Rock Bottom in Bellflower

Several of the lowest points in my life happened in the year I moved back home after college. The absolute bottom was the day a job interview left me stranded in South LA.

Since my last gig in the movie business had wound up with me working for a shady, Persian “producer” who drove two Hummers and had a long history of credit card scams in Orange County, I had decided to try my luck in other fields. Whatever would move me out of my parent’s house.

I submitted resumes to every internet job listing, from craigslist to entertainmentcareers to Yahoo! HotJobs, and every afternoon I would wake up at about 2, see I had no new emails or voicemails, and go back to bed wondering what reason I had to keep living. If I had a health plan, I would consider getting on some SSR-Inhibitors - numb me and kill my sex drive so I wouldn’t have to think about how I had nowhere to bang women without my mom overhearing.

I was pretty fucking elated when one company actually called me back for an interview. They did “sports and entertainment marketing.” That sounded right up my alley! “This is an opportunity to join a team of young, energetic professionals as an entry level marketing rep.” I’m young! I’m energetic! I can wear a tie!

I nailed the first interview. I was a slick, UCLA grad with upper management written all over me. I confidently drove home from their Sherman Oaks offices having been asked to come in for a second interview the next day. When the guy had asked me whether I would rather be doing office work or being “out and about,” I said send me out there man! I imagined seducing expensive clients with fancy dinners and box seats at the Staples Center, all on the company card.

The second interview consisted of going out into the field with a pro, to see what the job was about, hands on. As soon as I was crammed in the back of a Kia and told we were going to Bellflower, a feeling of dread came over me. Jamal, my mentor for the day, told me he quit Medical School when this great opportunity came along. What would we be doing exactly?

Going door to door in a shitty south LA neighborhood to sell coupons for Clippers games and Papa John’s to people who didn’t want to be bothered. Aren’t coupons supposed to be free?

The guy in the front seat pulled out a CD and said “Hey! Have you guys heard of this guy Dane Cook?! He’s hilllarrriooous!”

Let me out. Let me out. Let me the fuck out.

I spent the 3 hours until lunch following these guys around in my suit as they went door to door selling pizza coupons to angry homemakers, dodging sprinklers and rabid dogs. There were no Orange County housewives hopped up on Valium who gave you a quick blowie in the kitchen. These were the girlfriends of former gang members answering the door.

When we stopped for lunch, I couldn’t take the prospect of another 6 hours of this. I ran out of that Wendy’s and wandered the streets of Bellflower, calling all my friends frantically; desperately trying to get them to pick me up and take me home so I could stick my head in my mother’s oven.