Harper's Rules (2 page)

Oh, what the hell . . .

“Yes. Apparently for a long time.” I will not cry; I will not turn this arrogant head-hunter into Barbara Walters.

“And if one of your friends knew? If I knew? Would you have wanted to know?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure? It's touchy. You reconcile and then the friend or friends who told you are the bad guys on the wrong team.”

“So they said. They were wrong. They should have trusted that I would have never blamed them.”

He nodded. “If you ever find out my wife is cheating, let me know.”

“Right after I assure her nobody would blame her.”

He smiled wanly and then emitted a slow, dense sigh.

“You're getting fired, Casey.” He said it without looking at me. “Tynan is bringing in a new EVP, and he's going to clean house. Replacing the whole sales force, starting in six weeks. I'm sorry.”

“How do you know?”

“I placed the new EVP. Tynan gave me the search four months ago.”

“And you tell me now?”

“Ethically, I shouldn't be telling you at all. Look, Casey, your boss was going to get fired; someone was going to get that search. Any new EVP is going to bring in his own people. Because it's me, you are the only one in the sales force who knows. You have at least three or four months to prepare, plan, and find a job, and it will be better. Because I care.”

I was twirling linguini drenched in pesto sauce with my fork. My stomach felt like it had jumped off a bridge. What was the point of trying to take another bite? I lowered my fork.

“Look, Casey, this is a good thing. You'll get out before they let you go; you've got a track record, leverage. In the long run, this is the best thing that could happen to you.”

“Oh save it, Harper, really. Every time something bad happens to me, I am surrounded by people telling me it's the best thing that could have happened to me—none of whom, by the way, are personally affected. Donald falls in love with a co-worker's
wife, a woman I introduced him to, and it's a good thing because he didn't love me, and now I can find someone who does. The fact that their affair humiliated me at work and made a cushy job untenable—a job that I had killed myself for over a decade to attain— was a good thing because at a new company there'd be no ghosts, no gossip.

“And now that I have picked myself off the floor and established myself, albeit at a crappy company, that, too, is being taken away, and you say it's the best thing for me. You know what? It's not. It's not good that I'm going to be out of a job; it's not good that I'm not dating, that I only go out to eat for business; it's not good that I am in sweats all weekend and am addicted to
Court TV
and high-glycemic foods. It is the exact opposite of good, Harper; can you let me have that for just a while? Is that too much to ask?”

“How is everything, you two?” said Miss Teen America.

“It's good,” I said.

“No,” Harper nearly bellowed, “it's not. It is the opposite of good, and we would just like to
experience
the food's opposite-of-goodness for a while. Is that too much to ask?” Miss Teen America withdrew, slightly dazed.

“You're an idiot, Harper.”

“Yes, but an empathetic, listening idiot.” He gave me the kind of smile that made me want to feel better for
him
, so that he'd keep smiling. My whole life has been spent doing whatever I need to do to keep men smiling.

“So now what?”

“You need to read my book,” he said.

“You wrote a book?”

“Does that seem inconceivable?”

“On getting a job?”

“Writing a simple book on getting a job is not going to get me on Oprah's couch. It has a far more ambitious scope.”

“What's it called?”

“It's called . . . I, uh, have decided to call it . . .
Harper's Rules: The Recruiter's Guide to Finding a Dream Job and the Right Relationship.
”

“You've written no such book, have you, Harper?”

“I certainly have, and I find that comment insulting. Now, to clarify, I haven't written it in the sense of having actually committed words to paper in some structured, organized form.”

“In what sense then, given that tiny distinction, would it qualify as a book?”

“Continued ridicule will take you right off the dedication page. You wanted to hear a pitch, here it comes: I've been a headhunter for twenty years. I interview, I evaluate, I
dig deep because I need to know how people make decisions. If they don't accept the job, I don't get paid. And here's what I've learned:

“There is no difference between making decisions in your career path and making decisions in your romantic life.

“It's the most natural analogy in the world, and one every headhunter uses. We all know an interview is like a date; we seek attractive jobs using the same skills we use to find a mate; the best relationships come through referrals; giving notice feels like breaking up; and as you now know, getting fired feels like you've been cheated on. Get the premise, or do I go on?”

I found myself remembering previous interviews: how I sized up the staff members I met—how dull or funny they seemed, the office zeitgeist. It was like walking into a party.

“My book is meant for someone just like you,” he said. “You are my target audience. Usually we're happy in our relationships but our career is in trouble, or we love our job but our home life is terrible, so we gravitate toward the positive reinforcement of one or the other. The problem gets exacerbated because a loved one or a boss feels ignored.”

I put my napkin on the table and folded my hands in front of me. I would have liked nothing better than to shoot Harper down, but my thoughts flashed to evenings on the road, sitting at a Marriot bar with the other road warriors, and how quickly the conversation descended into the ingratitude of a spouse left at home or the unfair expectations of a CIO changing the specs on an order. Given enough alcohol, the talk steered toward the choice of covering each other, just for the night, in the threadbare blanket of a simple sexual encounter. I had never been seriously tempted, but I had felt truly sorry for many of them. Then, near the end with Donald, I had my own horror story. It wasn't that I didn't know marriages that worked, but I had to agree with Harper: not too many happy people. I conceded with a nod.

“My book's ambition is to point out how, if you understand the correct way to get a job and manage a career, the power of the analogous relationship between
whom you love
and
what you do
becomes synergistic and creates a new you: one who is whole— who is real. Wouldn't it be nice to wake up in the morning and not have to make a distinction between your life and who you pretend to be?”

“Is that how your life is, Harper?”

“This is about you. You need my book, Casey. You need a new career, and you need to stop living without love. The two can be done at one time.”

“If you ever write the book.”

“I believe I've just started.”

CHAPTER ONE

Harper asked me if I was okay, and I told him I was fine, no worries. I went home and it felt like the day the divorce was final.

That day I sat at my dining room table without an idea in the world. I don't mean I didn't know where I wanted to live or if I wanted to remarry; I mean I didn't know if I should sit in the dining room or move to the couch, whether I should sleep, eat, or do laundry. Hannah said, “I know you, girl. You saw this coming at some level, and you've got a plan.” But I didn't see it coming. And I didn't have a plan.

Today I took two Ambien, chased them with two Oreo cookies, some skim milk, and another Ambien, and opened my arms to oblivion.

In a couple of days I had decided Harper was just being Harper. I didn't think he was lying, but I decided he was taking a few facts, blowing them up, and making a lot of assumptions. My boss had certainly not been acting like he was in any trouble. And how did Harper know that if they did bring in some new honcho he was going to clean house? No, Harper was trying to make a sale and I was just his next placement, wrapped in empathy. And as for his imaginary book being the answer to my work and love problems? Please. Keep the day job, Harper. I went to the monthly staff meeting with the conviction that Harper was to be ignored. Enjoyed, perhaps, but ignored.

My CEO, Michael Tynan, was at the sales meeting; he never comes to sales meetings.

He sat with his arms folded across his chest, and when he interrupted my boss with a short declaration that he had a responsibility to reverse our sales forecasts sooner rather than later, I knew in an instant Harper was right. My boss was toast. We were all toast.

In the next four days, I did what any reasonable person in crisis would do—I blocked it out entirely. Every time I got a call, I was grateful it wasn't Harper. I needed some time to sort through everything, though I knew that was the complete opposite of what my therapist would tell me I should do.

“What would you do if you weren't afraid?” she would lean over and whisper, and I would catch a whiff of the cinnamon Tic Tacs she always chewed but never offered. (“I would ask you why you hoard something that costs less than two dollars and comes sixty to a package.”) She was right to call me on it. When I found out about Donald's affair with Sasha, I not only avoided confronting him for a week, I held hands with him at the Met's Picasso exhibit for the first time since we started dating. I fear change even more than humiliation.

I would die before ever admitting this to him, but at times like these I miss Donald. He would stroke my hair while I whined and emoted. He would not try to fix me, but would just nod while I let it all out. Why can't I find the answers without someone touching my hair, and why doesn't it work when I touch it myself?

Sitting at home on a Friday evening, I suddenly realized I could trust Donald to tell me if what I decided to do sounded right. Immediately the idea of trusting Donald cracked me up, and my laughter reverberated through the empty house. My six-year-old Maine Coon, Starbucks, (so named because she turns up at every corner, and is bitter first thing in the morning) ran out of the room, skidding on the hardwood floor like a cartoon tabby.

Then I heard the faint chime of an email arriving, and during the commercial I checked it on my way to the fridge.

Harper Scott. Sent with “high importance.” The subject line read:

Harper's Rules: The Recruiter's Guide to Finding a Dream Job and the Right Relationship
, by Harper Scott.

My instinct said not to open this now. Not after having two and a half glasses of Kendall Jackson chardonnay that I washed down with eleven Fig Newtons and looking like a raccoon because I had rubbed my mascara the way I do when I'm stressed. My instincts told me I should read this after a good sleep, not when vulnerable.

I believe my instincts; I just tend to ignore them. I went to the living room and sat down to read.

The opening paragraphs were vintage Harper:

Author's Note: Now that you have bought this book, it makes no difference to me if you are trying to solve your relationship problems or your career issues; they are one and the same. You can't have a great relationship if you fail at your career, and the greatest job in
the world is worthless without someone who can share the ups and downs with you. I have learned how to fix both simultaneously for my candidates and clients.

But first a disclaimer. This book will be useless if you are the type who whines and moans about what people or circumstances in your life have done to you, but who are actually not interested in change—the type who define themselves by their problems and will continue to do the things they already know don't work. If this sounds like you, please return the book and buy
Dating for Dummies
or
What's My Parachute?
For the rest of you, let's go. None of you are getting any younger.

Despite Harper's signature combination of callousness and acumen, I had to ask myself if I really wanted my life to change. Do I get some sort of pleasure out of being unhappy? No, I don't think I do. I was happiest when I was happy—I just couldn't sustain it. And right now at my job, all I'm trying to decide is whether I should cut and run or try to make it work.

HARPER'S RULES
Should You Leave or Stay?

It takes little thought and even less courage to leave a relationship that is miserable all the time. The problem for most of you reading this is that
you're not miserable all the time; you're only miserable some of the time!
Some of you will say, “but that's life” and decide to stick it out. Great; that's your call. But some of you will be haunted. In a life this short, isn't it possible to be happy nearly all the time—at work and home?

Misery isn't happiness's foe; “good enough” is.

So you need to decide. I will ask you the same questions I would if you were in my office and I was considering representing you to my corporate clients. After you do the homework I'm about to assign, if you decide to stay in your job or relationship, then take change off the table. Accept that, excluding some unforeseen change, you will be where you are for the rest of your life. It's
okay
to be done with seeking. Embrace it.

But stay away from me, just in case what you have is contagious.

Regardless of whether your primary concern is your personal relationship or your career, answer this diagnostic in terms of your job first, and then you'll see the same rules apply to your relationship. You can do it in reverse too, but it's my book, damn it! Do it my way first.

Time-to-Leave Diagnostic

Q1:
Why did you buy this book?