time off. You know?”
Shit. It
is
heartbreak. I bite my lip, determined not to pry. Whatever I do, I won’t pry.
“Oh, yeah, sure, I know exactly what you mean. I would love to take some time off.” Right. Like six months haven’t been enough.
Jake stares unblinking at the screens in front of us. For a moment we watch in silence as well-practiced underwear models unhook their bras in high-speed. At this frenetic pace, their motions seem hurried and routine, and not at all seductive.
Finally, Jake looks up at me.
“Do you smoke?”
“Oh, God, yes.”
Would you believe that Stellar Productions has a secret fire escape, too? Man, the things I wish I had known about earlier!
Jake helps hoist me up from the window onto the outside ledge a few feet above us. I’d like to think I accomplished the move gracefully, but the shooting stab of pain where I hit my shin against the windowpane makes me think otherwise.
He lights a cigarette and hands it to me. I feel giddy taking it. Like I’m black and white, and Bette Davis all over.
“I quit smoking a year ago,” he says, firing up his own cigarette.
“Good for you.”
“I just started up again this week.”
Don’t pry.
“I’ve been having a rough couple of days.”
Don’t pry. “Yeah, I heard,” I say offhandedly, taking a long drag.
“You heard?”
I nearly choke. I realize immediately I’ve said the wrong thing.
“Well, Gregory told me you were having, ummm, personal problems.”
“He what?”
I don’t answer. Jake shakes his head incredulously. With one inhale, he swallows that entire year’s deprivation of nicotine. Then he spits it out contemptuously.
“What exactly did he tell you?”
“He, um, didn’t give me specifics.”
We hear a rap on the window beside us. I immediately toss my cigarette over the fire escape. Jake takes another long drag and turns casually.
Jim Abbott leans out onto the escape and tilts his head upward. Even so, he can do no better than talk to our knees.
“Gregory wants to see you.”
“All right.” Jake exhales his last plume of smoke and tosses his cigarette over the ledge.
“No.” Jim Abbott looks pointedly at my calf. “He wants to talk to
you
.”
“I was serious when I said I thought you’ve been doing a good job,” says Gregory. I find myself staring at him blatantly. It surprises me that he is so tiny and frail, not at all what I imagined from his thunderous speakerphone voice. “I probably won’t be able to rely much on Jake for now. But he knows the equipment and he’s great on set for productions, so we need to keep him on. But we still need anoffice manager, someone who can handle the phones and the paperwork. And you did so well with the filing—”
“Thank you.”
“And we could certainly use someone to organize our budget reports. Are you comfortable handling finances?”
“Well, I really haven’t done much before.” ’Cause, even on a good day, I have trouble working with any multiple over three. On bad days, I lose the threes.
“What I am saying is this.” Gregory folds his hands and leans forward on the desk, searing me with a look of complete seriousness. I think I preferred communicating with him by speakerphone. “Do you think this job might be something that interests you?”
And that is the question. The one that screws me every single time.
T here is a major problem with being unemployed for as long as I have. This is no longer a hunt, no longer a search, no longer a pursuit. This is a mission. And it isn’t a mission to find any old job. It is a mission to find The Perfect Job. Damn it, I’ve put in too much time and far too much energy to settle for anything less than utter and complete satisfaction. I want job security, growth potential, and a 401k plan I just might bother to invest in. I want my name engraved on a gold plaque and a thousand business cards etched on steel plates. I want it all!
Because I don’t ever want to have to go through
Shit. It
is
heartbreak. I bite my lip, determined not to pry. Whatever I do, I won’t pry.
“Oh, yeah, sure, I know exactly what you mean. I would love to take some time off.” Right. Like six months haven’t been enough.
Jake stares unblinking at the screens in front of us. For a moment we watch in silence as well-practiced underwear models unhook their bras in high-speed. At this frenetic pace, their motions seem hurried and routine, and not at all seductive.
Finally, Jake looks up at me.
“Do you smoke?”
“Oh, God, yes.”
Would you believe that Stellar Productions has a secret fire escape, too? Man, the things I wish I had known about earlier!
Jake helps hoist me up from the window onto the outside ledge a few feet above us. I’d like to think I accomplished the move gracefully, but the shooting stab of pain where I hit my shin against the windowpane makes me think otherwise.
He lights a cigarette and hands it to me. I feel giddy taking it. Like I’m black and white, and Bette Davis all over.
“I quit smoking a year ago,” he says, firing up his own cigarette.
“Good for you.”
“I just started up again this week.”
Don’t pry.
“I’ve been having a rough couple of days.”
Don’t pry. “Yeah, I heard,” I say offhandedly, taking a long drag.
“You heard?”
I nearly choke. I realize immediately I’ve said the wrong thing.
“Well, Gregory told me you were having, ummm, personal problems.”
“He what?”
I don’t answer. Jake shakes his head incredulously. With one inhale, he swallows that entire year’s deprivation of nicotine. Then he spits it out contemptuously.
“What exactly did he tell you?”
“He, um, didn’t give me specifics.”
We hear a rap on the window beside us. I immediately toss my cigarette over the fire escape. Jake takes another long drag and turns casually.
Jim Abbott leans out onto the escape and tilts his head upward. Even so, he can do no better than talk to our knees.
“Gregory wants to see you.”
“All right.” Jake exhales his last plume of smoke and tosses his cigarette over the ledge.
“No.” Jim Abbott looks pointedly at my calf. “He wants to talk to
you
.”
“I was serious when I said I thought you’ve been doing a good job,” says Gregory. I find myself staring at him blatantly. It surprises me that he is so tiny and frail, not at all what I imagined from his thunderous speakerphone voice. “I probably won’t be able to rely much on Jake for now. But he knows the equipment and he’s great on set for productions, so we need to keep him on. But we still need anoffice manager, someone who can handle the phones and the paperwork. And you did so well with the filing—”
“Thank you.”
“And we could certainly use someone to organize our budget reports. Are you comfortable handling finances?”
“Well, I really haven’t done much before.” ’Cause, even on a good day, I have trouble working with any multiple over three. On bad days, I lose the threes.
“What I am saying is this.” Gregory folds his hands and leans forward on the desk, searing me with a look of complete seriousness. I think I preferred communicating with him by speakerphone. “Do you think this job might be something that interests you?”
And that is the question. The one that screws me every single time.
T here is a major problem with being unemployed for as long as I have. This is no longer a hunt, no longer a search, no longer a pursuit. This is a mission. And it isn’t a mission to find any old job. It is a mission to find The Perfect Job. Damn it, I’ve put in too much time and far too much energy to settle for anything less than utter and complete satisfaction. I want job security, growth potential, and a 401k plan I just might bother to invest in. I want my name engraved on a gold plaque and a thousand business cards etched on steel plates. I want it all!
Because I don’t ever want to have to go through
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