Knowing Your Target Demographic Is Key to Brand Development
Interview #11.
Three months of handshakes, corporate parks, ergonomic chairs, fluorescent lighting, and white men in suits informing me I should hear back from them in seven to ten business days, and I’m no closer to the promised land of meaningful full-time employment. More specifically, I am in the office of a short, squat, balding man who, ever since introductorily shaking my hand, has not once taken his eyes off his desktop computer screen, his right index finger periodically clicking a wireless mouse and his face set in a humorless, joyless, impenetrable expression that says: Business is being conducted. The man, Mr. Eldridge Heathcote-Kenneford, my interviewer, wears a Bluetooth earset, and has problem skin, and, if I had to guess, is likely one of the roughly thirteen percent of US adult males whose viewing of online pornography causes him to worry that he might not satisfy his partner’s sexual needs. A man who, according to LoveCorp’s primary research data, belongs firmly within the target demographic for the Don Johnson Miracle Cream, the Hydraulic Love Elongator, The Lonely Man’s Pocket Guide to Avoiding Sexual Dysfunction. Mr. H-K clicks his wireless mouse, and squints at his screen, and I wait in respectful silence, settling into the sweet spot of my state-of-the art ergonomic chair. In terms of height, Mr. Heathcote-Kenneford is the third shortest interviewer I have encountered in my quest for meaningful employment, thus far. In terms of paleness, he is a tie for fourth palest. In terms of squatness, he is the second most squat. In terms of baldness, he is, without question, the baldest.
“It says here that you graduated summa cum laude from Columbia University,” says Mr. H-K. “And that you pursued a joint major in statistics and economics.”
“No,” I say. “I graduated from the University of Wisconsin. In Madison. I have a bachelor’s in business administration in marketing.”
Mr. Heathcote-Kenneford, my interviewer, ignores me.
“It says you earned an MBA from the Sloan School of Management at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology,” he continues, reverently, still squinting at his desktop computer. “Very impressive. I’m an MIT man myself. Mens et manus. Mind and hand. How do you like Cambridge in the autumn?”
“I think you have the wrong résumé,” I say, but Eldridge’s eyes stay glued to his screen.
“It says you earned a 3.97 GPA at Columbia,” he says, his voice betraying snowballing excitement. “That you completed your bachelor’s degree in three years. That you were a permanent fixture on the Dean’s List. That you studied abroad in China. Wā! Hǎojíle! Hěn yǒu yìsi! Hěn pèifu nǐ!”
“I’m sorry,” I reply, helplessly. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”
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