Jane

 

There’s a line of people behind her and she tries to ignore them as she looks up at the paper pasted on the door. Times and names. Scanning, scanning. Her name isn’t there. Voices start to echo around her as she turns her feet towards the long hallway lined with bright white walls. She looks over her shoulder briefly and makes eye contact with a person she used to know sitting at one of the registration tables. He’s made it: all dress pants, dress shirt, and dress shoes. But he looks away just as their eyes meet and an incessant tune filters through the hall. Piano?

 

Her mind wakes up first as she realizes her alarm is strangling her with its piano tunes. Without opening her eyes, she grabs blindly at the phone on the desk, feels the familiar contours, and clicks it on. There’s got to be some science saying its bad to look at the brilliant glare of your cell phone screen first thing in the morning. The white letters stand out harshly against her background: 8am.

 

***

She frowns as she brushes her teeth, the furrow a premonition of future wrinkles. Her skinny wrists move the toothbrush mechanically and her brown hair is packed in a ridiculous bun on top of her head. Half asleep, she can already feel the twinge of nervousness, of tiredness.

 

The night before, she had tapped away frantically at the backlit keyboard, willing the internet particles to move a little faster. The job application was due at 12, and naturally, she had once again cut it down to the wire. Staring at the screen, desperately watching the slow pinwheel of death on the Internet tab, she suddenly realized that procrastinators around the world were probably feeling this same kick-yourself moment. They must have collectively bombarded this site in the last ticking seconds of the clock and, in some senses, this was technology’s way of giving you a little karma.

 

Even now, standing in the bathroom, feet sinking into the memory foam rug her mom had insisted on for the apartment, she could feel the pinching, constricting feeling in her chest. She tried to do the math in her head on the number of applications she had submitted and the chances she’d actually get them. The job in California was probably a safe bet, but, somehow, she couldn’t picture herself standing in that mindless space of cubicles with people who didn’t smile when you walked by. The one in New York was tentative, but they all commuted from Manhattan to the office in White Oak, an hour away. There was also that position in Texas. Did she want to live in Texas?

 

Mindlessly, she headed back to her room and stared at her closet separated neatly between formal and casual wear. The suits lined up in varying shades of dark and the blouses hung like a dejected rainbow in subdued navy, beige, and grey. She used to believe in a lucky shirt, but that was before that first interview. In her lucky shirt.

 

***

 

He sat across from her in a room without windows and only a table and two chairs. She imagined that this was the type of room police used for criminal interrogations. The papers were splayed out before her and her suit sat stiffly on her frame. She could feel the make-up coating her skin and suffocating her, her eyelashes heavier with the weight of mascara. The charts and graphs were in front of her and the interviewer with the blue eyes was saying something about the ability to pursue both options. Both options? She had blinked up at him and read the resignation in his face, already knew what that call would be later that night.

 

“Hey Jane, it’s Jim. How are you?” He spoke fast, like this was his fourth call.

“Hi Jim, good, how are you?” Even though she knew what he was going to say her heart still seemed to push against her chest.

“Good, good, so it was great seeing you again and thanks a lot for coming out.” Clears his throat. “You have an amazing personality, but unfortunately, we can’t move you forward in the process.”

“I understand, thank you for your time, I really appreciate it.” Her tone had already locked into that smooth professional tint, perfected and cool, emotionless.

 

***

 

It would be the grey top today under the black blazer. She glanced outside to gauge the weather and was distracted by the wind stirring the tops of the trees, glinting copper and gold. Some had already become bald, shedding their garments of scarlet and bronze so that it lay like a carpet at the feet of those twisted trunks and reaching, scraggly branches. Farther out, the occasional car coasted by under clouds that hung low in the sky, blankets of cotton grey with pockets of weak sun. Inside the house, it was a toasty eighty degrees. But standing in her pajamas, she looked outside and shivered, checking her phone just to be sure reality matched up with Yahoo Weather.

 

The screen blinks and flips. A little cloud icon with wind signs that amateur Van Gogh hover below the temperature report: sixty degrees. She could still wear a skirt in that weather. And it would save her from thinking about her dress pants dragging on the ground. Another glance at the clock and it was already 9am.

 

Grabbing the almond milk from the fridge, she poured sparing drops over her bowl packed with cereal. She’d been lactose intolerant for as long as she could remember and didn’t particular fancy the taste of almond milk, but she couldn’t stomach just cereal alone. Reaching back into the fridge, she had to reshuffle all the leftovers her roommate had cooked. Only one interview and a few more hours until she would be back at home with home-cooked food too. The flight from Michigan to Wisconsin wasn’t bad, but she could already feel the peppering of questions hitting her skin from all the Thanksgiving relatives crowding their dining room. Even thinking about it made her shove the almond milk a little too forcefully back into it’s place next to the orange juice.

 

She brought the bowl of cereal back to her room and balanced it on the corner of her desk overflowing with resumes and mock interview material. Her leather portfolio was stretched across the black Ikea surface she had wasted two hours of her life putting together. Leafing through the piles of loose-leaf paper, she grabbed for the pieces that had scrawls of hopeful interview hints. Eyes blurring and hair falling out of the bun, she tried to memorize just one more word, one more detail from that enormous Vault guide on finance terms. Or, as the true professionals said it, fi-nans. Not fahy-nance.

 

Looking up, the clock glared 9:30 and she leapt from her chair, shrugging into the grey blouse and black suit. She had her makeup perfected down to ten minutes and thank goodness her eyelashes were naturally long. She had friends who complained of eyelashes that were too short or that didn’t curl, well, she had hair that refused to curl. The straight locks could only be maneuvered into a mass that fell about her shoulders and balanced with an off center part. Leaning over the sink for a last check on her makeup, in the reflection of her pupils, she could see the bags under her eyes and hoped that they wouldn’t.

 

The clock screamed 9:40 and she stuffed her portfolio into the black purse she had bought specifically for these interviews, grabbed heals as she closed the door of her bedroom, and headed down the hall. Passing the living room, the sun streamed in through the blinds across the balcony and it looked like the day had taken a turn for the better. Swinging the door shut softly behind her so as to not wake her roommate, her heels clicked across the lobby of the apartment where she nodded at the security guard falling asleep at his desk, and pushed open the door into the chilly air outside.

 

Careful not to step into the sidewalk cracks, she made her way down the two blocks to the business school. Some donor had given money and stipulated a design. It was all glass and black stone, stabbing the sky with its seriousness. Even the insides were covered in black leather couches and the floors radiated an alien grey. It was like a hospital dressed in a suit.

 

Hurrying through the lobby with the ceiling of glass, she didn’t even pause to see the geese fly above and watch the single raindrop hit the immaculate glass overhead. Slipping into the elevator, she was glad she had the four by five to herself and fixed her suit one more time in the mirrored interiors. The black skirt skimmed her knees acceptably and wrapped around legs that, unfortunately, weren’t slimmer. Her hands shook a little as she buttoned her suit and straightened her hair. She smiled at her reflection, and it looked back at her with concern.

 

The doors slid open and, holding her head up, she rounded the corner, smiled, and checked in with the recruiter. Taking a seat in the waiting area, legs crossed, she desperately tried reviewing her pitch but her mind felt constricted, blank. She wasn’t even sure she wanted this job, but she still felt the air close around her just a little bit. The familiar feeling had settled itself in between her ribs, the home it had been enjoying for the last three months. It might as well move in permanently. She didn’t know how many chairs like this she had sat in or how many times she had slipped her resume over to a nameless suit in black, always black. She didn’t know how many times she had smiled until her jaw ached or had cleared her throat until it was raw. Of course, there was no water. Only the interviewer had one of those five oz. ones at his elbow. And the water would shake as she bumped the table on accident when speaking with her hands.

 

But before she could formulate her thoughts and get her mind back on track, it was 10am and the oak door swung open on silent hinges. A brunette with a bony face and still bonier hands dressed in a black suit dress offered a handshake. Green eyes critical with a smile that only went to her cheeks, she said, “Hello, I’m Kate. Nice to meet you.”

“Jane, nice to meet you too.” She tried to smile the same way.

“If you’re ready, please follow me.”

The carpet muted Kate’s severe heels and Jane followed her into the room with no windows and only a table and two chairs. She imagined that this was the type of room police used for criminal interrogations.