Dear folks:
I was told I should keep my emails shorter, and I will do so, since
I have a midterm in 3 hours, and havent started studying yet. (P.S.
Things (i.e., recovery from my arm surgery) are good: I have found a nice
drug cocktail of half a Vicodin (a narcotic) and an Advil which keeps the
pain at bay without fuzzing over my brain like moldy bread. Saw the
doc today, who said I was healing nicely, too.)
Yep, the CIA recruits at Haas. One day, a few weeks ago, in
a (legal) drug addled stupor, I accepted the chance to interview with them.
How? By checking off a box and sending it to an "unmarked" post office
box located in one of the most hellish, desolate place on earth: Rosslyn,
Virginia. (In their words, "please do not write "CIA" on the return address!")
They actually sent this form letter to everybody who met 2 criteria: (1)
they were probably a US citizen and (2) they were breathing. It had
a check box and a self-addressed, stamped envelope, and following up on
that was about the frontier of my physical job-search capabilities at that
time. And I thought no one was going to hire me anyway, so I better
have a backup in the .gov sector. (Note: the pessimism was unwarranted;
this week and next I have or have had 6 other interviews with reputable
companies.)
Why else did I do it? Because they always rejected me before. Because, actually, I don't even think they ever even gave me the chance to be rejected. Because I just saw the trailer for the latest James Bond movie. Because I thought I would let my friends down if I didn't. Because I knew I could torture you all with a silly email about it.
Now this was not just the CIA, mind you: it was the Directorate of Operations. The spooks! The guys who recruit and enlist agents! The James Bond types. So we scheduled an interview. I did a whole lot of research on the Internet, digging up all kinds of junk. I thought about it, and realized what my true goal was: a free trip to Washington DC, with a weekend stay! (NO, no one ever promised this ... I just figured that if there was going to be a second round, that is how it should be. Truth or Vicodin-induced wishful thinking? Time will tell. (Editor's Note: No, it wouldn't.) So I went in (yes, I was STILL on narcotics! I interviewed with the CIA on drugs -- though I would imagine they are used to that. ) and I thought I was pretty smooth ... we talked for well over the time limit, since I was the last one there. I dressed up for them: red tie, white shirt, blue suit. I was pulling out all the signifier stops -- I was straight arrow. My still-stiff arm barely bugged me, I was so hopped up on drugs both externally and internally produced..
My interviewer was a balding guy, very nice to me and well-mannered. No buzz-cut Bill, he. (Ouch, I am now feeling pangs of guilt...well, I should remember Chile and get on with it....)
It was pretty easy . . . the hard part was faking "strong interest." I couldn't really do it, so I did a lot of nodding and smiling like my hard-of-hearing dad taught me to do in the face of blissful incomprehension/boredom. Uh-huh, uh-huh...I zoned out several times when he talked about the bureaucracy but I don't think he noticed.
Sample questions (of theirs):
I told him Thailand war stories; Indonesia stories; whatever occured to me. Sometimes I felt I veered dangerously away from sensical discussion (help, I've fallen and I cant get up!) but somehow I would always manage to fumble/grope/stumble my way back to the big EXIT sign of dialogue. Then I grilled HIM, learning only a little: that you have zero choice as to where you go or what you do at first; that they want b-school types because the poli sci types just couldn't cut it in the schmoozing department. And then I wheedled the pay rate out of him. It was GS-9 or 10 -- that is at most $32,000 a year folks, and at best I could earn 25% more for being overseas, for a grand total of what? $40K at the very, very, very most. You know what they get for $40K? They get to KISS MY ASS, that's what they get. And if I make it really big, I become GS-13: $50K! Oh, please!
But in the meantime, I will be waiting for my free trip. They will tell me in a week or two; I don't have high hopes, but, in the immortal words of Bob Dole, whatever.
And am I qualified? Well, sure. Except for the fact that I have hereby told at least 5 non-US citizens about this and thus blown my cover for all eternity.
Well, oops. Could I ask you all to sign a non-disclosure agreement now?
Have fun kids,
Daniel
Postscript: I didn't get the job.