I’m walking past the movie theater, admiring the new posters up outside, as I hear a worker say, “and I totally understand, but unfortunately . . .” I look over to the door where he’s standing, conversing with a balding man holding out a folded piece of paper. As I pass, I ponder what will happen next for them. I try to picture where they are headed, whom they love the most, their biggest dreams.
As I turn the corner, I force myself to refocus on where I’m headed. I feel my stomach clench with nerves again, and I wish that I could turn around and go back home. But unfortunately that's not an option. If I don't get this job, I’m pretty much screwed. Since I decided not to go to college, my dad has constantly been on my back, threatening to kick me out if I don’t start making money. I know he means well, but what he doesn’t understand is that I’m really trying. I’m just not sure where to go from here. It’s funny how easily I can dream up a stranger’s future, but when it comes to my own, I get stuck.
I turn another corner and watch as a woman exits onto her porch and settles into a hanging chair, holding a brightly colored phone to her ear. She’s quiet, and I can hear a faint muffled voice from the other side of the line. All I catch is, “I’ve made a mistake.” I want to hear what she says in response, but she appears determined not to give the apologizer anything to work with, and I silently cheer her on. And much too soon, I’m crossing the street and getting further and further away from her. I wonder whether I just witnessed the end of a relationship, and though it seems like she will be better off this way, the weight of it still presses on me. I imagine her listening for another few seconds before hanging up and crying silently in her room. Then ten years in the future: happy, traveling the world. I breathe a sigh of relief, even though none of this has actually happened. This is just how my brain works.
I go over some of my interview notes in my head. I’ve prepared thoroughly for this, because I really can’t afford to mess it up. If they ask about my strengths and weaknesses, I’ll say my strength is creativity, and my weakness is that I can get distracted while “brainstorming creative solutions.” Working your strength into your weakness is kind of cliché, but I'm desperate. I run through my other answers, which strategically avoid any mention of my future plans, or lack thereof. I approach 8672 and take a deep breath before opening the door.
I walk up to the big wooden desk immediately to the left, where a twenty-something secretary is scribbling furiously in a diary, an array of seemingly random objects scattered around their desk. They look up and ask if I need any help, their huge brown eyes seeming to plead with me not to ask for anything complicated. I ask politely, “I’m going to meet Ms. Brooks; do you know which floor that is?” I can’t help attempting to read their scribbles upside down. I manage to read what I think says, “This isn’t where I’m supposed to be.” I wonder whether they’re doing some kind of journaling. I picture them reading a blog post all about its magical effects, and pulling out a notepad to try it out for themself. They seem like the kind of person everyone thinks of as a little sibling, forever innocent. And I also wonder whether they are writing about their job, for which I couldn’t blame them — it seems far too dull for such a fascinating person. I smile as they respond with a timid “seventh.” I get in the elevator and by the time I reach the seventh floor, I’ve convinced myself that I’m about to fail miserably.
The elevator doors open. I watch as a woman in a mid-length black dress steps out of her office and spots me walking in. She heads over and I smile as she says, “Hi, I’m Celia. Follow me this way. My schedule is pretty packed, so we need to get started immediately — I hope you can understand.” I’m about to step forward when the fragments of conversations come rushing back to me all at once. The universe has been trying to help me. I had forgotten my line onstage and it's now being screamed to me as I stand there, frozen. My voice catches as I say to her, “and I totally understand, but unfortunately I’ve made a mistake. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be.” She turns back around, her mouth open and brow furrowed, but I don’t stay to hear her response. I mumble an apology as I immediately get back into the elevator. My face is warm and I feel dizzy as I realize what I’ve just done. I said it myself: I’m screwed without this job. I wonder whether it's too late to turn back. But as I think about my walk over, my brain clears. I just need to talk to them. I haven’t been stuck on their lives; I’ve been inspired.
As I turn the corner, I force myself to refocus on where I’m headed. I feel my stomach clench with nerves again, and I wish that I could turn around and go back home. But unfortunately that's not an option. If I don't get this job, I’m pretty much screwed. Since I decided not to go to college, my dad has constantly been on my back, threatening to kick me out if I don’t start making money. I know he means well, but what he doesn’t understand is that I’m really trying. I’m just not sure where to go from here. It’s funny how easily I can dream up a stranger’s future, but when it comes to my own, I get stuck.
I turn another corner and watch as a woman exits onto her porch and settles into a hanging chair, holding a brightly colored phone to her ear. She’s quiet, and I can hear a faint muffled voice from the other side of the line. All I catch is, “I’ve made a mistake.” I want to hear what she says in response, but she appears determined not to give the apologizer anything to work with, and I silently cheer her on. And much too soon, I’m crossing the street and getting further and further away from her. I wonder whether I just witnessed the end of a relationship, and though it seems like she will be better off this way, the weight of it still presses on me. I imagine her listening for another few seconds before hanging up and crying silently in her room. Then ten years in the future: happy, traveling the world. I breathe a sigh of relief, even though none of this has actually happened. This is just how my brain works.
I go over some of my interview notes in my head. I’ve prepared thoroughly for this, because I really can’t afford to mess it up. If they ask about my strengths and weaknesses, I’ll say my strength is creativity, and my weakness is that I can get distracted while “brainstorming creative solutions.” Working your strength into your weakness is kind of cliché, but I'm desperate. I run through my other answers, which strategically avoid any mention of my future plans, or lack thereof. I approach 8672 and take a deep breath before opening the door.
I walk up to the big wooden desk immediately to the left, where a twenty-something secretary is scribbling furiously in a diary, an array of seemingly random objects scattered around their desk. They look up and ask if I need any help, their huge brown eyes seeming to plead with me not to ask for anything complicated. I ask politely, “I’m going to meet Ms. Brooks; do you know which floor that is?” I can’t help attempting to read their scribbles upside down. I manage to read what I think says, “This isn’t where I’m supposed to be.” I wonder whether they’re doing some kind of journaling. I picture them reading a blog post all about its magical effects, and pulling out a notepad to try it out for themself. They seem like the kind of person everyone thinks of as a little sibling, forever innocent. And I also wonder whether they are writing about their job, for which I couldn’t blame them — it seems far too dull for such a fascinating person. I smile as they respond with a timid “seventh.” I get in the elevator and by the time I reach the seventh floor, I’ve convinced myself that I’m about to fail miserably.
The elevator doors open. I watch as a woman in a mid-length black dress steps out of her office and spots me walking in. She heads over and I smile as she says, “Hi, I’m Celia. Follow me this way. My schedule is pretty packed, so we need to get started immediately — I hope you can understand.” I’m about to step forward when the fragments of conversations come rushing back to me all at once. The universe has been trying to help me. I had forgotten my line onstage and it's now being screamed to me as I stand there, frozen. My voice catches as I say to her, “and I totally understand, but unfortunately I’ve made a mistake. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be.” She turns back around, her mouth open and brow furrowed, but I don’t stay to hear her response. I mumble an apology as I immediately get back into the elevator. My face is warm and I feel dizzy as I realize what I’ve just done. I said it myself: I’m screwed without this job. I wonder whether it's too late to turn back. But as I think about my walk over, my brain clears. I just need to talk to them. I haven’t been stuck on their lives; I’ve been inspired.