conte [issue two - Intro to Narrative]

The one truth I tell the guy is when I say that I really want to live in the New York area, so location was also important. This is a question I’ve been asked by employers before, and one that David has asked of many a prospective employee. My answers are lies that I’ve said before, and lies that David has heard by many a prospective employee. Say what you want about honesty, but the guy who fesses up and says that cash is on the top of his list isn’t going to get that job. He tells me about his company, throwing out vague words and phrases like “hard work” and “go-getter”. Then the interview is over, and David’s telling me that they’ll call me if they want to do a follow up. When I leave his office, the secretary outside is calling someone named Simon and asking him if he can come in on Wednesday for a secondary interview.

David has called a taxi for me, so I wait outside for it to come. The buses in White Plains are all on strike, so it can be a pain in the ass process to find a taxi that’s available. The Hispanic cab driver who picks me up is possessed with a almost forceful cheeriness that is rare to encounter these days. I start to pull my suitcase into the backseat with me and he turns, his eyes flashing a cheerful white, and shouts, “No, man! I opened the trunk for you!” I put my suitcase in his trunk and slide into the seat behind him. He says something that I don’t catch. I ask him to repeat himself, and he says “I never seen you before, my friend. You work here?” I tell him that I’m hoping that I can work there- that I just got done with an interview.

“You gotta work here, my friend. They got all the money right here. Coca-cola, Pepsi-cola, Mastercard and Visa- it’s all here.”

He drums the steering wheel rhythmically as he speaks.

“I tell you, my friend: you must get a job here. Because here, they have the money. And when you have the money, you never cry. When you don’t have the money, you stressed- you sad- you cry. The money talks. Oh yeah, go to New York! My cousin is broke, my friend. He make 250 dollars every week- that’s it.”

I ask him what his cousin does.

“He work as assistant chef at the restaurant. For 250 dollars, my friend.”

“Yes, my friend.”

We pull into another corporate lot, where a blonde woman in an expensive-looking suit stands. She smiles at the cabbie, who smiles back. It’s obvious they know each other. The odds are that she has his phone number to call whenever she needs a lift. Cabbies in this area often have this kind of repeat clientele- it ensures steady cash and good tips. He calls her “amiga” as she slides into the seat beside me. They chat about her recent vacation in Florida, and she displays a Hepburn-esque exasperation at the length of her day. When she finds out that I’m from out of town, she tells me about the strikes. It has been going on for two months, and the cab driver mentions loudly that that’s a long time to go without a paycheck. Thanks to the strikes, of course, his business is booming.

“I don’t understand why two months. It’s so much time, you know? For negotiations.” He says.

“Ah, this has been a bad one,” Katherine Hepburn says. “It’s been making it impossible to get a cab in a timely manner. Because eight of ten people use the buses don’t have cars- that’s their only mode of transportation and they have to take taxis instead, so if you take one just normally and now you have to get one, it’s impossible. I mean, now’s a little bit earlier in the day- you know, before rush hour, but come five o’clock…” she trails off, mumbling and staring out the window.

The conversation drifts into the topic of real estate. The cabbie and the woman discuss the costs of the freshly built apartments in town (600k to 1 million dollars to buy). When he drops her off at a supermarket, she calls him “my friend”, tips him, and tells him to have a good weekend if she doesn’t see him.

“All people, my friends,” says the cabbie, “Every day they call taxi-man.”

As we pull out, he tells me about his amiga who just left. Apparently she’s one of the major journalists for the newspaper in White Plains.

“Make pretty good money, man.” He says. He drops me off outside the train station, even though I wish he could lift me all the way to Manhattan.

I’ve been late for my first two interviews, so it would be poor taste to be on time for my last one. On the train back to Manhattan, I call Robin and she’s not feeling much better. She says that she’s scared and it’s made worse by the fact that no one seems to be around. She’s alone in her house and I’m four hundred miles away. I tell her that it will be okay- that I’ll be home as soon as I possibly can. I’m calm and collected when I tell her that she’s healthy and that it’s probably nothing at all. I say this, and maybe I believe it- but my stomach is a ball of poisonous lead. By the time I get to the building in Times Square where my final interview awaits, I don’t even care anymore. I feel good about the marketing job. If this internship can’t pay more than a lousy $100 a week stipend, screw ‘em. David wouldn’t tell me about the income of someone at entry level with their company, but it couldn’t be much less than $29,000 with 401k and benefits.

I forgo the hotel I had reserved in Jamaica and catch the next train back to Philadelphia. My phone’s battery is nearly dead and I don’t even open it, afraid I’d make it lose precious juice when Robin called, needing someone to talk to. I sit in Philadelphia for another three hours before the next train to Pittsburgh leaves. The place stinks worse than ever before. A pair of fat girls wearing low cut jeans and thongs assault a young couple from Minnesota about how they’re following the Insane Clown Posse on their tour.