“I can see you have experience in media relations and quite a bit of work in strategy,” Carmella says, “but I want to see if you can write a press release. Read this and write a press release about it for me.”
This is the most reasonable and appropriate request that I’ve had from an interviewer so far. At another PR company, they asked me to give them a writing sample so they could do a hand writing analysis of my personality. It seems as ridiculous as a life insurance company reading my palm to determine my rates.
“Is it okay if I send it to you this evening?” I ask.
“That is fine. But do it all by yourself. Do not get help from anyone else.” Carmella hands me her business card, but not before she crosses out her cell phone number. “Send it to this email address.”
She then sends me out of the office.
“Thank you,” I say as I walk out.
The bus stop is right around the corner from the offices. As I’m waiting, a military police soldier starts walking towards me. My heart skips a beat and I hold my breath. I look down to check my uniform and realize that I’m in civilian clothes. I relax. I must have the jobnik form of PTSD.
I look up and smirk, happy that the military police soldier can’t write me a ticket.
My bus pulls up. As I board the bus, I try to fish my army ID out of my back pocket, only to realize that I don’t have pockets in these pants. Again I am reminded that I’m a civilian. It has already been a few months since my release, but I’m still adjusting.
“How much is it?” I ask the driver. I’m no longer scared to use my Hebrew with strangers. I thought that once I was released from the army and no longer had my army uniform to show that I belong, that I would go back to feeling like an outsider, but I don’t. I feel like I fit in.
I hand him the money and he hands me a ticket.
I look at all the open seats and decide where I want to sit.
I spent my last days in the army like most Jews throughout history—wandering. I worked on a number of different projects in a number of different departments. Yoni was forced out of the IDF Spokesperson Unit and the entire army, for that matter. I was honorably released.
The commute back to my apartment is short. Only fifteen minutes. At Rabin Square, I get off the bus. Today the square is empty. There are no rallies. The displaced Gaza settlers have already been forgotten about.
* * *
“How was your interview? Tell me all about it! Do you think you got the job?” Orli greets me as soon as I open the door to the apartment.
When I was released from the army, Alon, my weird roommate, who would sit on the couch without moving for so long that there were times I thought he had died, decided to move out. I was not particularly sad that Alon left.
In his place, Orli moved in.
“I see you borrowed my shirt for the interview. It looks good on you. I borrowed your shoes for work,” she says. Both of our closets have doubled in size since she moved in. It is nice coming back to an apartment that feels like home versus something that feels like some type of boarding house. The apartment feels like a sorority, except that we actually like each other. I look at a picture of Orli and me from three years ago that is on a shelf. I can’t believe how far I have come, how close we have become.
I tell her about the interview.
“I’m sure you will get the job. You have so much to offer. You have great Hebrew. English is your native language. You have a lot of experience. They would be fools not to take you!” Orli is always encouraging me. Without her support, I don’t think I would have had the courage to move to Israel in the first place.
“Thanks. What salary do you think I should request?” In the army I made less than a thousand dollars a month. I’d be thrilled to make minimum wage.
“I’ll call Carmit. She works in PR. I’ll ask her what she makes.” In the US it is rude to ask people about their financial situation, but in Israel it is completely acceptable to ask people their salary, rent, level of debt, and how much their shoes cost.
Orli hangs up the phone. “Don’t expect more than eight thousand shekels a month1—before taxes. And don’t expect overtime pay, but do expect to work overtime.”
“So, like the army?” I remark sarcastically. “But this time without an officer who torments me.”
“When are you supposed to hear back if they offer you the job? Would you accept?” Orli asks.
“Well, Mitoog is one of—” I begin.
“The best PR agencies in Israel,” Orli finishes my sentence, as usual.
The Early Bird
I go through my closet like I’m skimming a book.
It feels strange having to pick out clothes for work. I’m used to putting on my uniform every day. I’ve forgotten how much time it takes to express my identity through clothing.
I can’t find anything good to wear. Nothing fits. Nothing looks good. I don’t have anything appropriate for work. I don’t have anything that looks like it has been bought recently. I haven’t gone clothes shopping since before the army.
I wish I still had my army uniform.
I finally find a plain button-down shirt and pants. Besides the color, it looks exactly like my IDF uniform.
Walking through the huge glass door of the offices, I see a pendulum the size of a wrecking ball swinging back and forth. A silver-haired janitor is on his hands and knees picking up the little pegs that the pendulum knocks over.
“Good morning,” I say to him, as I walk past him to the reception desk.
“In Russia,” he grumbles in Hebrew with a thick Russian accent, “I was an electrical engineer.”
I don’t know how to respond. I guess it makes sense that in Israel where an immigrant who is a nuclear physicist can be a maid, an engineer can be a janitor.
“Hi, this is my first day. I’m supposed to start in the PR department,” I say to one of the receptionists.
“Nu . . .” she says as if I’m bothering her while she is busy doing nothing. Her makeup is plastered on. She is chomping her gum like a horse. And she has an unlit cigarette in her hand. She reminds me of Dan’s secretary.
“Where should I go?” I ask firmly, with three years in the country, including two in the army, backing me up.
Without saying anything she makes a phone call. “You can go wait in there. Someone will come get you.”
As I’m sitting in the waiting room, the secretary, who was too busy to help me a moment ago, comes in and lights up a cigarette as if it is some type of smoking room. When I start coughing, she looks at me and rolls her eyes.
A tall, thin, blond-haired girl comes into the room, pulls out a cigarette and lights it.
After they finish their cigarettes and a conversation about celebrities, the blond-haired girl stands up, looks at me, and says, “Follow me.” She turns around and I see her butt crack peeking out. This place seems more like a bar than an office. I hope I made the right choice.
“The woman you are replacing is not here yet. She is driving in from Jerusalem. The boss isn’t here yet, either. You can just stand next to my desk until one of them gets here.”
I had gotten used to waiting in the army, so I didn’t mind. This feels strangely similar to guard duty.
At 9:45 A.M., Carmella marches down the hallway as if she is the meanest model on the catwalk. I quickly straighten up to greet her as if I were at army roll call.
“Hello,” I say with a big smile and my hand stuck out.
She walks right past me.
An hour later, a woman no taller than five feet waddles in. Wider than she is tall, she looks like she might give birth in the hallway.
“Hi! Sorry I’m late. I’m Galit,” she chirps while turning towards her office and motioning me to follow.
She braces herself while slowly sitting down.
“I don’t know how many more days I’ll be in the office, so learn fast,” she says while pointing to her large baby bump.
I wonder why they would wait until th
e last moment to hire me. And then I remember that procrastination is an art form, if not government policy, in Israel.
“When are you due?” I ask.
“Not for another few weeks, but . . .”
“That is stupid! Why did you mention it? Do I have to do all the work? Do you even think?” I hear Carmella scream.
I look at Galit. She rolls her eyes.
“That is why I don’t think I’ll be coming in anymore,” she says, motioning her head towards Carmella’s office.
I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wonder if she got pregnant to just leave this job—like what the religious do to avoid the army.
Galit scrolls through emails, erasing most of them. “I usually start my day by looking through all the English newspapers to see if any of our clients are mentioned. I also look for any relevant Israeli investment information—M&As, new R&D sites in Israel, and anything related to VCs . . .”
“What?” I know what APVs, M-16s, and NCOs are, but I don’t know any of these.
Seeing my confusion, Galit explains. “Most of your job will be writing a newsletter about Mergers and Acquisitions of Israeli companies and Research and Development deals in Israel for the Israeli Investment Encouragement Department. Just to give you a hint of who we are dealing with, it is a government organization . . . in Israel,” she says without taking her eyes off the screen.
I flash back to my experience at the Israeli Interior Ministry.
“So, will I work with the media?” I had expected this job to be a bit more glamorous.
She looks at me, puts her hand out, palm down, fingers spread out and shakes it back and forth. The Israeli gesture for “ehhh, sort of.”
The phone rings. Galit answers and hangs it up without saying anything.
She turns to me, “Carmella wants us in her office.” She says it like we are about to face a firing squad.
When we enter, Carmella takes her glasses off and looks at Galit as if she’s thinking, If your water breaks in my office, you are cleaning it up yourself!
“So Galit, you are going to the client’s tomorrow? Jessica, I don’t want you going. You stay and learn the material. That is all,” Carmella says as she turns back around to her computer.
We walk out and Galit whispers, “I think she has a coat made of Dalmatians in her closet.”
In Israel the Devil doesn’t wear Prada
“Is it ‘in’ or ‘on’?”
“It is ‘in,” I say mechanically, knowing that she isn’t going to believe me. I knew I shouldn’t have answered my phone when I saw the numbers 666 appear on the caller ID.
“I think it is ‘on,” says Lital, my client from the Israeli Investment Encouragement Department. She never listens to me. I don’t even know why they bother wasting their money on our services.
“Yes, it is definitely ‘on,” she says. “Microsoft buys Israeli Gteko specializing on providing networking and supporting software to digital homes. Wait, should it be ‘to’ or ‘for’ digital homes?”
I roll my eyes.
We are working on developing the monthly newsletter. Lital and her boss treat this newsletter as if it is the most important published piece of work in the world, as if it has a greater readership than the Bible . . . or even Harry Potter.
“Lital, it is ‘in.’ I’m positive,” I say.
“I’ll get a second opinion. Let’s come back to it.” She says this as if it is as crucial as getting the right cancer diagnosis.
I wonder if she has OCD, like the officers who made us clean in the army.
“Okay. The item titled: Israeli Yellow Pages sold to Australian firm Babcock & Brown. You wrote for the history of the company that Yellow Pages was created in America, but it is an Israeli invention. We made up the saying ‘let your fingers do the walking.’”
“No, Lital. I researched it. Yellow Pages is not an Israeli invention and neither is the saying.” I try to remain calm. I’m sick of these ridiculous conversations. I can’t believe that I made aliyah and served in the army to do this.
“It is an Israeli invention,” she responds, determined. Israelis think that everything was invented in Israel. They don’t get that just because the pillcam, the USB flash drive, and ICQ were all invented in Israel, that other technologies can actually be invented in other places around the world.
I feel like I am talking to a three-year-old.
“Would you like me to send you the source?” I ask after a deep breath. I’ve spent over two hours immersed in the history of the Yellow Pages.
“Yes, I’d like to read it,” she says, as if I’m illiterate.
“Okay, but I have to go to a meeting now.”
I hang up the phone slowly and then I bang it down three more times. I’ve been here two months now and I don’t know how much longer I am going to be able to put up with this client. Galit is long gone. She was supposed to be here for a month to train me, but she disappeared after the first week.
I walk into the meeting room. There are fifteen people sitting around the table. No one is talking. Everyone has their notebooks out. I find an empty seat and sit down. We have these meetings every week.
Carmella walks in with her lunch and shuts the door behind her. She is wearing a greenish-orange tie-dye T-shirt that says in sparkles MY TIME HAS COME. She sits down at the front of the table and scowls at everybody before saying, “I don’t have a lot of time. Let’s begin.” I guess she forgot that she is the one that insists on having this meeting every week.
“We need to think of different ways to promote one of our new clients. We are going to brainstorm together. Everyone has to give an idea. The new client is a radio station that is promoting peace between Israelis and Palestinians.” She begins eating her lunch while everybody else’s stomachs growl.
“We could have a music concert with both Israeli and Palestinian bands,” says Shannon. She is one of the best PR people here. She is the first one to arrive in the mornings. She always gets her stories in the paper. And she has a good relationship with all of the journalists.
Carmella stares at her and says, “Can’t you think of something a bit more original? Really, Shannon!”
“We could have a sports tournament in which Israelis and Palestinians play together. Like soccer! Sports are always a uniting endeavor,” says Ehud, the in-the-closet religious guy.
“That’s been done before,” Carmella says, but without a stare. Her jowls are as droopy as a bulldog’s from never smiling.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he responds while re-adjusting his knitted kippah.
Suck up! I yell in my head.
“We could stage a hot air balloon race in the skies,” says Timnah.
“That is a stupid idea! I can’t believe you would even mention that! Do you people even bother thinking before you talk? If you don’t have a good idea, then don’t say anything at all!” she screams at all of us with food flying out of her mouth. “Who’s next?”
No one volunteers.
“Why isn’t anyone saying anything?” Carmella yells.
To say that Carmella stifles creativity would be an understatement. Communism is more conducive of creativity than she is.
“Jessica, what is your idea?” Carmella demands.
I freeze in silence. She usually never calls on me during these meetings.
“Well, the station could do prize contests, or make bumper stickers, or interview celebrities at events, or partner with night clubs,” I say, hoping to give her enough ideas so that at least one will warrant her not yelling at me.
“Jessica! This station is just starting out! How do you expect them to have the money or the connections to do any of these things?! What did I just tell all of you? Think before you talk! And be creative!”
I stare at her bony, sunken-in face while she is yelling. I wonder if the artists of 101 Dalmatians used her as inspiration when drawing Cruella de Vil. Not only does her name sound eerily close to the villain’s name, but she looks a lot
like her.
More people give ideas and more people get yelled at. At the end of the hour-long meeting, Carmella turns perky for a second. It feels like when a serial killer tries to befriend his victim before killing him.
“I just saw The Devil Wears Prada. Has anyone else seen it?” she asks. This is the third time I’ve heard her mention the movie.
All of the females mumble “yes” suspiciously.
“Wasn’t it a great movie? I really liked it,” Carmella states.
I bet you did, I think.
“Although I couldn’t believe how Miranda treated her employees. It was just awful. I couldn’t imagine treating anyone that way,” Carmella says in the most sincere voice and without an ounce of sarcasm.
Of course none of us mention that if Carmella had a better fashion sense, the movie could have been about her.
In the War Zone
It is too hard to get any work done. I can’t concentrate. My head is somewhere else. Instead of working, I’m toggling between all the Israeli news websites trying to get the most recent updates. Eighteen days ago a soldier, Gilad Shalit, who looks like a little boy, was kidnapped at the Gaza border when terrorists infiltrated Israel. Ever since, there has been heavy combat in the Gaza Strip and depressing music on the radio stations. It makes me wish that I was back in the army. But instead I’m visiting my client in Jerusalem like every Monday.
I hear a noise behind me and quickly turn around to see if my client is watching. Luckily, no one is there.
I click refresh on The Jerusalem Post site.
2 Soldiers Kidnapped, 8 Soldiers Killed in Tank Attack by Hezbollah on Northern Border, F-16’s take off for Lebanon
I blink hard.
The headline is still there when I open my eyes.
I can’t believe that after the past two weeks of Israelis being kidnapped and killed in the West Bank, and the conflict in Gaza, this can be happening now. It doesn’t seem as if the news can get any worse. It feels like we are being attacked from every border. I read the article.
How can Hezbollah do this? They aren’t playing by the rules. It is like in a boxing match when a boxer kicks his opponent in the nuts when he is already down. If this had been boxing, the referee would have blown his whistle. Instead the UN will probably blame Israel for the escalation.
Chutzpah & High Heels Page 18
