It was the night I declared to my family my life's ambition: to fight Oprah in the Steel Cage of Death. There was a brief pause, a moment quiet entirely but for the rustling pages of "O" magazine, before my mom, who seemed at first to not have heard a thing I said, replied, and simply, "People will watch just to laugh at you." Then, and with an irritating nonchalance, "Nobody beats Oprah." The subject was closed.
I was only restless, anyway, and looking to pick a fight; I know how my mom feels about the Daytime Deity. The thing is, I'd had a rough day in the city: one changed address, one kind but firm security guard at the door, and blisters all up and down my feet. It was hot. I had pit stains. And my cartoonish hair had, as it is inclined to do when I'm significantly weakened, gone all floppy and sad. I was powered down.
That's when I decided to dedicate myself entirely to the one fastly-approaching interview I did have. I started to research. I studied the house's list, the head of the company, the editor-in-chief, some old blogs by old interns and employees, and I just about memorized the Wikipedia entry. I cross-referenced the list of recent authors the house put out with the list of books I keep at home, and I found a few I could talk about if I had to. I drilled myself with questions typically asked in interviews. And then, finally, that fateful morning came; it was time to go. I dressed to kill, I printed out an extra copy of my cover letter and resume on snazzy, weighted, water-marked paper, and I drove to the bus station.
It was the corner of Fifth Avenue and 18th street. The waiting room was cool, with uncomfortable seating, hardwood floors, and a middle-aged secretary.
"Hi," I said, smiling, turning on the charm. I thought.
"How can I help you," she replied, cooly.
"I'm here for an interview," I said, and she turned down to check her schedule.
"With?"
"Hmm... the internship coordinator, I believe."
She stopped, looked up, and glared at me as if I were trying to fool her. As if I meant to hassle her. To make the lowest sort of mischief.
"Who do you know," she asked.
Everything was cleared up in a moment or two but, I thought, how funny. That's the game, isn't it? Straight from the source. These people are swamped with a thousand resumes a day. This lady had, in fact, probably turned down a million eager twenty-somethings at the gate. A trillion, perhaps! She was Cerberus, in the flesh, all three heads looking on at me: with skepticism, scorn, and, I think faintly on the final one, a bit of sadism. A part of her wanted to kick me to the curb. But... ha! The magical harp: I did have an appointment. This time. I waited for the coordinator, met her warmly, and was led through what was, plainly, an enchanting temple of books. All books. Every book, perhaps. I was in awe.
The interview was at times awkward, but Spain came up and warmed the room a bit. The Dig came up, too, as did the degree I had to go and name Storytelling and Twentieth Century American History. Perks of inventing a major: great talking point. The... err... opposite of perks: you do have to talk about it, and, in this case, defend it. But I defended it well. Then, she asked me who I read, followed by who I read recently. And in the end she never told me I had the internship.
She spoke about the position I was interviewing for at length when the final question had been answered (thirty minutes, more or less), and asked if I could start September 2. I said sure. She asked how many days, 3 or 4. I said 4, please, and "that would be great." We talked about the dress code. She liked what I was wearing, but it wouldn't be necessary to carry on with the tie unless I wanted to. She handed me the season's new catalog, smiled, led me to the elevator, and said she'd see me soon.
I left the building laughing, walked for a stretch and stopped at the corner. I looked down the street, past the American flags, and up at the Empire State Building, before I thought, 'Well, here goes.'
All smiles,
-Kid M.
