The summer after my sophomore year at NYU, I applied for a job at Domino's Pizza. I enjoyed driving and cooking, so I figured I would be a versatile addition to the pizza industry.
I would look over their work and nod mysteriously.
When the kids were distracted, I'd sneak to the back room, take out the answer sheet and check their homework.
I wasn't bad at math; these kids were math freaks. They were doing college-level calculus — without TI-83 calculators — and they expected me to know if they were right or wrong in my head. That part was OK, but when I marked an answer incorrect, they hung on my arm, sometimes drooling, and asked me to work out the problem with them.
Eventually, I skipped this entire process and gave everyone a 100.
At 2 p.m. on a Wednesday, I drove to the local Domino's wearing a blue polo and khakis. I parked my car. I took a deep breathe. I walked toward the glass double doors. As I pulled open the door, my arms felt weak and unsteady.
In the last few years, I've interviewed at places like the Boston Globe, ESPN and a multi-billion dollar hedge funds company — and Domino's has been the only company that made my physically ill.
When I walked in, the manager was waiting for me. His name was Brian, and he was a 40-some-year-old guy wearing a Domino's visor and a short-sleeved button-up shirt. I feared him. He shook my hand and he asked me to wait next to a woman who had just ordered four large cheese pizzas. A few seconds later, he came back with a sheet of paper.
It hurt, probably more than the time I was rejected from my top college choice — on my birthday.
I never did get a job that summer. Boston Market turned me down. Applebee's had no jobs. And the lady who ran the tutoring company apparently knew I wasn't grading the students' math homework, so that was out of the question.
I was bored out of my mind that summer, so I started to write these 800-word stories about whatever was on my mind. It wasn't a journal as much as a personal column. I spent the summer finding my voice and reading other personal columns, and by summer's end, I had about 10 of them on my computer.
I pulled a recent story I wrote, polished it up and submitted it to the copy desk. It made it onto the page and someone asked me what I was naming my column. I laughed and said "Life of Alvin — but I'll rename it later." Guess that never happened.