conte [issue two - Intro to Narrative]

I arrive to the interview late because of an accident in the Holland Tunnel. Fortunately, my interviewer arrives late for the same reason. We wait for the elevator, ride it upstairs together, and never suspect who the other person is until I hold the door open for her at the Suite where Barkley-Kaplan is located. We sit and she peruses my resume.

“So you’re a writer? You should know that this isn’t really a creative position. You won’t be writing.”

I tell her that it doesn’t matter, and we move on.

“Oh, and you’re an actor as well. You should know that this isn’t really a creative position. You won’t be acting.”

I tell her that it doesn’t matter, and we move on.

“A director! That’s wonderful. But you should know that this isn’t really a creative position. You won’t be directing.

I tell her that that’s really alright. That I want to try something outside of performance for a change.

“Oh, good. Because this isn’t really a performance-based internship.”

I tell her that someone had mentioned that.

Rushing out of the building, I suddenly resemble a pilot who is now late for his flight to the Tropical Island of Bare-Breasted Beauties. My lateness to the first interview is in turn going to make me late for my next one. I call ahead to explain, and catch a train to White Plains, where the interview is.

Twenty-five minutes later I’ll be on the long train to White Plains, crying against the window and trying to avoid the stare of an aging Jewish couple sitting nearby. Robin’s called and she’s found a lump and she’s scared so I’m scared. Three days later, we’ll find out that it’s just a small cyst that will go away on its own. But when you’re five hundred miles away from anyone you know and half-asleep and already nervous and edgy, the odds that anyone will ever survive anything ever drops to a drastic low.

By the time I’ve found a cab and made my way to the corporate park, the gentlemen who is supposed to interview me has gone away for lunch. I find the corporate cafeteria and buy a little pizza and a bottle of water. The pizza is somehow identical to the pizzas they served in the many cafeterias I ate in when I was bouncing from elementary school or elementary school. This makes me feel better for some reason, and I find myself staring into empty space as I eat. The good thing about White Plains is that empty space is quite pretty and well kept. The area embodies what I want in life- large and grand like a city, but comfortable and personal. You can buy a house here. Have a few kids. If you have the cash, that is. I decide in that moment that things will be alright. That Robin is fine, and that if I impress the hell out of this marketing firm, maybe we’ll get that opportunity we always hoped for. Perhaps this can be the opening I’ve always hoped for: stable job, safe community, 2.8 kids, a dog and a fucking white picket fence.

If my interviewer is mad for how late I am, he doesn’t show it. He smiles and shakes my hand. He’s not much older than me, and he’s wearing a nicer suit. His office is filled with various marketing awards from various places I’ve never heard of. He smells like sailing boat aftershave and laughs when I apologize for being late.

“Not a problem at all.” He says. “Travel in New York can be tough.”

I tell him that I got there this morning, and he laughs harder when I say I’m from Pennsylvania. He tells me I’ve come a long way. I know I have, but I don’t care to point that out to him. His name is David. David whips out a scrap of paper and writes down four words on it.

“Out of these four,” he says, “Tell me their importance to you in numerical order when it comes to a job.”

The words are: Money, Location, Stability and Co-Workers. I lie and say that stability is most important, followed closely by co-workers.

“Money’s okay and everything, but if I can’t get along with my co-workers, I just don’t know how I’d live with the job.”

“Stability’s most important- the payment itself doesn’t matter, as long as I know I have a job to go to.”