When the Going gets Tough, the Unemployed go to the Anchorage Job Fair.
Today at the Egan Center, the Anchorage Daily News put on its annual Job Fair for people like myself, those looking for a new way of making a living. It has been years since I've gone to a job fair, but I dutifully brushed my hair, put on my suit, and was then off to the job fair, with a couple copies of my resume tucked under my arm.
There were several booths set up in the convention center, each boasting the promise of a new career. Construction companies were looking for maintenance managers, the municipality was looking for police officers, and even the military was looking for a few good men, as they always do. At a couple of booths, I tried to explain my plight using euphemistic phrases, but what I really wanted to use as my pick-up line was, "Do you have any jobs for a washed-out attorney?"
I tried to appear upbeat and competent, hard to do when you're coming down with a cold. I flirted with the idea of many new career directions - "Why not?" was the operative theme of the day. But it turned out that out of all the booths in that large convention center, only one had a post for which I was qualified.
Meet Special Agent Madwoman of Anchorage.
It's hard to pass by law enforcement booths without being at least slightly intrigued. I took notice of Anchorage's finest standing in the municipality's booth and even lingered in front of the National Guard table, but they didn't bite. The FBI wouldn't have bitten either if I hadn't walked up to the table, spotted a flyer with the following statement in clear type:
THE FBI IS LOOKING FOR SPECIAL AGENTS WITH THE FOLLOWING BACKGROUNDS
Among the laundry list were the magical words that I seldom see for any job posting that is not seeking an attorney:
LAW SCHOOL GRADUATE.
I was overjoyed. I'm one of those! I picked up that pink flyer and pointed out this line to the man behind the table and asked, "What does the FBI need with special agents who are law school graduates?"
After the Special Agent Behind The Table determined that I had graduated from a legit law school and was not just some high schooler looking for a new career, he asked another screening question, "How old are you?"
I smiled, never before happier to be older than I looked. "Thirty-one. I know I don't look it."
He smiled. "Yeah, most people who try out for special agent are 29, 30."
For a minute, I faltered as my normal anxieties about my age came to surface. "Does that mean I'm too old?"
"No, it means you're just right. Do you speak a second language?"
Once again, I had been racially profiled, but if it was going to make me look attractive to the FBI, I could deal with it. "Yes. Mandarin Chinese."
Special Agent Behind The Table then proceeded to encourage me to apply online, telling me that I would be "very competitive" with my language skills and such. I tried to explain that my Mandarin could be described as proficient at best, since my areas of expertise included only basic bodily functions and all things related to food, but he seemed hell-bent on my candidacy.
"What I would suggest is that you start running."
"Beg your pardon?" I asked.
"You look like you're in shape, but we lose a lot of people to the physical fitness tests."
All of the sudden I became somewhat self-conscious of the rather form-fitting top I had chosen for the job fair. And I saw my hopes and dreams for a life as an FBI special agent go quickly down the toilet because if there's one thing I really hate in this world, it's running.
Here I had found the one job that considered the last ten years of my life remotely relevant to the position, but it would mean that I'd have to run. Why? I suppose running is essential to chasing down criminals, and that's the business of the FBI, isn't it? To chase down criminals?
I guess I had been hoping for more of a desk job where I would use my brain and where my runty athletic abilities could remain hidden. It is conceivable that with months of training harder than I have ever trained in my life, I could scrape by as the absolute bottom of the barrel of FBI trainees. The last time I thought about such sacrifice was when I briefly contemplated applying to West Point. And of course, if I should decide to become a bodybuilder.
A closer look at the pink flyer revealed that my dream job was not really all that dreamy. Here, I now noticed the requirement, "Be in excellent physical condition." I have enough flexibility to bend steel, but I bet they are referring to more conventional attributes such as strength and speed. "Able to pass a polygraph regarding truthfulness in all aspects of the application process including FBI's drug policy." Some of my friends have had to take polygraphs as part of gaining security clearance, and the feeling I get from their tight-lipped experiences is that it's a miserable thing to do. "Be willing to be transferred anywhere in the United States." Oddly this is truly non-negotiable. I was at the Anchorage Job Fair, for goodness sake. The point is that I'm trying to find a job in Anchorage. And besides, the only chance I could have being a Big FBI Special Agent Fish was if I was in the Small Pond known as Anchorage.
There was also a bit of interesting fine print at the bottom of the pink flyer:
"Cannot have used marijuana more than 15 times. Cannot have used any other illegal drugs more than 5 times OR during the last 10 years. Cannot have used any illegal drug while in a law enforcement or prosecutorial position."
On Point 1, marijuana: Well, it's good to know that you get 15 freebies. I haven't availed myself of any, but it's nice to know that my potential FBI career is still safe if I should choose to lightly experiment.
On Point 2: I read this as if you used crack, cocaine, meth, heroin no more than 5 times or you gave up that stuff a long time ago, you're now qualified to chase down your fellow users and bring them to justice.
On Point 3, drug use and positions of authority: Let's hope not! That this word of caution was even included begs a sad question.
I bet there are a lot of people out there whose FBI careers have been precluded because of one of these points. In fact, I bet these are the most common reasons why many FBI-hopefuls don't make it.
The rest of my time at the job fair was cut short by my cold, as it had progressed into some kind of liquid nasal drip that would release itself suddenly without warning. Not exactly the kind of first impression I wanted to make.
So I left the booths and hopeful job-seekers, not exactly less confused about the Direction of My Life, but knowing at least, that it was not time to start running, not even for the FBI.
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