I’m fresh home from a truly surreal political experience.

This afternoon, I spied a hand printed sign declaring Barak Obama would be at the downtown convention center tonight. I happen to work about 10 blocks away. No way was I going to miss this. I texted Joe Mays. He said he’d love to see Obama live. We’d meet at Saffron’s for a meattastic dinner of Persian food then have our political socks rocked off by a man reputed to be the most charismatic speaker of his generation. I couldn’t wait.

As we neared the convention center, the first thing we saw were the anti-abortion protesters. “Obama Votes to Kill Newborns & Preborn Babies!” declared one man’s sign. ”Lord Forgive Us And Our Nation!” screamed another.  As usual, the protesters brought their daughters. No doubt their sons were too busy playing Grand Theft Auto IV to be bothered with a rally.

The line came to an abrupt halt about a block away from the entrance. The crowd practically vibrated with energy. People wearing Obama t-shirts mingled with folks in suits freshly off work. A blonde girl from Michigan kept trying to keep the energy up. She’d climb on top of a fire hydrant and try to start a rousing chant. The unmoving crowd felt a little too sarcastic to play along.

“Yes We Can!”

“Go inside?”

“Yes We Can!”

“Move the line?”

“Yes We Can!”

Eventually, a man in an Obama shirt and a suitcoat told us the hall was full. A disappointed murmur went through the crowd. But wait! 1500 of us could go to an overflow room! We wouldn’t get to see Obama, but at least we could hear the speech. To my surprise, almost no one chose to leave.

Inside the convention center, we traded one endless line for another. Hey, at least we were moving! That’s progress, right? Eventually, the reason for the glacial slowness became clear - we were bottlenecked at a security checkpoint. “Think we’ll have to take off our shoes?” A woman nearby joked. A laugh died in my throat. The six metal detectors were manned by two dozen TSA agents.

Get ready, people. This is your future. We all opened our purses and let total strangers rifle through the contents. We turned on our cellphones, cameras, and computers. We threw away ALL liquids (no 3 oz bottles allowed here.) Joe brought two massive black bags of sound and photo equipment. They didn’t bat an eye at him. The gentleman behind me only brought the contents of his pockets. Oh, but he was a middle aged black man with nice dreads pulled into an elegant ponytail and a diamond nose stud similar to my own. He was pulled aside and wanded. The black TSA agent also wanded the next black person to walk through - in this case, a jolly looking woman in her 50’s who was clearly trying to be good natured about this. The next few white people walked through unquestioned.

Ah, but now we could hear the gentle roar of the crowd within. Soon we’d be in his presence. We finally passed through the double doors of the convention hall. About 50 feet ahead of us people packed into ceiling high bleachers. Between the rows, we could see floodlights illuminating the people on the floor crammed up close to the stage. We took a few steps in that direction when suddenly a cop was in our face. ”GET BEHIND THE CURTAIN!”

Huh?

There was clearly plenty of space along the walls and between the bleachers. We weren’t alone in our confusion. A dozen cops, security guards, and assorted Armed People In Uniform made a human wall between us and the promised land. Ahead of us was laughter, camaraderie, and cheer. We tried to shuffle forward again. “I SAID GET BEHIND THE CURTAIN! NOW! NOW! NOW!”  A few people tried to make a break for the walls. The guards stopped them. You could get behind the curtain right now or get the hell out.

Joe and I claimed we wanted to buy a pretzel. After all, there were long lines at the snack stands flanking the room. Hell no. The guard wasn’t buying it. No pretzel for us. Get behind the curtain. NOW! We did notice a few black families allowed to sneak off to the refreshment line. Perhaps they let people with children through. Perhaps they thought Joe and I looked like we’d had one too many pretzels in our lives. But honestly, after seeing the black TSA guards treat the black people in line like criminals, I couldn’t begrudge letting the families through.

More shouting, more bizarre anger, and the guards eventually shuffled us all behind the curtain. Outside, we could hear people applauding and cheering. The room practically vibrated with their energy. On our side of the curtain, people sat on the floor looking dejected and confused. This wasn’t why we were here. We couldn’t see anything, we couldn’t hear anything, and now we were trapped in a windowless warehouse with a concrete floor, a giant black curtain on one side and an impromptu barricade on the other. Four varieties of police glared at us from behind a line of stacked tables, waist high fences, and a U-Haul truck. They had guns. We’d been searched. It felt like I’d just been dropped into an episode of Jericho.

Our crowd had the confused look of people at the beginning of a refugee movie . Why was this happening to us? What had we done? There was no reason for this treatment. We could hear music, laughter, then a roar of applause from the chosen people. Obama must’ve taken the stage. As one, we tried to pour out through the curtains in hope of getting a distant glimpse. Perhaps we might even hear a mangled syllable or two.

“GET BACK BEHIND THE CURTAIN! NOW, PEOPLE! GET. BEHIND. THE. CURTAIN.”

Once more, we were herded away. Now, the angry guards didn’t have to do it this way. They could’ve said, “The fire marshall won’t allow us to have more than X people in that space! We’re sorry! Please move over here where it’s safe!” No one wants to die in a fire or be trampled to death. We would’ve begrudgingly cooperated. If it was a security issue, they could’ve honestly told us. “We need to keep X eyes on the candidate per X number of people in attendance. We’re glad you’re here, but we have to keep him safe. Please move behind the curtain so we can keep an eye on the crowd!” I’m grasping at straws here. Honestly, I have no idea why they wouldn’t let us squeeze in. There was room, there was will, and there was nothing apparent to lose. It felt like a sad and scary power trip.

Behind the curtain, things were quiet as we all strained to listen. Obama’s voice was nothing more than a hint of baritone. We could hear the crowd, though, which only made people more sullen. As the once happy faces grew more confused and bitter, there was a commotion near the front of the crowd. Some bright staffer brought out some speakers! Hooray! They were massively inadequate to fill the space, but hey, at least we could pretend to hear.

People sitting alone or in clusters of one or two took to their feet. They packed in close to hear. Some of them took photos of the speakers. Others waved their Obama placards at the big plastic boxes. The speakers didn’t wave back. I sat on the floor, gaping.

The sense of surreality spiked when the curtains parted for a stretcher pushed by a couple EMT’s and led by a suited woman with a walkie-talkie. We heard Obama say something about a woman falling over - possibly from excitement? Anxiety? Heat stroke? He kept asking the crowd if someone could give her some water. Sorry Obama. We had all our fluids taken away by the TSA. We never saw the woman in question. Heck, we hadn’t seen Obama or the cheering crowd. For all we knew, we were curtained off from bright lights, computer speakers, and half a dozen subwoofers. Once we’d inhaled enough gas, our alien overlords would take us back to the mothership for processing. Incidentally, one of the policewomen looked just like Dana Scully.

As the speech went on, the crowd eventually broke into three camps: the people at the front eager to prove they’d drunk the Kool-Aid, the people in the back who were still hurt and confused by this treatment, and those of us in the middle who’d given up on the rally in favor of crowd watching.  

Speaking of which, I didn’t see any hispanics or asians. I’d say it was about a quarter black and 3/4 white. Within that limited pool, though, men and women seemed equally represented and there was a broad spectrum of ages. It felt a little like a bizarro world version of the 60’s, when minority only meant one thing. Regardless of race, it was clearly an educated crowd with disposable income to spend on nice shoes and suits.

Between watching kids play on the bare concrete floor and keeping half an eye on the guards surrounding us on 3 sides, I picked up bits and pieces of the speech. It sounded pretty familiar. In fact, I voted for Clinton based on those same issues back in 1992, although without the creepy feeling I might be taken outside and shot at any moment. If this is what a rally is like, I can’t wait to see what we have to go through at the polls.

Somehow, an optimistic rumor spread through the crowd. The chosen people got to see the whole thing, but our reward for devotion would be a chance to shake the man’s hand! He’d come back here after the rally. Maybe some of the magic would rub off on us and we’d turn into ambitious, charismatic people too! I didn’t really believe it, but hey, what did I have to lose? Once the speech was over, we heard a thunder of feet as the chosen people trooped out of the auditorium. Behind our curtain, we packed in close to the speakers. A woman in a volunteer badge seemed agitated. She’d been promised the volunteers would get some one on one time. Where the hell did all these people come from?

If this was a dystopian movie, this is the point where they would’ve thrown one bag of rations into the middle of the crowd to watch us kill one another for it. We were that charged. Instead, Barak Obama himself did indeed appear. I’m 5′4″. All I could see was the back of a sea of heads. To my astonishment, Joe picked me up without warning. “He’s over there!” Yes! I caught a glimpse! Joe and I both tried to snap photos. Mine looked much like my actual view - waving hands and back of heads. His may be better. At one point, I was within 20 feet of the man. I could’ve  hit him with a carefully aimed spitball, but there was no hope of shaking his hand. He was too far away and there were too many people desperate to touch him.

Obama understandably disappeared five minutes after letting a group of strangers touch him. The guards didn’t have to yell at us anymore. We knew the drill. Get behind the curtain then get out. At this point, we rejoined the stream of people who’d seen him live. They were charged with excitement. I saw a sea of smiling faces. They were pumped, eager, and honestly optimistic. I was fascinated.

Seven different tables had sprung up outside selling their own Obama t-shirts, buttons, and bumper stickers. Most of them were inclusive, but there were some interesting ones with a ghostly Martin Luther King pointing at Obama over the text, “I have a dream.” Joe and I parted ways when we reached his car. I’d left mine at work, so I still had several blocks left to go. Along the way, a Humana employee overheard me say, “That was awesome,” to someone’s voicemail. She stopped in her tracks, grinning, and said, “There isn’t a better word.” She whipped out her camera. Apparently, she’d been close enough to get some great shots of him. She’d never met me before in her life, but darnit, she needed to talk to someone about this experience NOW. Again, I was fascinated. Her experience at the rally was so different from my own.

I’d like to make it clear I don’t blame Obama himself for my less than inspiring experience at his rally. He swept into town on an unexpected visit and put the arrangements into the hands of other people. His job is to give a moving speech. It’s someone else’s job to take care of the logistics. Still, I worry this is a sign of how difficult it will be to turn back the clock on Bush’s culture of fear. I want to be optimistic about America’s future, but it’s hard to do when surrounded by screaming armed people who want to keep you invisible from the majority of the population.

Screw those Poledancing classes for middle aged soccer moms who want to feel sexy at the gym. Now Peekaboo Games promises to bring that same seductive suburban empowerment-o-rama to the privacy of your basement. No more glaring at the skinny, giggling 24 year old while that roll of belly fat flops to the music. Your wholesome Wii is about to grow up. Fast. Between this and Grand Theft Auto, you’ll be able to pimp your basement and pretend you’re still a spry pot smoking college student instead of the responsible adult you see in the mirror each morning.

I want one.

This should’ve been my first full week of work, but I called in sick on Monday. Honestly, I wanted to call in Tuesday, too, but I was petrified they’d tell me not to come in Wednesday if I dared. My second day of work is one helluva time to grow a throat full of blisters.

I spent the rest of the week blowing solids out my nose and interrupting other people’s calls with my amazingly resonant cough. A Red Bull and DayQuil cocktail kept me upright more often than not, but I still spent a few lunches curled up on the floor with my office door closed.

Thursday, I had a 3 hour round trip drive with my boss. It was time for me to see a giant structural exhibit dismantled. He ran late, which not only meant none of us ate lunch but we also made it home an hour and a half late. Apparently, this is par for the course. Since I’m on the road with him again tomorrow, I’m packing my own lunch. I feel so shallow. One of the other salesmen needed to get home in time for his son’s ballgame. I needed to make it back for a group trip to Iron Man.

Friday, 3/4 of the city shut down in celebration of pony time goodness. My bosses are from New Jersey. They not only kept the office needlessly open (seriously - it’s pointless. You can’t make any money in Loiusville on Oaks or Derby unless you own a restaurant or bar) but they also sped out of town for the weekend to get away from it all. Alas. Some people don’t understand the wonder of local holidays.

In my interview, I cockily told them I can learn any software in 45 minutes. They seemed genuinely impressed when I proved it. Apparently, a couple of the older sales people are still using paper rather than the fairly intuitive database. My training has been well intentioned but haphazard, which has me a little anxious. Nevertheless, the sales boss seems pleased with my progress. After all my experience in the non-profit world, it’s strange and exciting to have someone say, “I know we can make a lot of money off you.” I really want to prove him right.

I have some clear short, medium, and long term objectives now. That adds a lot to my sense of confidence. The idea they’re going to shrug and send me away is wearing off. After so many months of searching for work, deep down I’ve been surprisingly afraid they’d walk in one morning and say they’ve changed their minds. Go home. Now that I have a better idea how much they’re investing in training me, that fear is finally ebbing.

This coming Thursday, I start on the phones. This will be my make or break point. It’s not merely my salary riding on this. They brought in another sales person because they need to make enough to pay the support staff. If I don’t do well, two other people’s incomes will be in jeopardy. NO PRESSURE.

I’d just asked for the dessert menu when a woman collapsed across our table.The after work crowd densely packed into Brennan’s faux Irish Pub (as a demonstration of authenticity, I’d had a jerk chicken sandwich while Chaz enjoyed spicy beef enchiladas.) Happy hour was in full swing. At first, I thought she was drunk. She came from the bar area, stumbled once, then fell to the floor at Chaz’s feet. Suddenly, he was on the ground with a stranger draped across him and overturned chairs everywhere. Someone at the adjacent table shouted, “She’s having a seizure!” The news made him look like he might have one of his own.

She didn’t twitch. Her eyes didn’t roll up into her head. She lay half in his lap, half on the floor, breathing hard and not answering any questions. The diagnosis was delivered with such certainty I assumed the people at the next table must’ve recognized her condition from experience. After all, in my ignorance I thought she’d drunk herself into a stupor. They sounded like they knew better. The staff was flustered. They kept asking if we wanted to take her home. I tried telling them we didn’t even know her, but they couldn’t hear me over Bono singing, “Where the Streets Have No Name.”

It took about ten minutes for those of us at the surrounding tables to figure out we all thought someone else had called 911. After all, someone came over to snap a cellphone photo. I thought they were emailing it to friends or family of the woman on the ground - not playing tourist. Around then, I realized the armchair diagnosis was the guess of a stranger, not a statement based on experience with this woman.

By the time Chaz disentangled himself from her our table had been shoved up against two others to make room on the floor. I felt like an ass, but it seemed like a good time to ask for the check. The waitress asked if we still wanted pie. A manager elbowed her way to us and shouted over Bono, “How much has she had to drink tonight!” I mimed, “Don’t know. Never met her.” The manger rolled her eyes. I was obviously lying.

We managed to worm our way out of the restaurant just as EMS arrived. I still don’t know whether the woman fell down drunk or fell down from a seizure. Either way, they carried her out.

I suppose the only thing more mortifying than calling in sick your third day of work would be calling in sick on the first. I’ve had vitamins, probiotics, juice, and a fistfull of over the counter drugs. By tomorrow, I damn well better be the perkiest, spiffiest, gosh darned best employee EVER. Or at least someone who can fake all that while on a dose of DayQuil.

An ominous throat tickle woke me in the night. I tossed and turned in a haze of fever induced denial combined with first day jitters. There was no way I was missing my first day of work.

Yesterday, blissfully healthy and adorned in shiny new suiting, I attended a seminar offered to our clients. It was a good way to learn what kind of services our customers are likely to want from us. This morning started with an internal meeting that was essentially the flip side of the same material. I wasn’t too surprised when the presenter, a dignified man in his 50’s, recommended half a dozen podcasts. I was startled only one of my coworkers knew what a podcast was and he didn’t subscribe to any. This is going to be a different environment.

One of the owners kindly treated me to lunch. In discussion, it turned out she’d particularly wanted to bring me on because of my tech experience. She’d like someone who can sell to the Generation Y/Millenials (I’m technically Gen X.) Most of the staff is older, male, and not terribly tech savvy. Once I have my feet wet, she’s excited by the idea of me starting a company blog. When I’m get some training at Corporate (probably August) she’d like me to pitch starting a company wide Facebook presence to the marketing people up there. They have plenty of people who can talk to the Boomers, but the Boomer’s kids are literally twice the size of my generation. (Generation X: The Most Aborted Generation In History!)
 
Then I got to “play with some product.” I would’ve been a lot more excited by the prospect of life sized leggos if I wasn’t running a 100 degree fever. I suspect the crisis worked out well for me. No one noticed I was a little fuzzy, although the scent of Ricola might’ve cued them in if they were paying attention.
 
After that, it was time for more tour, a big stack of product brochures to memorize, and a little vague discussion about finding nontraditional clients. This amused me since I still don’t know much about their traditional clients. However, I do know management is looking for people who are willing to do something unusual. Hiya.
 
They kindly offered to let me go half an hour early rather than start a new chunk of training at the end of the day. Well, mostly they needed to get back to the crisis du jour. My bed cried out to me. I went outside, eager to beat rush hour traffic, only to discover my car battery completely drained. Y’see, I have a small electrical problem. The car refuses to turn the fog lamps off unless I have the right turn signal on. I forgot to perform the magic ritual upon parking and thus was punished. I wasn’t about to go upstairs and ask one of my bosses for a jump.
 
Luckily, my brother-in-law generously sent a minion to my rescue. Thank you, JJ! Getting my car jumped was a bit of an adventure, but hey, isn’t it always? A little game of parking lot bumper cars while in neutral and some adventures in finding where the hell they hid the negative post on a PT Cruiser later and zoom, I was off to a walk-in clinic.

Since my throat is swelling closed, the doctor swabbed me for strep. The good news is the test came back negative. The bad news is that probably means this is something viral so just tough it out. I now have “viscous lidocaine” to gargle in order to numb the pain and a work release note from the doctor. Oh, hell no. It’s my second day. I’m going in. Now, if they decide to send me home in order to cut back on their exposure to whatever the hell I might have, that’s their decision, but I’m not calling in sick my second day of work. DayQuil and I can tough it out.

Technically tomorrow is my first day of work, but I was at the office today for an educational seminar aimed at clients.

I’m really glad I was lucky enough to get a gentle break-in like this. I feel like I have a much better grasp on the client’s concerns and ambitions. I think knowing more about their side before I learn all the ropes of ours will be invaluable for me in sales.

On a completely shallow level … I have my own office. With a door. Gosh. Back in Colorado, I held office hours in a six by six windowless concrete basement cell that left my students asking what the hell I’d done to deserve this. I am elated with a happy shiny office that doesn’t have a single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling and a drain built into the center of the floor. I could get used to working at for-profit companies!

I dressed as a flight attendant for Snakes on a Plane, a Pirate for two Caribbean movies, and am going to be an improbably plump Wasp for Iron Man in a couple of weeks. I’m completely comfortable in business suits well, but suiting leaves me feeling strangely costumed.

Perhaps it’s the salmon jacket and grey trousers. I’m normally an 8 color crayon box kind of woman. Perhaps it’s the missing nose ring (My face! What happened to my face!) Or it could be simple nervousness about starting my first day at a new job. Nah…surely not. It has to be the nose ring.

I’m holding a shiny review copy of a new kosher cookbook. Gosh. I feel like I gained a level. It’s like my opinion carries some sort of credibility.