The Clipboard Era

I once had a coworker who had a theory that worked back in what I’ve come to call the clipboard era. He felt that if you carried a clipboard and behaved professionally, you could pretty much go anywhere.

He proved his theory one day in Washington. We were at an online information meeting of some variety that was sharing the hotel with the annual NABOB conference. 

According to NAOB.ORG, which of course did not exist during the clipboard era, “NABOB is the first and only trade organization representing the interests of African-American owners of radio, television and digital media across the country.” 

We had no desire to intrude, simply to observe. So armed with our clipboards, we found an empty theater where it turned out Al Jarreau was rehearsing. We watched from the balcony. We were the only two people up there. No one questioned our presence. We were carrying clipboards. 

At our next stop, we had to deal with a larger crowd but people moved aside for the folks with the clipboard. We had no problem stepping into the room where all of the media outlets in Washington were waiting for a press conference to begin. As is often said, the excitement was palpable. The anticipation was visible. Everyone who was anyone in local news was gathered for the ground-breaking event.

Who was visiting? The Pope? Queen Elizabeth? Khrushchev arisen from the dead? No. Michael Jackson was in town. 

We were in the capital of one of the largest nations in the world, the alleged capital of the free world. Where else would the press be? It wasn’t as if anything else could be going on in that city.  

It was a long wait for a short appearance. What I remember about Michael is that when he climbed onto the platform at the front of the room, he appeared like a giant. Not because he was tall. The ceiling was oddly low. 

I might be misremembering what he said: not much and substance-free. I don’t recall if he took any questions. I do remember his high voice and satin outfit. I know it was a bright color. I think it might have had epaulets. Everyone loved him. 

We didn’t go to all the conference events. We never would have tried to go to the party that night mostly because we truly did not want to intrude. Also, clipboards were not appropriate and wouldn’t have fooled anyone. Invited attendees would have seen us as press which probably would have gotten us thrown out. 

We didn’t even pass by the door on purpose but as we did we couldn’t help but glance in and catch sight of a pretty high-profile guest. 

I later told a friend about the incident. I had a reputation for running into famous people, so I mentioned Michael Jackson was just about the most famous person in the world. 

My friend:  One person is more famous. 

Me: Who?

My friend: Muhammed Ali

Me: Oh, he was there.

Of course, I can’t attribute the Ali sighting to the clipboard. I count that as an accidental encounter, the kind I am prone to have. 

I am not a crasher of any type—gate, party, wedding. (I did once go to the wrong funeral but that was an accident. I swear.) Although I had fun that day, I wasn’t completely comfortable with the clipboard approach. I never tried it on my own and now it is a relic of the past.  I am glad I got to experience it before modern technology and heightened security moved us into a new era, but once was enough for me. Clipboard or no clipboard, a crasher is a crasher. And, that’s not really my thing.

© 2024 Jane Kelly

Mysterious Job Interview

As I approached college graduation with a history degree that I didn’t yet appreciate (I had not figured out what aspects I loved), I had no goals or expectations. It was a different time. I recall saying two weeks before graduation, “I guess I’ll have to get a job or something.” 

This was not related to the social norms of a time when the customs of the 1950s were still holding on - for women anyway. I had no expectation that I’d be marrying and raising a family. Let’s just say I was open to the possibilities. Any possibility. 

A friend suggested the civil service test. So, I took it and received in response a letter from the government asking me to come in for a “special” interview for those who had scored in the 95th percentile and above. No mention of a position or an agency. Just a job. 

There was a state office building on Broad Street in Philadelphia and my recollection is the interview was held in a conference room there. So, on a lovely spring day, I headed downtown to learn more about my new opportunity. I wasn’t thinking about career path. I was thinking about location. At the time I favored Puerto Rico and Hawaii. 

I arrived and was put in a waiting room worthy of any American institution of the 1940s. It was then 1970. The only other person waiting was a young woman much more of the flower-child type of the era than I was. She was very sweet and chatty and eagerly engaged me in conversation. About what? No idea. We did establish we were both waiting to be interviewed. For what? Again, no idea.

My next recollection is sitting around a conference room table with three other interviewees. At the head of the table was a very pleasant interviewer, male, Caucasian and possibly wearing a white shirt. And, a tie. Definitely a tie. Did he keep his jacket on? Possibly not. The atmosphere was very friendly and informal.

I couldn’t help noticing that those of us who were there to be interviewed could have come from central casting. The flower-child sat across from me. I called the fellow beside me the used-car salesman—not because he resembled any actual used-car salesman I had ever met but because he fit the Hollywood stereo type perfectly. I don’t remember the fourth person except he was a white male. I suspect we were all in our early twenties.

We were each asked the same questions I now realize were all about personal ethics. I only remember one. The son of a diplomat (from the Middle East? Hazy on that.) gets drunk and in a car with diplomatic plates runs down and kills an American citizen in DuPont Square. What do you do? (As to why they expected me to know about DuPont Square since I didn’t live in DC, I couldn’t say.) 

The flower-child focused on some half-truths that supported the victim’s and the diplomat’s families.

The used-car salesman came up with out-and-out lies to make it all go away including the diplomat’s kid who was on the next plane out of the country.

I have no idea what the fourth person said. He was a ghost. 

I laid out a plan to do the right thing. I specifically recall telling them—naively but wisely—not to try to hide the incident. Cover-ups always fail. Had they known what lie ahead, they should have hired me for the Nixon White House right there and then. But they didn’t.

I wasn’t offered any “special” job but I was eligible to be hired. I was asked what locations I preferred. I got two choices. I put Puerto Rico and Hawaii. I never heard from them again. 

Possibly, they—whoever they were—figured out I wasn’t particularly serious about a career in government service. Or any career, actually. I can imagine my evaluation. Unrealistic. Naïve. Possibly stupid but freakishly good at standardized tests. (I loved them.)

I’ve come to believe that the criteria for an invitation to this special interview had less to do with percentiles than with character traits. I suspect that there were questions peppered throughout the test to catch personality traits they found desirable and I might describe as pathological. 

I was telling a coworker—I’ll call him Rob—who had once held a top-level security clearance about this interview. 

I told him about the flower-child, the used-car salesman and the ghost. “Ghost probably got the job. I can’t remember a thing about him.”

Rob appeared amused. His response?  "You were the only one being interviewed that day.”

It feels kind of exciting to think that might be true. 

© Jane Kelly 2024