“Hello, Kimmy, this is Claire Moss at O’Donnel. We’d like to bring you down to Manhattan for a second interview…”
Oh. My. God. She keeps talking, but my hand is shaking as I note down the number. Word on the street is that they make offers to three-quarters of those who make it to second round. Oh. My. God.
I dial her number immediately.
“Hi, Kimmy. Thanks for calling back. Would you like to come to the Manhattan office for our second round?”
Oh, no thanks, I’d rather remain unemployed. “That would be great.”
“Good. Second round will be next Thursday, and then we’re having a dinner for the prospective employees that night.”
Amazing. I’ve never been to New York. Russ will be there, too, and it won’t matter who sees us together there. We can sleep in the same bed in the same hotel the entire night without setting the alarm for six-ten. I hate six-ten. I hope I never have to see six-ten again on my clock.
I’m going to need a new suit. And an outfit for dinner. After I make the arrangements, I check my bank balances online.
Bank account: $400.00.
Visa balance: $1,000. (Stupid second-semester textbooks.)
Loans…no need to torture myself and look at that link. Today I’m focusing on the positive. New York. Hotel. O’Donnel. Me and Russ.
layla’s stakeout
Wednesday, January 28, 4:00 p.m.
I am stalking Bradley Green.
All I need is a long-lens camera, a trench coat, cigarette hanging from my lip and dark sunglasses. I bet most stalkers don’t wear Chanel suits.
The best part is that I didn’t even break in. Since my interview was at one, I just stayed in the building’s coffee shop. The woman behind the counter makes a mean vanilla chai. I’ve set up camp with my New York Times directly against a glass wall that faces the elevators. And it’s not just the potential of catching a glimpse of my potential Prince Charming that’s exciting me; it’s the energy. I love working. I seriously love the pulse of getting things done.
Why hasn’t Bradley come in for a cup of coffee? Then I can casually bump into him and we’ll finally meet. Everyone needs a four-o’clock break. Maybe he’s not in his office today. I could be waiting here all day for nothing. I should call him. Why not? I’ll call and hang up. I take out my cell phone. No. Sitting here, minding my own business (meeting the man of my future is my business) is one thing, but stalking him on the phone is totally unethical.
What the hell. I’ll star 67 and block the call. And Kimmy thinks she has nothing to teach me. I dial the company number, which I looked up just before I left for New York, and ask his receptionist to connect me to him.
Connect me to him. That has a nice sound to it.
It rings. I am going to hang up, aren’t I? I will. I will not speak to him. I can’t speak to him. I’ll sound like an idiot.
“Hello, you’ve reached Bradley Green, it’s January twenty-eighth, and I’m either on the phone or away from my desk…”
Fantastic. He’s in the office today. I hang up the phone.
At six-thirty, I see him.
It’s him. I know I’ve only seen one picture of him, although I did enlarge it on my screen, but I feel that it’s him deep in my soul. It’s him. My prince. I’m going to meet him!
He’s about six feet tall, and wearing black pants and a silvery-gray shirt. His hair is light brown, and he’s talking to a woman in a short yellow suit. He’s holding his folded jacket over his arm. Is he leaving? So early? Is he a slacker or is business slow? And who is that woman? And why is she wearing yellow? Vile. That is so not her color.
I hate being catty. It is not nice to be catty. It’s time to meet my prince!
I’m paralyzed in my chair.
I can’t. I just can’t. I don’t have an excuse.
The door flaps behind him as he leaves for the night.
I pretend to read the paper.
the green-eyed monster gets to russ
Thursday, January 29, 7:10 p.m.
The cab jerks forward and then backward, and then forward again. Oh, man. I try to steady Kimmy by putting my hand on her knee.
“Russ, I think I’m going to be sick,” she says.
“We’re almost there.”
“That doesn’t help. I’m nervous.”
“What are you so nervous about, eh? You said the interview went great.”
“I think it did. But…this is it. If I don’t get this, I’ll probably end up back in Phoenix.” She uncrosses her legs and then crosses them again. “I can’t take out more loans if I’ll never be able to pay them back.”
“You’re being ridiculous. You can look for a job on your own. These are just school jobs. There are a million opportunities out there, and not just in New York.”
She kisses me on the cheek. “Yeah? What about you? You’re not worried about this dinner?”
“Who me? Nah.” I’ll be more worried if I get the job and I have to decide whether I want to take it. Which doesn’t mean I don’t want it offered to me.
I’m not going to pick the pimple that has appeared by my left temple. I’m not even going to touch it. I may not have willpower when it comes to Kimmy, but I have willpower for my picking.
Me, nervous? Oh, man.
The taxi slams to a stop on the corner of Fifth and Forty-seventh. I hand a five over the plastic divider, then we shuffle out onto the street. “Ready?” I ask, holding open the heavy metal door for her. The floor of the lobby is green, the walls a dark wood, the ceiling pale blue. Are they trying to impersonate a golf course?
Kimmy bites the side of her lip. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
I scratch at my pimple.
“Hello,” I say to the maître d’. “We’re here with the O’Donnel party.”
He nods. “They’re in the private room on the left.” I follow Kimmy through the lobby. She looks hot in her tight black pants and red blouse. Clothes that I’m looking forward to taking off later tonight. We each have a hotel room with a king-size bed. We’ll have to try them both out. She gives me a nervous smile as we walk into a room full of partners and applicants. I squeeze her shoulder and put on my best fake smile. I’ve gotten better at being fake this year than I ever thought possible.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” a floating bartender asks us. Apparently my fake smile looks like it could use a drink.
“I would, thank you.”
I pass one to Kimmy. We clink and dive into the deep end.
Kimmy seems to be doing better in the deep end than I am. She’s been talking to the same partner, some guy named Johnny Dollan, for the past half hour. Doesn’t she know she should be mingling? They’re standing very close to each other. He keeps laughing at everything she says. Ha, ha, ha. She’s not that funny.
I’ve been wandering from group to group, making sure I converse with everyone. I was doing fine until I got stuck in the lame football huddle I’m in now, with three other wanna-bes and one partner.
A short, stocky guy with thick glasses is talking about the collapse of the Internet bubble. Haven’t we been talking about that for the last five years? “I think there’s still room in the market for technology companies with good ideas,” he says.
“American innovation didn’t die with the collapse,” another drone adds, eager to insert her opinion.
Kimmy just flipped her hair. Is she flirting? Flirting to secure a job is so wrong. Maybe she’s flirting to make me jealous. How immature, eh? I’m not going to get jealous. I have a girlfriend. She can do whatever. If she wants to flirt and sleep her way into a company, then fine.
I excuse myself from the huddle. I need more booze.
She’s sitting next to him. I can’t believe she’s sitting next to him at dinner. Doesn’t she realize that all the partners will know what she’s up to? That he’s just trying to pick her up for a one-night stand? It’s embarrassing.