The Interview (by Kate Lynch, 2015)
I throw on the skirt, tank top and platform heels from last night and race out the front door, slamming it behind. I run down the four flights of stairs and onto the street. Greeted by the muggy atmosphere, I perspire on contact.
Hello to the doorman, Anthony. Hello to the guy at the news stand, name unknown. One more wave to the guy in the coffee cart a block up, no time to stop.
Sweat eradicates the effects of morning scrub.
I descend. Downtown trains held up at 116th street, PA system blares. Police activity. Fuck. The bus: not an option, too slow. Cab: if I’m lucky. Back up the stairs onto the street teeming with frustrated commuters, their hands in the air waving for taxicabs, livery cabs. Guys: stripping off sports coats. Women: nearly naked.
I walk a few blocks to lose the crowd and find a suitable corner already occupied by a blonde, about my age, with her hand in the air. I make nice. Silence permeates the cab share with the stuffy girl all the way to 23rd street. She stares west. I stare east.
Success. Right on time. Apply lipstick. Pay cabbie. Say nothing to stuffy girl. Disembark. Head to Litmus LLC.
Elevator to 12. Uh oh. Reeks of stale coffee. So out of vogue. I don’t know if I can really work here…
“Good morning. Your name?”
“Lila. Lila Von Trampski. My appointment is at 9:15 with Billy McLean.”
“She’ll be right with you.”
I sit down on a stiff leather bench. She?
Within seconds, a 30-something approaches the bench from an unseen crevice in the hallway. Soft lines form around her pale eyes as she smiles. She sticks her hand out, grabs mine, and lifts me out of the sitting position with strength and poise.
“I’m Billy McLean, nice to meet you, Lila. Come this way.”
She spins and takes off down the hallway. I follow.
She points to a chair and I sit. We’re in a sterile interior room. A long table. Multitudes of chairs. Ugly lighting casting shadows on Billy’s face in odd spots: middle of her left cheek, right temple. I don’t want to stare. She begins to distort.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too,” I say.
“Fine, then, let’s get started. Tell me about yourself.”
I stammer unsure which angle to take. She interrupts.
“Who popped your cherry?”
Blood rushes to my face. “Luis,” I blurt out.
“Last name?”
“Unknown?” Panic overwhelms me.
“Well done.” She offers.
“High school sports?”
“Field hockey.”
“Dykey coach?”
“Yes.”
“Did you partake?”
“No.”
“Favorite drink?”
“Water?”
“Sorry, I didn’t specify. I mean alcoholic drink?”
I rummage for a sophisticated answer.
“First one that comes to mind, don’t be shy” she prods.
“Vodka. Rocks.”
She presses a previously unseen lever on the table, close to her hand, and I was sure I had blown it by this point. Was it the eject button?
“Lila, where did your father go to college?”
“Berkeley.”
“What is your greatest ambition for the near future?”
“To swim the English Channel.”
Billy stops. And stares at my shoulders.
“Solo or relay?”
“Solo. Not to be rude, Ms. McLean, but may I ask a question about the position?”
A knock on the door, and in saunters the receptionist from out front with a single glass on a tray. She places it in front of interviewer, and I, the interviewee, consume the glass with my eyes.
“Do you know what this is, Ms. Von Trampski?”
“Why, yes, Ms. McLean, that’s a J&B and Coke.”
“Very impressive. How did you know it was JB and not, say, Maker’s Mark?”
“I smell the barley.”
“As opposed to?”
“The rye,” I say.
“And you can smell my perfume?”
“That’s not as easy. I don’t smell any. I do smell jasmine and some vanilla underneath it. But I’m sure it’s a lotion because there’s been an even application, not an accurate spray or two.”
“Just as I expected. You’ve come highly recommended, you know, and my source hasn’t let me down once yet. You’re hired.”
She was all teeth with her proclamation. Over-bleached and filed to a clean line.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur. I’m comforted by the 2pm ritual of watching Joy scoop the cinnamon off the froth of her cappuccino, letting it sit in her mouth. The usual leaches occupy their usual tables and the world has order again.
“Why did you take the job? When do you start?” She pokes her spoon around searching for more cinnamon.
“Rent! I start tomorrow morning.”
“Did you leave the place with any indication of what you may be doing?”
“The company specializes in personnel. I’ll be her, Billy McLean’s, assistant … to start.”
“Sniffing around like a dog all day?” she laughs. “So I suppose you won’t come out with me tonight, then?”
“No. I need to clean my fish tank. And let my turgid liver alone.”