few working in internet journalism in New York have time for this sort of thing.

“I would welcome the opportunity to get out of my chair and go to more events, and see everything,” I said. “Unfortunately, that's not my job right now.”

For the most part, Anna did seem shy, as my tipster had warned me. She'd often cast her eyes down at her desk and my résumé rather than look straight at me, which could easily be viewed as a sign of nervousness in anyone. I can relate to this. I'm shy and awkward, and the fact that I've ever done well at a job interview goes against everything about the way I am. I suppose the one thing I've got going for me, even if I'm awkward and quiet and have to try so very hard to sell myself when it counts (job seeking, interviewing celebrities), is a conspicuously blunt manner. I'm incapable of hiding my emotions and opinions. I do not know how to bullshit. It does not occur to me, 99 percent of the time, to bullshit. I had no intention of lying in this interview, because I was too scared to, but also, that warning about not pretending to know
about tennis stuck with me like the spikes on those Louboutin shoes that so troubled Mark Holgate.

“What do you do on the weekends?” Anna asked.

Luckily, I had rehearsed this one.

“My boyfriend's in grad school in Boston—Harvard Business School—so I go up there a lot of weekends. And I work so much, so sometimes I do work on the weekends. And I'm a runner—I run every morning three to five miles,” I said, figuring that Harvard Business School was the prestigious sort of proper noun socialites pepper their conversations with.

“Good for you,” Anna said, with a look of legitimate impressed-­ness on her face. Knowing she was a fit woman who put a lot of energy into physical fitness, I figured this was the right thing to highlight.

“Thanks, yeah, I love running. So every weekend, I try to do a longer run—six to ten miles—because it's hard to find the time on weekdays. And I see my friends, of course.”

But Anna wanted more. I could see this plainly in her face.

“Museums?” she asked.

“Oh,” I began, shocked by the suggestion.
Museums? Do I do that?
“Sure. Sure, I'll go occasionally to see things.”

“What have you seen recently?” she pressed.

“Um . . .”

Museums. Whose hobbies are museums? I enjoy looking at paintings and really old furniture and sculptures inscribed with Latin, and I especially enjoy being in really huge buildings that are very well air-conditioned. But I don't seek out places that attract mobs of slow-moving tourists, and I don't make a point of getting out of the house early on the weekends just so I can see the latest exhibits. So no, museums are not a part of my lifestyle—I am the
uncultured person who goes once a year when family is in town and we need something to do, because that's what museums are for most people on the planet: a place you go when you Need Something to Do. Like bowling.

I think Anna wanted me to say “Oh, I just loved the recent [INSERT FAMOUS ARTIST HERE] exhibit at the MoMA.” Or, “I studied Latin for six years, so I find it so soothing to visit the Roman wing at the Met.” And I actually did study Latin for six years, so that was a thing I could have said!

But no. All I could think of were fashion things.

“I do make a point of going to see some things—like the Costume Institute exhibit”—the annual gala that introduces it is thrown by
Vogue
and known as the Oscars of the East Coast—“and I know that
Vogue
has an exhibit coming up at the Spanish Institute, and I'm very excited to go see that.” Fortunately, I had gotten a press release about that exhibit today so I made a mental note to ~casually~ bring it up during our talk. Anna, impressed by the reference, looked at me and nodded as though I had just scored a point but also as though she
knew
I was trying to score that point.

“And what are your goals?” she asked.

“Like, my professional goals?”

“Mm.”

“I have three. One, to write a book. Two, to run my own online women's magazine. And three, to see my name in print in
Vogue
.”

Anna laughed. It was a little condescending, frankly. Like she knew I was trying in vain because I am an uncultured museum-­shunning slob who prefers watching
Jersey Shore
to visiting botanical gardens. I tried to remind myself that the person interviewing you is supposed to
want
you to get the job. But I didn't get the sense, when I said I really wanted a place at
Vogue
and Anna
­chuckled, that Anna wanted me to be The One. It was like she found it cute, the way kids are when they try on their parents' shoes.

“And how's your fashion history?” she asked.

“Not great,” I said. I still regret this answer. I think I knew more about fashion history at that time than I let on, but I was afraid of being quizzed. “It's something that I'm working on and look forward to improving.”

“But you can contextualize? Decades? Designers? You have reference points?”

“Oh yes, of course,” I said only half knowing what she expected of her staff in this regard.

“And do you have any questions for me?” she asked.

Well, obviously. Of course, I couldn't ask most of what I really wanted to ask, like, “Do you like cats?” Or, “Are you low-carb or just low-calorie?” Or, “Do you really make everyone wear high heels?”
But anyway, I had talked this over with that mentor of mine who suggested I ask a certain question: I had made a career by
not
writing like
Vogue
—I was sarcastic about the ridiculous aspects of fashion rather than reveling in them. This turned out to be my greatest asset in terms of finding an audience and gaining traffic for my section. So it was actually quite weird that I was here, interviewing for
Vogue
, when I was making a name for myself by being skeptical of many things that
Vogue
recommends and reports on. Rather than ask, “So, what were you smoking when you had Mark call me about this job?” I said: