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"Xenophobia (but no sex) in the City"

This is my personal experience with xenophobia. It hurt really bad, and Caution: extreme language and war violence.

Chapter 1:
"My boss, Don"

It all started in 1997. I was out of college (and thinking of joining the Marines
to earn some $$$ and travel) but went to work. This would be my third job, maybe
fourth. A man with a stellar reputation in the area was hiring, and this would
be a leepfrog straight into the mil if I so choosed. It was risky though; "*Don" was
so well known that if I didn't get the job he might pass that along to others. I would
always be chided in our mid sized city that I had an interview with "The Legend"
but couldn't make it. Could not make the cut. That would hurt.

Showed up early, just an hour after work began but long before lunchtime. Don had
allowed me the time for the interview. I hope this impressed him. It showed that
I would allow time for him to get to his favorite lunch spot; but allow time for
opening and settling the morning crew down. It was a robust operation. There were
about 12-14 programmers who were designing CGI forms, Javascript, Python (for
legacy systems), and other languages. I, myself only new HTML 3, Javascript, a
bit of CGI bin and some rudimentary C++. Over to the other side of the room were
the "telephone ladies" as Don liked to call them. And in the middle was the
boiler room. Men (all men, in fact) calling companies and other businessmen to
see if they would buy the products. And many products there were! Don had an
entire warehouse filled with investment books, CDs, audio CDs, and posters and
motivational banners. Sharp operation.

Don had me sit in his office with the door open. He said it was because of "things
that happened in the past". I said 'Totally O.K. by me, Mr. _____ .' I was keen to
spot his sharp suit and carefully coifed hair. The smile, the look. He had it all down.
A master salesman; if the saying "I can sell refrigerators to an eskimo" meant
anything, Don would be the best. THE best. That was Don. He was a legend in
the city. This was not just any city though, it was the *biggest city in the state.
Having this on my resume would definitely count for something. And if I didn't
last long, I could string out a few months onto the end and add a few at the
beginning. It's all part of the game. So the interview began.

Don asked me what I knew about the company. And he asked me what he knew
about selling financial products and *XYZ widgets. Real estate was his other
business. This side never got talked about, the other side did.
Had studied quite a bit on his businesses, so I could answer. Don was impressed.
It did not show in his body language though. Don was not someone that you
would not want to play poker with. Or anything that required going against him.
Don did not lose. No. He was well known in the city as being a winner.
"Winning" was just part of his aura. His creed. I made sure to watch him for any tells.
To see if there was something I should further expound on. Or to say less on. I
really wanted the job, and Don seemed to be leading it past the "usual 45 minutes"
he said he gave interviewees.

Right next to Don's desk was a picture. Barely visible was his hot wife. This would
be his second, the other involved a well-known divorce. "Something for the media"
as other people would say. I happened to ask about his wife, and he decided to
say something about his first, *Savannah. We talked about how he married a
foreign wife on purpose. "American women are too complicated" was implied
in our conversation now going into personal territory. I felt that as he led me
further into his life, the job was clinched. Possibly.

Don was talking about his wife and other people until we talked about the
*war overseas. I chose not to tell him that I was going to apply for the U.S.
Marines at one point. Brought up a certain Muslim country until he blurted
out "s*** *******". I was shocked. He had referred to people from a Middle
Eastern country as s*** *******. One of the worst words in the English
language, combined with a slur toward people from the Middle East. I tried
to get him off the subject and back to his wife. "Horrible people. Hate them
all", he said. Further shock by me. I can control my eyebrows and know how
to stare away. But this was messed up. Fucked up. The citys well-known
millionaire was referring to one of our closest allies as a slur along with an
epithet. Disgusting.

But Don could not help himself. He talked about the amount of oil that we
were buying from that country. And he chose to bring up the names of
people he did business with. (Am I allowed to post that on Gamefaqs?) Don
had a nickname for each one. "Big head". "White Muslim Jesus". "The
cheater". "Camel jockey came to Queens". This guy was out of control. A
bit of sweat formed on me; I did my best to wipe it off in the most unassuming
manner. I felt that I had opened a hornet's nest, and the resulting swarm would
devour not just me but him. Don's face was flush. He was livid. "Fucking bastards
in the U.N. didn't want to get Saddam. Can you believe that? Can you fucking
believe that?" This was after Operation Desert Storm but before 9/11. Just to
take this all into context.

The time inched closer and closer to 45 minutes. I did want to wrap up the
interview, and hoped that I had not blown it. Don got up from his desk.
His office was adorned with trophies and gold plating on all the pictures.
I wonder how he could pay for it all. No small loan of a million dollars
would have built wealth this quickly. In the corner of his office at a height
a bit above the other pictures was a picture. I strained to see it. "Oh my
God" I thought. It was Don with the godfather. The local mafia figure that
you knew he had made his money in vice and dead bodies. Don was a
friend of his? I shuddered to ask.

Don was going on an on as his stood behind his desk being ugly. Every
fourth or fifth word was fuck, sand ******* or something you'd hear as a
slur. I prayed that an alarm would go off or the phone would ring. Then
came the ugliest thing I have ever heard a man say before:
"We should have bombed the entire Middle East and said fuck it."
Now I was angry. Because I'm Jewish, and Israel is there. Don't want my
ancestor's country contained in his vitriol. "Mr. _______, I beg to have
your attention." Don seemed as though the Lord God himself had
grabbed him. "What?!?!" he angrily replied. Composed myself, and
found the courage to say something to Mr. _____. This was my moment.
---

"Bombing countries doesn't work". This phrase seemed to puzzle
Don. He hadn't served in the military, not to my knowledge. My background
in history always made for conversation. Even at the tender age of 22
I could wow someone if it was a boring moment. Plus Jewish guys
have that sense of place and time; if I was going to get the job I had
to put Don in a better mood. "Bombing countries doesn't work,
because wars are bad." I could not imagine how dumb I made that
sound! Here was a multi millionaire sitting in front of me, and he
had the Middle East on blast. (Curiously he had not said a peep
about Iran, most of this had been aimed at Saudi Arabia. He didn't
really care about Saddam either.) "You know, you're right", Don said.
"My apologies", Don further said. I said apology accepted, it almost
came out as challenge accepted. I could almost smack my head.

So Don gave me a book and told me to read it and get back to him.
(I later found inside a $20 bill on page 22 and could not figure out
what that meant.) Before leaving his office, he said that he owed
"billions to a Prince" and "would never be able to pay it back, but
I don't intend on doing that". This was in 1997 and I did not know
about international credit. But I supposed that crossing someone
that had financed the mujahadeen in Afghanistan would probably
not be someone I want to cross. Don was cruel to imply that he
didn't care about loss of a powerful friendship over money. But
he was also slick because he implied that if things went bad in
business, he could just say "Bye".

Needless to say, I did not get the job. I was up a twenty. And *Don
did refer me to someone else that he knew who did offer a job.
And it paid about the same. Plus, my new boss would not be a
gigantic pile of shit, filled with Xenophobia.

So that's my Don _____ story.

* Some names and places have been changed to protect the
original persons and places.
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