I glance at the time. I want to hit the boardroom well in advance of my pre-pitch time slot.
Love you, gotta run. Update later.
I dash into the bathroom for a last-minute check. Mistake. When I look in the mirror, I suddenly hate everything I’m wearing. What made me pick out this gray suit, when I’d feel much more like myself in a fuchsia blouse and Vicious Pink lipstick? Obviously, I own neither of those things. Right now, I can’t remember why not.
On the way to the boardroom, I practice positive self-talk under my breath. “I am powerful. I am valuable. I am… I’m apeptide. I am a Powerful Pink Peptide.”
“You’re what?” David cuts in front of me at the boardroom door.
“Oh! Hi D—uh, David, don’t mind me.” I give an unconvincing laugh. By now, I know better than to look for a crevasse.
He walks in, not needing any more encouragement to pay no attention to me.
In the large boardroom, where the thermostat is permanently cranked down to “three-piece wool suit in July,” my sweaty skin turns cold and clammy.
It feels strange to take a seat at the table. When I attendcompany meetings here, I wait out West by North’s Darwinian shout-fests in my safe spot in the corner. Craig feels a competitive environment breeds excellence. I feel it amplifies the loud voices, and silences the quiet ones. Like mine.
But that’s corporate culture everywhere, I’m sure. It’s not my style, but I don’t get to choose. I have to learn to yell, or die from the bitterness of never being heard.
I wish I’d spent the last seven years practicing speaking up, instead of shutting up. Until now, it made no sense to burn my finite lifetime number of fucks screaming into the chaos, only to have my ideas rejected—or worse, taken from me, like my boat. The only times I surfaced were to point out when Craig’s wilder proposals were cost-prohibitive or logistically impossible.
Across the table, David flips through full-color handouts. I’m guessing he has the slot before mine. At least he doesn’t seem to be paying attention to me nodding my head as I rehearse the beats of my presentation. Or the way I’m trying to unobtrusively fan my armpits with my handouts.
Three ideas will get the green light for the final competition, and I counted fifteen time slots for pitches. I’ve never gotten past this barrier to entry before, and my track record of pitching failure does not feel like it’s been adequately addressed by three whole improv classes. There’s a five-to-one chance I’ll get nowhere with this pitch, and if that happens…
I push back against a wave of anticipatory despair. What will I do if I’m finally forced to admit I’ll never get anywhere in this company?
It would sting to apply for an entry-level job somewhere else, but I might have to. If I did, say, fifty interviews, surely one of them would accidentally go well.
The door to the adjoining small boardroom opens, and Craig motions David in.
“Good luck,” I say, because it seems called for. David smirks,grunting in acknowledgment. I strive to be polite to everyone—I offend enough people as it is, and weareCanadian—but no one makes me regret being courteous as quickly and sharply as Dick Head.
Five minutes pass like I’m waiting for the verdict in my murder trial. No one arrives in advance of the last time slot. I distract myself by calculating my odds of making the final round with thirteen competitors instead of fourteen (still terrible).
The door opens and David and Craig reappear, laughing over some closing joke.
“Liz? You’re up.” After thirteen five-minute presentations, Craig looks restless.
The five panelists take their seats—Craig, Jingjing, Bethany, our head of legal, and a guy from IT. I launch my PowerPoint.
Craig cocks his head. “How’s that improv thing going, by the way?”
“Um, good.”
“Just ‘good’?” He raps his pen against the table, frowning.
He wants to talk about improvnow? My eyes sneak to the countdown timer in the corner of the big screen. A scratchy new bump appears under my shirt with every lost second.
“It was, um, an inspired recommendation. A lot of the skills are generalizable to leadership qualities like, uhhh, establishing trust, performing under pressure—”
“You know what, Liz, save it for when the clock’s not ticking.”
My inner scream pushes hard against my ribs. Too short, too long: my answers are never just right.
“Thanks, Craig. After a deep dive into our online reviews as well as our competitors’, I propose disrupting”—I’ve bludgeoned the word “disrupt” into my presentation five times in five minutes—“the low season by capitalizing on underdeveloped opportunities. Specifically, launching guided hikes to attractions like Hell Hot Springs.”
“There’s no profit in guided hikes,” Craig interjects.
