Years ago, when I was only slightly more desperate for work than I am now, I interviewed for a position at a dungeon. It was a slow moving mistake, not one of those impulsive, alcohol-fueled ones that had been characteristic of my life since I took my first sip of vodka. This one was like boiling a frog, the heat was turned up so slowly that I was already being shown the "cage room" before it was too late.
The office, or, rather, dungeon, was a multi-roomed, lofty floor of a nondescript midtown building, hidden mere blocks away from the tourist trap of the Empire State Building. The women all seemed normal enough, I remember being shown the changing room where two Russian women reclined in lucite heels, smoking cigarettes and watching daytime television on a small box TV. One girl had a magazine clipping of Marilyn Manson hanging in her locker. All around were tools of the trade: nipple clamps, paddles, odd spiked devices that looked like spurs. The chipper, blond receptionist (who happened to be the owner of the business) explained how it was simple enough if you had moxie. You trained for two weeks during business hours and attended two all-night parties where clients mingled at the dungeon and were served hors d’oeuvres. If they felt like being smacked around, tied up, or berated, they were charged a fee. Those were the most lucrative nights, she explained, because even though it was free to get in so long as the clients RSVP’d, everybody wanted to be beaten up by the end of the night. Apparently S/M was like yawning, once somebody started doing it in packed room, everybody followed suit.
I did not take the job.
It was not because of the penis pumps, or the question, "Are you familiar with piercing play?" that was asked to me when inside the mock hospital room. It was not the fact that I overheard one of the dominatrixes talking about stepping on a gentleman’s testicles. It wasn’t even the bad lighting, or the idea of traipsing around in a pleather thong, or the fact that it would be difficult to talk about my job with my family over Thanksgiving dinner. It was the idea of the parties. I’m terrified of networking.
Some people are natural-born extroverts. Simon is one of them. You can throw him into any situation, may it be social or otherwise, and he will depart with a handful of phone numbers and an earful of life-stories. He has "worked the room" at every nightclub, dinner, and airport we have walked into. While some women might find this exhausting, as his co-worker and better half, I’m transfixed. Look at him talk, I think to myself as I watch him shake hands with a Marine, or bend down to chat with an elderly rug maker. He’s so comfortable. He doesn’t look like he wants to throw up. Of course, the hope is that one of the individuals he conversed with will write and ask us for a press release, web text overhaul, or product description. He’s able to reel in work simply by being himself which, to me, is fascinating.
You can put me in a situation such as a cocktail party, book launch, or housewarming, and I will be civil. I will blend in, save for the tattoos and the awkward sipping of seltzer. I will undoubtedly sound out of breath and ramble about something inappropriate when spoken to, and look as though I’ve been caught urinating into the houseplant when approached. I have a terrible nervous habit of giggling when talking to new people. I’m not exactly selling the face of a copywriting company that boasts a plethora of pluck, refined skills, and a thick skin. I would only be effective in selling a line of "gothic" themed juniors clothing, or a shut-up button. This is why it’s important for Simon and I to attend as many networking events together, if possible. That way I can just hang out in the wings and try to look like I’m waiting for somebody, while he can go out and collect more business cards than the Jonas Brothers collect panties. I will be cool with my seltzer, thanks.
This isn’t to say that I’m a complete luddite when it comes to making connections, I’m tremendously skilled at interviews and one-on-one business lunches, brunches, and coffee. For some reason, when I have a single subject to focus on, I don’t suddenly want to toss my cookies and hide. It might come from a love of interviews, but I find myself much more capable and relaxed in situations where it’s more of a conversation than an introduction buffet. But both kinds of networking are vital to a small businesses, and especially to those of us in the art and tech worlds, where the abilities to both freelance and converse have to stand out in a sea of individuals trying to do the same. It isn’t enough that I can write about a cruise line’s ultimate vacation package, and sell it to cash-strapped parents. I have to be able to talk to the directors of the cruises and make them feel comfortable that I can craft bons mots that will get their customers saying bon voyage. Doing one independent of the other won’t get us very far, especially in this city.
We’re about to become freelance writers in New York. This is like saying that we’re about to become snowflakes in the North Pole, teenagers at the mall, or baby animal pictures on Tumblr. We have gone from being small fish starting out in the medium pond of Portland, Oregon, to almost-medium fish after building up a decent portfolio in the small pond of Norman, Oklahoma. Now we’re about to become plankton in the Pacific. While I’m completely comfortable accessing the wealth of potential clients via the Internet (hello, readers! Are you looking for a team of writers?) most of that comfort comes from the fact that I can do it without anyone seeing me. In the city, going out to dinner with clients is nearly a job requirement. During the two weeks that Simon was up here following my mother’s death he was taken out to Peter Luger’s steakhouse by an old client of ours who was hosting a "boys’ night out." Cigars, absinthe, and two job opportunities followed. "I can’t make these kind of connections anywhere else," he mumbled as he slipped into bed at five in the morning. "This is where the work is."
To which I should have responded, maybe. Success in a town like this seems to be half made up of chance, with the other half being communication. I think that the two of us can find a way to harness our natural abilities and get them to work for us. After all, if we can make it here, we can make it anywhere.
If you, or a company you know, is looking for copy, we’re looking for work. And feel free to drop me a line to share your New York stories, or freelancing foibles. AinsleyDrew at the gmail one.
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This was a great read. This is/was/is my major malfunction and probably why I tend to go Ghost World with so many of my friendships. But fuck all of that. Life’s so much better once you learn to play well with others.