“Soooo, Steph (not my real name), this is a fantastic offer. I can see that you are ready to join our team so I will have legal draw up the official contract.” He pushed back a wisp of thinning dyed black hair from his face and then flicked his head like a Valley Girl for good measure. The man was in his late sixties for crying out loud.
(Why do these guys all dye their hair black?!???!)
“Mister Trout (not his real name), I look forward to having my attorney review it, thank you.”
I started packing my belongings into my red leather tote.
Earlier he had been asking odd questions, trying to get into my head. He was one of those fellows that fancied himself smarter than me. Maybe he was. But his use of my first name in a professional setting was odd, particularly as myself and others around him kept referring to him as Mr. Trout and me as Dr. So-and-so.
Not that I am one of those people that insists on the title. Typically people ask me first if it is OK to use my first name and I am cool with it. Here, though, it was awkward, like when a patient speaks to me using my first name when I don’t know them socially outside the clinic.
Hell. He wasn’t even using my real first name. It was an adulteration.
“I will be at my vacation home in Florida for the weekend, Steph, so if you have any questions, feel free to get in touch with me when I get back.” He uncrossed his legs and stood up.
(Really. Was the mention of the vacation home even necessary?)
Three weeks later, I finally got that contract from legal. Twenty eight pages of it.
That was the second job I turned down.