he’d heard me the first time—he just wasn’t rushing to answer. At least not until he’d ensured that the waiting room was safe from larceny.
“At least a month before we have our short list,” he said. “Likely six to eight weeks before the position is filled.”
I must have looked stunned, because his thin lips pursed.
“The advertisement only went in the
Sun-Times
today,” he said. “It takes time to receive and process the résumés. I’m sure you’re not finding anything different elsewhere in your job search.”
“Um, no. Of course not. A month is fine. Thank you.”
I now needed a prepaid cell phone, so I could receive callbacks for interviews. That took 5 percent of my stash. I’d had to buy the outfit and shoes, too, though both were a tenth what I normally paid for clothes. I’d picked up a cheap briefcase, which doubled as a clothing bag, to hold my jeans and shirt from yesterday and a backup dress shirt. It didn’t seem like much, but I was down three hundred dollars, and it wasn’t even lunchtime.
“You look familiar,” said the receptionist.
Receptionist number six of the day. Five minutes later I couldn’t have told anyone what she looked like. They’d all blended into a homogeneous mush of dour gatekeepers.
I couldn’t have said anything about the reception area, either, except that I was sure it had at least one green plant in the early stages of slow death and a picture of a healthy, flower-bearing one. A desk calendar with a 50 percent chance of displaying the correct month. A bowl of candy. And sporadic voices, maybe even a laugh, from the depths of the offices beyond, teasing me with hints of actual people who could give me an actual job. People I’d never see.
Six receptionists. Six résumés. Six variations on “I’ll pass this along” with six expressions that suggested it wouldn’t get past the nearest shredder.
And yet, in those first five, not one with the reaction I’d feared. Until now.
“Do you live in Evanston? I grew up there,” I lied.
“No, I’ve seen your picture someplace. Recently. Weren’t you in the paper—?” Her mouth formed a perfect O, eyes widening to match. She snatched up my résumé. “Jones? As in Mills & Jones? You’re—”
“Sorry to have wasted your time.” I retreated as fast as I could.
Six stops. Six rejections. I was not getting a job today. Or this week. At least, not the kind of position I’d envisioned. Like the women I’d helped at the shelter, I didn’t have experience. Like them, if I wanted to work, I had to take what I could get.
I’d redo my résumé to highlight my transferable skills, and start a new search tomorrow. In the meantime, I’d find a place to stay.
I stared at the apartment. Two rooms—a bath and a combined kitchen/living/sleeping area. Carpet a half century old, patchy, as if something had been snacking on it. Sofa held up at one corner by a stack of newspapers. The overwhelming stink of cat piss. The smell made me rub my arms, goose bumps rising, anxiety bubbling in my gut.
“I think this is the wrong place,” I said to the woman. “I’m looking for the one advertised—”
“In today’s paper. This is it. Four hundred a month. Take it or leave it.”
I left it. How many times had I helped women find apartments for under five hundred a month? Had I ever seen one of them? Of course not. I just made the arrangements, then someone else took them out to look, and they found one that would do, and I’d ticked another task off my list.
Now, as I tromped through a parade of pest-infested holes, I wondered what kind of place Cathy had ended up in. She’d taken what she could get. It was all she expected from an apartment. All she expected from life.
Finally, I decided I could go as high as six hundred, and found a place that, while tiny and shabby, was in a decent neighborhood, and didn’t stink of anything except air freshener.
“I’ll take it,” I said. “That’s six
“At least a month before we have our short list,” he said. “Likely six to eight weeks before the position is filled.”
I must have looked stunned, because his thin lips pursed.
“The advertisement only went in the
Sun-Times
today,” he said. “It takes time to receive and process the résumés. I’m sure you’re not finding anything different elsewhere in your job search.”
“Um, no. Of course not. A month is fine. Thank you.”
I now needed a prepaid cell phone, so I could receive callbacks for interviews. That took 5 percent of my stash. I’d had to buy the outfit and shoes, too, though both were a tenth what I normally paid for clothes. I’d picked up a cheap briefcase, which doubled as a clothing bag, to hold my jeans and shirt from yesterday and a backup dress shirt. It didn’t seem like much, but I was down three hundred dollars, and it wasn’t even lunchtime.
“You look familiar,” said the receptionist.
Receptionist number six of the day. Five minutes later I couldn’t have told anyone what she looked like. They’d all blended into a homogeneous mush of dour gatekeepers.
I couldn’t have said anything about the reception area, either, except that I was sure it had at least one green plant in the early stages of slow death and a picture of a healthy, flower-bearing one. A desk calendar with a 50 percent chance of displaying the correct month. A bowl of candy. And sporadic voices, maybe even a laugh, from the depths of the offices beyond, teasing me with hints of actual people who could give me an actual job. People I’d never see.
Six receptionists. Six résumés. Six variations on “I’ll pass this along” with six expressions that suggested it wouldn’t get past the nearest shredder.
And yet, in those first five, not one with the reaction I’d feared. Until now.
“Do you live in Evanston? I grew up there,” I lied.
“No, I’ve seen your picture someplace. Recently. Weren’t you in the paper—?” Her mouth formed a perfect O, eyes widening to match. She snatched up my résumé. “Jones? As in Mills & Jones? You’re—”
“Sorry to have wasted your time.” I retreated as fast as I could.
Six stops. Six rejections. I was not getting a job today. Or this week. At least, not the kind of position I’d envisioned. Like the women I’d helped at the shelter, I didn’t have experience. Like them, if I wanted to work, I had to take what I could get.
I’d redo my résumé to highlight my transferable skills, and start a new search tomorrow. In the meantime, I’d find a place to stay.
I stared at the apartment. Two rooms—a bath and a combined kitchen/living/sleeping area. Carpet a half century old, patchy, as if something had been snacking on it. Sofa held up at one corner by a stack of newspapers. The overwhelming stink of cat piss. The smell made me rub my arms, goose bumps rising, anxiety bubbling in my gut.
“I think this is the wrong place,” I said to the woman. “I’m looking for the one advertised—”
“In today’s paper. This is it. Four hundred a month. Take it or leave it.”
I left it. How many times had I helped women find apartments for under five hundred a month? Had I ever seen one of them? Of course not. I just made the arrangements, then someone else took them out to look, and they found one that would do, and I’d ticked another task off my list.
Now, as I tromped through a parade of pest-infested holes, I wondered what kind of place Cathy had ended up in. She’d taken what she could get. It was all she expected from an apartment. All she expected from life.
Finally, I decided I could go as high as six hundred, and found a place that, while tiny and shabby, was in a decent neighborhood, and didn’t stink of anything except air freshener.
“I’ll take it,” I said. “That’s six
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