Monkey Business

layla’s price isn’t right

Friday, September 26, 3:30 p.m.

Tom Price is far too sloppy to be accepted into LWBS. I feel bad, but what can I do? You’d think with a last name like Price, he’d be more market-savvy.

I read his opening statement again: “I think Stern Business School is the perfect place for me to grow as a professional…”

It’s Leiser Weiss Business School, not Stern Business School. Stern is New York University’s business school. Tom’s entire application focuses on what an incredible place Manhattan is. NYU probably got his application to LWBS.

Final score? His GMAT translated into a nine out of ten, work experience is a seven, undergrad marks an eight. For references, I gave him four out of five, essays three, and for overall impressions I’m giving him a zero. That makes a total of thirty-one out of forty-five. Reject file. He was sloppy, case closed.

I feel a tad guilty, but someone has to make the tough decisions.

My favorite is the “overall impression” category, because it can be anything we want it to be. That’s where we can give a high score if we think the candidate will add something exceptional to the business school experience. Like if she does Broadway plays in her spare time.

“How’d he do?” asks Dennis, the student sitting to my left. He’s young, twenty-four, and looks like a miniature, handsomer Bill Gates, despite the massive round glasses covering most of his face. Not so shockingly, he did in fact work for Microsoft, and wants to go back to Seattle once he finishes his MBA.

Six of us are in the conference room, shuffling applications from the new pile to the first-round pile to the rejection pile. Dorothy gave us brief instructions at the beginning: be fair, try not to be biased, everything we read remains confidential, every application has to be looked at by two of us. The two scores are averaged, and then the applications are put in numerical order.

“Not great,” I answer him. “I don’t think he’ll be joining our ranks next year.”

Next. Emily Beckman. Essays…pretty good. Four out of five. Work experience. Good. Seven out of ten. GMATs…not fantastic. Four out of ten. Not terrible, but not as good as Tom Price. References, four out of five. College marks, eight out of ten. But since this is the first female applicant I’ve come across in nine submissions, I’m giving her five out of five for overall impressions. LWBS is trying to increase its female quota from thirty-two to forty percent. I’m therefore being extremely generous in the general comments section, supporting my sisters.

Emily’s total is thirty-three. I write a note on her file: solid female applicant. Please interview.

Two hours later, my eyes are starting to blur, as if I spilled a glass of water over the applications. I’ve read twenty-two. I’m officially shocked at the overall incompetence of most of the hopefuls. One guy used his father-in-law as a reference. Another had blatant discrepancies between his résumé and essays. Others should have spent more time proofreading.

Their résumés are so linear. Went to college, went to work, want to go to B-school, blah, blah, blah. Bor-ing. I like my candidates to be more well-rounded. Where are the business-minded people who are concert pianists/avid travelers/documentary filmmakers in their spare time?

Perhaps I should hire myself out as an application consultant. Now that would look good on my résumé.

Only two readers are left in the room. Dennis and me. Everyone else has taken off for the weekend. “Are you finished yet?” he asks me.

“Just about,” I say, smiling.

“Do you want to grab something for dinner? With me?”

Didn’t see that one coming. I give myself whiplash when I look back at the applications, away from him. “I can’t, unfortunately. I think I’m going to pick up a pizza and hit the books.”

He blushes and says, “Um…okay.”

Whilst it may be lovely to have dinner with someone new, and he seems nice, and is kind of cute, I don’t think it would be a good idea to date someone I work so closely with. And Dennis isn’t my type. First of all, he’s too short. I like my men lean and brawny. I’m five foot nine and full figured, and I like to look a man in the eye. Plus he wants to live in Seattle, which is across the country from Manhattan, where I intend to live. And I’m in no rush to date just anyone. My career has to come first. I have to come first. I don’t have time to get involved and then realize what a mistake I made.

Like in high school, I fell in love with Darryl McDonald, the best-looking guy at the all-boys school down the street. I had a habit of hanging out at Central Park whenever he played football. And following him home. And calling and hanging up. Finally he asked me out. We started making out in the park. And I discovered he had the IQ of a turtle.

I wave goodbye and pack up my belongings. Maybe I need therapy for my tendency to obsess. About school. About my career. About ideal men. I’ve always wanted to have a therapist. All my sorority sisters had therapists, but my parents thought it was a waste of time and money. Work harder, that was their motto. Instead of therapists, I had nannies. Many, many nannies. Most of them blur together into one face. For a while a Brazilian woman took care of me, but when I started talking with a Brazilian accent, my parents became alarmed and fired her. So on to the next. I remember a long blond braid being flicked over a tall woman’s shoulder. I remember sitting on a hard park bench while someone explained who I was according to Chinese astrology. Her name was funny sounding, like an amphibian. She told me I was born in the Year of the Dragon. Or maybe it was my sister who was the dragon. Maybe I was the pig.

I remember sitting on the grass in Central Park, refusing to put on my sneakers, being told I was stubborn. Just because I hate being told what to do doesn’t make me stubborn. I remember standing in the doorway while one of my nannies disengaged my arms from around my mother’s legs. I was begging my mom not to go to China while my father was in Italy. She kissed me on the head and told me to make sure to do my homework, and then she left. She just left. From the penthouse window, I watched the black car whisk her away, and thought, At least I have my sister. And my homework. I wanted to score perfect marks on everything so I would make my parents proud, and over time perfection became my ultimate goal. I began to loathe the red marks highlighting my mistakes on my assignments. Loathe the unmade bed. Loathe the dirt on the floor.

Everything had to be just so.

I became a princess watching over my tower.

Maybe I should have demanded therapy, because I’m still that princess, and the prince I’m looking for doesn’t exist-someone smart, gorgeous, ambitious, tall, who intends to build his castle in Manhattan. Unfortunately, no one in B-school seems to fit that description.

None of the students, anyway.

Professor Rothman seems to have a thing for me. He always makes a point of saying hello to me whenever he walks into class.

I think that’s a little creepy. He’s not married or anything (no ring), but I don’t think professors should be flirting with their students. We’re here to learn.

I lock the door behind me and set off for the dorm. I wasn’t lying to Dennis-I do have a lot of work. I stop at the pharmacy on the way, to pick up antibacterial wipes. Who knows what’s on those applications? I also pick up another conditioner. I go through one a week, which I know is absurd.

I shake some fish food into Martha’s bowl, then study until ten-thirty when I call my friends back home to say good-night. I should do laundry, but the idea of using those revolting machines in the basement makes me cringe. I tried to find someplace where I can send out wash the way we do in the city (I love the way my underwear comes back folded in cubes), but I learned quickly that Connecticut is not Manhattan.

I head to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Reminiscing about those high-school nights has put me in the mood. Okay, fine, I’m always in the mood. Getting off to Darryl could be just the medicine I need to help me fall asleep. And with a smile on my face, to boot.

Jamie and Russ walk in as I’m brushing my teeth. Russ’s head is rolling behind him. Someone’s had too much to drink.

“Someone got too friendly with Mr. Daniels,” Jamie says, his arm around Russ’s shoulder. “Need to get to a stall. Care to help?”

Jamie is funny, in a ha-ha way. He was really funny last week in the shower when he didn’t know who I was, but at the moment I am not amused. I spit my toothpaste suds into the sink as Russ spits up on the floor. It splashes onto my leg. I am definitely going to need a shower.

Jamie continues leading Russ toward the toilet. “Stall, Russ, stall. Did I say floor? I did not say floor.”

I think I’m going to be sick. The smell of his stomach contents is overbearing. I tiptoe back to my room, seize my shower pail and dash down to the hopefully vomitless second-floor bathroom.

Talk about inappropriate behavior. B-school boys seem to think they’re still in high school. But why waste time obsessing over children? Darryl awaits.