Rennie Sloan

I glanced at a mirror and noticed my hair was mussed up. I grabbed a brush to make myself more presentable. Even though no one would see me, I needed the self-confidence good hair could bring. Still, I couldn’t shake my sluggishness. With only 15 minutes to go, I knew I had to spout out quick answers about Web partnerships I’d negotiated, revenue I’d generated and traffic I’d grown. In my last interview I’d been in the zone, with folks marveling at how, with precious few resources, I’d sustained huge traffic spikes, leveraged advertiser relationships and personally monitored server logs during the wee hours of a major launch.

With caffeine stalled in my veins, I was desperate, so I tried to think of quick aerobic exercises to circulate my blood. I launched into jumping jacks for the first time since grade school and tried to recall Jane Fonda videos, but could only think of Cindy Crawford’s injury-inducing routine. Noting the clock, I launched into Plan B: good old-fashioned jogging in place. Immediately, I felt energized, but then realized I wasn’t wearing a jogging bra. There was no time to change clothes, so I supported myself with folded arms and soldiered on.

I sat at my desk, and lined up the cordless phone, laptop, Coke, pen and paper. The woman in human resources told me to expect Bob’s call, so I waited and waited. At 10 after 2, I debated whether I should call Bob. What if he were sitting there waiting for me to call, thinking I was a slacker? No, I thought, he’s just wrapping up a meeting and would be annoyed if an |ber-eager candidate phoned him instead of following instructions.

But a few minutes later, I decided to risk it and call first. Bob answered on the first ring, saying he had been waiting for my call. I tried to explain that I’d been told he would call me, but I didn’t belabor the point to make a bad beginning even worse.

Compared to New York and San Francisco interviewers, Bob’s laid-back Los Angeles phone manner was refreshing. He chatted easily and asked me to summarize my background. Maybe this firm could offer all the excitement and opportunity of the Internet without the pressure-cooker environment of Silicon Alley or Silicon Valley. I went through my shtick of career highlights, pausing for emphasis on dramatic points involving my increased responsibility after the sudden company relocation.

Bob then cut to the chase and asked my thoughts on competitors and how they fit into this “B2C space.” The HR woman had tipped me off that they wanted some tangible business plan strategies, a tactic I had employed with candidates at my past job.

I switched screens to my notes and went down the list of competitors, explaining how Bob’s company stacked up against each one. Afterward, I took a giant gulp of Coke, expecting kudos for my efforts. The Coke was halfway down, when instead of a lengthy response or even a rebuttal he simply asked, “What about CyberWidget.com?” (Not the real name.)

Nearly choking, I quickly went back online and typed in what I guessed to be the Web address for the one competitor I’d missed — the only one he apparently cared about.

“Well, it’s interesting, Bob, that you mention CyberWidget,” I said slowly, watching the hourglass hover while the site downloaded. “To start, I feel like their entire site design could really use an overhaul.” The download crept slowly upward from 50 to 60 percent.

“How do you mean?” Bob wanted to know.

The site finally downloaded.

“It’s just confusing to understand their business proposition and the value it brings to the user. Their product offerings are somewhat buried and I can’t tell where I’m supposed to be looking.” This was a standard problem with many sites, and, as luck would have it, CyberWidget did have small, unreadable type for its primary content. I then launched into a lengthy speech on site design and the need to get back to basics of user interface to enhance value and increase click-through.

Bob agreed, but wanted to know what I would do to move his company forward. I took a long breath, and told him about what I thought was a major issue — that they didn’t reach consumers until phase two of the buying process. Bob could only disclose a few details, but acknowledged that the problem I mentioned was the company’s major issue. Each week, they debated it internally with consultants and their board of directors.

I then discussed some strategies, but failed to come up with anything earth-shattering.

Bob made it clear I didn’t give him the gem he was looking for, but I felt good about pinpointing the company’s major problem and giving a decent competitive overview.

Bob thanked me for the interview and wanted to know if I would have any “issues” with moving to L.A. Images of cross-country flights, apartment searches, buying a car and fighting traffic flashed before me.

“No,” I said. “Not particularly.”

After I hung up, I was finally feeling wide-awake and energized. I opened the curtains and decided to go to the gym. Now, if only I could find my jogging bra.

Interview No. 2

At about 10 p.m., the phone rang in my apartment. It was someone who had my risumi in front of him, and wanted to know if I had a few moments to discuss a job opportunity.

I was sleepy and full of wine and dinner, but I agreed to chat.

He told me he was the co-founder of an Internet start-up. After telling me the name, I pulled up the Web site on my computer. The site was sparse, featuring only biographical information. It was operating in stealth mode, unable to disclose its prized idea.

This amused me slightly because before the April Web crash, it was fairly common for friends or former colleagues to remain mum about their business models, explaining they were on the cusp of the next big idea and sworn to secrecy. Firmly and passionately, they adopted mysterious demeanors and alluded to their future status as the next Bill Gates.

But this man seemed quite earnest and had impressive credentials. Although he couldn’t tell me details of his business, he held my interest by giving me tidbits about his launch plans and named some of the companies that had expressed interest. A bit looser than normal for an interview, I challenged his timing on funding rounds, as well as his marketing and launch plans, based on the little information he’d given me.

He then quizzed me on my background, and I chattered on breezily, launching into excruciating detail about my years in the Internet world. Usually first interviews are like first dates; you share only enough to evaluate interests for future rounds. But I bubbled over far too long with a history of contracts and strategic deals I’d negotiated and maybe some that I hadn’t.

The next day, I couldn’t remember exactly what we had discussed. I knew I had a good feeling about the owner and the company, and that somehow he had persuaded me to make the trip from New York to Virginia, still not knowing the business model.

Within a few days, I found myself in Herndon, Va., meeting with the president of the company and taking a tour to meet his staff. In our first five minutes alone in the conference room, I signed my life away on a non-disclosure agreement, a hasty formality I’d done in the past merely taking business deals to the next level. But this time it was more dramatic, and I read through and quickly signed the documents, eager to learn their plans.

Within five minutes, he had the company plan mapped with a magic marker on a white board. This was his baby, and he unveiled each component with pride, drawing the plan together with circles and arrows at the end. With business plans you’re generally lukewarm or quite impressed. I was impressed. And so, apparently, were some investors.

We discussed different aspects of the strategy, and I tried not to repeat myself from my previous wine-induced banter. Then the other co-founder came in and we discussed different skills my background could bring to the table. They both seemed earnest and dedicated, and it was a rather warm and fuzzy meeting. Smart people, and nice. Things clicked.

A big setback, though, was the location. It was a long taxi ride from the end of the Metro line to get there, and far away from Washington, a city almost appealing enough to lure me away from New York. On the Amtrak ride home, I debated the pros and cons, and though there were many pros, the major “out in the boonies” con starting weighing down on me.

Several days later, we had further discussions. I had been dreading this talk because although the company was appealing, the move didn’t feel right to me. And declining a job offer is hard. You’re rejecting someone who has faith in you, and maybe even a connection.

And you never know for sure if you made the right decision. Years ago, I turned down an offer for a start-up that later became quite profitable, with the small original group striking it big. But the choice I made had its advantages, and I can’t say I have regrets.

So, I began the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech, feeling a knot in my stomach when I heard his disappointment. He was completely professional and understanding, and suggested a possible solution or two, which made it even harder. But it just didn’t work, so I offered to be a sounding board for his ideas, and we said we’d keep in touch.

Of course, it would be naive to think I’ll find the perfect people in the perfect location. And even if I could get through the mounds of information on the latest trends in B2B, B2B2C and P2P, there’s no guarantee I could hitch my career to a successful star.

In the meantime, though, I’ll be armed with a pot of coffee and my cable modem, ready to multi-task through the next phone call.

During a freakish June storm, I hurried off the New York subway in my mishmash ensemble, a blend of corporate America and hipster Net chic. Attempting to shield my portfolio, I headed down Hudson Street with my Mini-Me umbrella, battling heavy rain and a 30 mph wind. Suddenly a gale-force gust overtook me and collapsed my umbrella into a crumpled heap; a bent metal rod hooked onto my hairclip. Unable to extricate clip from umbrella, I felt my way toward the shelter of a doorway, finally prying loose the clip and my drenched locks.

Six blocks later, my first priority was a pre-interview restroom primping. The man in the lobby didn’t look up when he told me there was no restroom downstairs, and any elevator would take me up to my dot-com destination. On the 14th floor, I was greeted with a long empty corridor oddly lacking either people or signage. I feared I had the wrong floor and made my way through a labyrinth of dirty white hallways, passing one bathroom door (which was locked). Ten minutes later, I located the receptionist, whose desk was adjacent to the “other” elevator. By now it was already 10 a.m. and, bedraggled or not, I had to announce myself. I sat down to wait and surfed the company Web site on the pastel iMac in the lobby.

Clicking through the “page error” messages, I attempted to refresh my memory on the site offerings and layout. But my mind raced with a million thoughts.

Why was I here? Do I really want to work with a bunch of smart aleck dot-com MBAs, who throw out phrases like “VC says we’re the leaders in this vertical ASP space”? Even if I do have a business degree and have worked in the industry for half a decade, I’m sure I never held a meeting in something called a “pod.” In fact, as I recalled my last three years working on a major newsmagazine Web site, I couldn’t remember a single trace of anything resembling annoying Internet kitsch. Well, except for the giant orange beanbag accidentally sent to me by a start-up that didn’t realize the edit staff, not the business staff, could alter their destiny with an article touting their neato new site.

It turned out human resources had forgotten to set up a meeting with the person in charge of the international division, so it was just me and Jason from “biz dev.”

Jason: Do you have your résumé with you?

Me: No, I’m sorry, I e-mailed it and don’t have a hard copy. (How hard, Jason, would it be to print it out?)

Jason: (Fidgets with his hands; no pen or notepaper in sight.) So, tell me what you did at Newsweek?

Having never worked at Newsweek, I politely corrected him, and launched into a summary of my experience, boring myself to pieces and, from the look on his face, boring him as well. Then it was my turn to ask questions, which I carefully prepped at home to show both my vast industry knowledge and keen insight into the challenges facing the company. I fired one off and settled back in my chair.

Jason: (Looks unimpressed.) Well, as our S-1 registration states …

(Gee, Jason, thanks for answering the question by implying that I didn’t bother to do my homework and read your registration statement to go public. However, since your S-1 covers finances up through Q3 1999, and my question pertained primarily to commerce initiatives kicked off in Q4, your answer is not only rude, but irrelevant.)

Accordingly, I now assume that this interview is pretty much over, so I spend the remainder of my time focusing on the question that’s been on my mind since we started: What’s up with those dark-red, bloodshot eyes? Are you high? Or did you pull an all-nighter at work?

That did not bode well for my desire to work for this company, or any start-up tech firm. Even with the NASDAQ bouncing wildly and people flocking back to Old Economy jobs, I’d clung to the idea that smart new businesses with smart people could hold interest for me. Maybe 90 hours per week could still pay off with the right decision. I remembered the rush I used to get contemplating vast, bountiful Web opportunities. Eagerly anticipating my leap from traditional publishing to a start-up, I was sure it would leave me invigorated, enrapt in the frenzy and chaos, doing high-fives over cubicles and sharing plans with colleagues for early retirement.

Instead, I felt like the only online veteran without the equity for a car down payment. Still, I was too burned out to go through the interview motions with Jason from biz dev.

Jason continued on, leaning back in his chair with his fingers laced together, dragging out the time until he figured it was OK to terminate the interview. I began to daydream about the jobs I’d learned about online that spoke to my nonprofit interests, like the yearlong assignment in Eastern Europe requiring German-language skills. After a two-week refresher course, I could probably sprechen like a champ. The $12,000 salary was certainly troubling, but I was sure people successfully get corporate grants for such jobs. But visions of my monthly mail from names like Sallie Mae, Unipac and Teri reminded me of my mandate to earn an income that actually pays for my business school education.

I thought of my former colleagues who had left the security of traditional media to jump on the dot-com gravy trains. Some had struck it big with smart choices and perfect timing, deservedly reaping the financial rewards that grant freedom for future jobs. However, many were still waiting in cubicles at silly-name start-ups with delayed IPOs and strike prices approaching or greater than the sometimes single-digit market price. Even folks who could barely send e-mail or still called it the “World Wide Web” left in droves. It wasn’t hard to spot those about to jump ship; they suddenly started lurking around my office with a newfound interest in our company Web site. Once they began peppering me with questions on “hypothetical” Web sites, I would open my drawer, hand them a photocopied article on negotiating equity packages and send them along armed with Internet jargon for the next interview round.

Jason and I bid adieu. As I rode the elevator down to the lobby, I noticed it had stopped raining. I called to check my voice mail, recognizing the names of two Internet firms who wanted to know about my interest in their business development and marketing positions. My adrenalin rose and I quickened my pace, memories of Jason and the previous interview fading with each step.