Ladies and Gentlemen

by Adam Ross

  “Smile,” he said.

  When he arrived, a man and woman were seated in the waiting room having a conversation. Though the tone was cool between them, he marveled at how good-looking they both were, how young and confident. The man was tall and blond, with such fine, chiseled features that he could have been a soap-opera actor. He wore a yellow paisley tie and a dark-blue suit, and sat forward with his elbows on his knees, listening to the woman talk. Her hair in a tight bun, she wore a perfect gray suit and black, thick-rimmed glasses, and if she took them off and shook her hair out, he thought, she would be straight out of a dream.

  He went up to Madeline’s desk and said, “I have a ten o’clock appointment.”

  “If you have a seat, Mr. Applelow, she’ll see you in a moment.”

  He gestured at the two people behind him and pointed to his watch. “I’m not late, am I?”

  “Those two have already been interviewed.”

  He took a chair two down from the man, who looked over at him, nodded, and stood up. “Jeff Godfrey,” he said, holding his hand out and shaking Applelow’s firmly. His voice was deep.

  The woman stood to greet him as well. “Elizabeth Myerson,” she said.

  They all sat quietly for a moment.

  “Where was I?” she said to Godfrey.

  “B-school.”

  “Right. You went to …”

  “Wharton. You?”

  “Kellogg.”

  Godfrey smiled. “I went to college at Northwestern.”

  “Really? What year did you graduate?”

  “Ninety-nine,” he said.

  “Did you know Jason Meeks?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t you love Michigan?” she said.

  Godfrey didn’t respond to this, and Applelow, put off by his attitude, said, “It’s a lovely state.”

  “Anyway,” Myerson continued, “B-school was just so, well, unlike what I expected, you know? Maybe I was thinking an MBA would be more intellectually demanding, or I’d come out with a group of specific skill sets and so forth, but mostly it felt like a two-year corporate retreat with a whole lot of theory slash economics mixed in.”

  “Wharton wasn’t like that at all,” Godfrey said. “When I came out of there, I felt I could move into any area of management.” Then he began talking in market terminology about Auratec’s staffing needs and current revenue stream, how their expansion to the East Coast reflected their success in Los Angeles, Portland, and Arizona, shifting in his seat so as to include Applelow in the conversation.

  But Applelow said nothing. Let them strut their credentials, he thought, because that wouldn’t help. He was going to explain the outcome of his assignment to Love and Samuel by telling them how he’d helped change Zach’s life. Communicating this was the key, he realized; it would distinguish him from these two business-school robots. He could almost see Love’s beaming expression when he recounted what had happened, and his instinctive sense of the rightness of this approach almost made him want to stand up and shout.

  “Mr. Applelow?” Madeline said. “Ms. Samuel will see you now.”

  When he stood up, the man and woman wished him good luck.

  “You too,” he said, then strode through the door.

  He wasn’t prepared for what he saw inside. But for two large black pedestals in each corner, on top of which sat large gold Buddha statues, all of the furniture had been removed from the office. The lights had been turned down, the shades were drawn, and Samuel and Love were sitting on the floor, their legs crossed, their hands resting on their knees, their middle fingers touched to thumbs in an Oriental A-OK, both wearing white jumpsuits with high shoulder pads that made them look like Star Trek conventioneers. Their expressions were beatific. Sitar chords played softly in the background. At the center of their half circle and lit from above by a lone track light was an enormous gold ankh.

  “David,” Love said. “it’s so good to see you. Please, take off your shoes and join us.”

  Applelow, nearly undone by the scene, sat down on the floor and untied his shoes—an act, he realized, that invariably made you look unprofessional. He slid over to complete their circle and crossed his legs. “Like this?” he said.

  “Perfect,” Ms. Samuel said.

  “David,” Love said, his eyes widening, “you look radiant.” He stretched out his hands and felt around, as if an invisible air bubble had surrounded Applelow. “Are you noticing this, Ms. Samuel?”

  “I am.”

  “Your aura is exceptionally bright and in balance.”

  “Thank you,” Applelow said.

  “I sense, David, that you addressed some of the issues we spoke of during our last meeting.”

  “Oh, I did, Dr. Love,” he said, floored once again by the man’s empathetic powers, “and it was so successful that—”

  “Wonderful,” Love said, holding up a hand. “Outstanding. I’m anxious to hear about your progress. I won’t lie to you, David. Hearing about people’s spiritual development makes my job worthwhile. It’s the ultimate perk, if you will. But we should get started immediately. Our two other candidates are waiting on your results. Are you ready?”

  “I am,” Applelow said, not sure he liked being hurried like this. He turned to look at Ms. Samuel for a sign, but she’d closed her eyes and seemed to be meditating.

  “This will be a final test of your latent ability,” Love said. “I’m going to be straight up, David. I won’t beat around the bush. Get all the answers to our questions right, and the job is yours. It’s that simple, and that difficult. Understand?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. Now. Do you know what this symbol is that lies between us?”

  “It’s an ankh, isn’t it?” Applelow said.

  “Correct,” Love said. “Outstanding. An Egyptian ankh. But do you know what it symbolizes?”

  Applelow put a fist to his mouth. Of all the obvious things! “I don’t,” he admitted.

  Ms. Samuel suddenly opened her eyes. “David,” she said, “I’d have expected you to do some research about our company.”

  “That’s all right,” Love said, patting her knee lightly and then turning back to Applelow. “You don’t have to be an Egyptologist to get a job with Auratec. Now,” he continued, “the ankh represents eternal life—the force that flows through us and endures after we have passed, and that is imprinted in each one of us as uniquely as a fingerprint. Do you believe in eternal life, David?”

  Applelow, fearing he’d done irreparable damage to his chances but sensing that honesty was imperative, spoke truthfully. “I do.”

  Ms. Samuel smiled.

  “Wonderful,” Love said. “Outstanding. You would have been eliminated from consideration if you didn’t. Because we believe that all spiritual energy flows from the ankh. And it is to this energy alone that we train our employees to attune themselves.”

  “I see.”

  “I knew you would. We’re now going to test your ability to read these different manifestations of the life force. To interpret, in sequence, a series of auras. Listen carefully. With the power of our minds, Ms. Samuel and I will telepathically project a color directly to your brain. You will tell us what color it is—just say it aloud the moment it comes to you—and then describe, in one word, what state of being that color represents. Do you understand?”

  Applelow took a deep breath. “I think so.”

  “Outstanding,” Love said. “Please, clear your mind.”

  “It’s clear,” Applelow said.

  “Are you ready, Ms. Samuel?”

  “I am, Doctor.”

  “Close your eyes, David, and we’ll begin.”

  Over the sitar chords, he heard them both say, “Aaooommmmmm.”

  “Should I go now?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Love said.

  As he concentrated, he felt a gentle heat at his temples, as if they’d been dabbed with Tiger Balm, and there came to him an image of his father walking with on
e of his building’s tenants out the front door onto the strips of grass that ran along the walk-way—a brilliant green in the bright sunlight—and then his father, as he did on the occasion of every new lease, put his arm around the renter and offered his help. “Anything you need,” he’d say quietly, “anything at all, you only have to call me; it doesn’t matter what time, just let me know.” The memory was so vivid that he almost gasped.

  “Green?” he ventured.

  “Yes!” they both exclaimed.

  “And what does green signify?” Love asked.

  “Concern,” he answered.

  “Correct!” they said. “Aaooommmmmm.”

  “What do you see now, David?”

  An image of Marnie’s purple robe came brightly to mind, and Applelow felt his face flush. “Purple?” he said.

  “Correct!” Love said.

  “And what does that aura represent?” Ms. Samuel asked.

  “Love,” Applelow told her.

  “You’re right, David,” she said breathlessly. “Excellent.”

  They both said, “Aaooommmmmm.”

  “And now?” Love said.

  Applelow now saw Marnie’s hair, an image from the other night when she stood at her door in her robe. “Red,” he said.

  “Remarkable!” Love said. “Representing?”

  “Agitation,” Applelow said.

  “I won’t lie to you, David. You’ve tied the number of correct answers of our third-best candidate. Continue.”

  “Aaooommmmmm.”

  In his mind, Applelow thought of bad nights when he lay awake in a darkness so complete that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, and how he imagined hell might be just that: a lightless, morningless place and time that lasted forever, in which you were always alone. “Black,” he said.

  “Yes!” Love told him.

  “Meaning hopelessness.”

  “Outstanding! Just one more to go, David. So focus! Pinch your concentration!”

  Applelow felt his fingers trembling. “I’m ready.”

  “Aaooommmmmm.”

  And now he saw Zach standing at his door this morning, excited but also relieved and focused and ready. “Blue,” he stated.

  “Oh, David!” Ms. Samuel said.

  “Which means pacific. Calm.”

  “Yes!” Ms. Samuel said. “Yes!”

  The music then stopped, and though his eyes were still closed, he could tell the lights were brightening.

  “Rest now, David,” Love said, and Applelow felt his hand touch his knee. “We’re done.”

  He slowly opened his eyes. Love was smiling at him, shaking his head in amazement. Ms. Samuel, smiling as well, turned to look at the doctor, who nodded at her and said, “I’m speechless.”

  “Ditto,” she confessed.

  Applelow could barely contain himself. He felt sparks of energy crackling through him, as if he’d just leapt over some immense inner hurdle.

  “Do you want to tell him?” Love asked Ms. Samuel.

  “May I?”

  Love steepled his fingers and bowed to her.

  “Do you remember,” she then said, “during our first interview, when we talked about how something good was coming to you?”

  “I do,” Applelow said.

  “Well, it’s come, David. We’d like to offer you the job.”

  “You would?”

  “We would.”

  Relief washed over his entire body, from the crown of his head to the balls of his feet. “Oh, thank you,” he said, and took her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

  “Welcome to Auratec,” Love said. He had his arm around Applelow now, as did Ms. Samuel, and they were squeezing his shoulders, and she smelled so beautiful.

  “When do I start?” Applelow said.

  After Love and Ms. Samuel exchanged glances, he said, “Today!”

  They all laughed.

  Ms. Samuel held up a hand. “There’s just one more thing we need you to do.”

  “Anything,” he said.

  “Look over my shoulder,” she told him, “just below that Buddha. Can you see anything?”

  He squinted at something glinting in the light. “What is it?”

  “It’s a lens,” she said.

  “A lens?”

  “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “I have no idea,” Applelow said.

  “It means say hello to America, David, because you’re on Fox’s new hidden-camera show Sucka Punch!”

  Suddenly people were streaming into the room through doors he hadn’t noticed before that were on every wall—cameramen and sound people, a couple of producers, he guessed, and maybe the director, followed by the actors who’d played Love and Samuel and Myerson and Godfrey and Madeline. All of them were laughing so hard they were holding their stomachs, staggering toward him, shaking his hand, grabbing his shoulder, or slapping his back, roaring hysterically. It was a wrap! And Applelow laughed along with them, despising himself for it and pointing at the lens, with tears in his eyes, his face flushed with rage and shame, and it was cripplingly typical, he thought, that when he had the perfect moment to lash out, he did nothing but go along with the joke, as if none of this mattered at all.

  “Oh, you should’ve seen yourself sitting there with your feet crossed,” said Donald, who was still wearing Love’s spacesuit. “You were concentrating so hard it was like you were in a fuckin’ trance, man. Oh,” he said, the tears streaming down his face, “will people do anything for a job, or what?”

  That was the name of the segment, a producer named Ava explained: “Anything for a Job.” She had a Fox News cap on, with her hair tied off in a ponytail and a set of headphones around her neck. “And it’s the truth. I’ve got a woman in one gag doing push-ups for twenty minutes. But you, my friend, you’re really something.” The material was absolutely top-notch, and though she couldn’t guarantee anything, the biggest sucker of the year would win $250,000, so he should sign the release—the producer handed him several pages of fine print—giving them the rights to the two previous interviews as well. “All taped,” she explained, “from beginning to end.” Applelow signed immediately, his hand shaking so hard he barely recognized the signature.

  “Good man,” Ava said, and slapped him on the back. Then a squawk came over a walkie-talkie. “Places everyone!” she announced.

  “We’ve got another applicant on the way,” Donald said, making quotation marks in the air. “And if she tops you, I think I might just die.”

  “It was nice to meet you,” Ms. Samuel said, and waved sweetly. Her real name was Samantha.

  The sound people and technicians were hurrying off the set. “We’ve got to get you out of here,” Ava said, taking him by the elbow, “as in now.”

  Godfrey’s hair and face were being touched up as they walked by. He gave Applelow a thumbs-up and said, “Great job, dude. Seriously priceless shit.”

  Applelow had nothing to say in response. After the producer showed him out, he walked dazedly to the elevator bank and watched the dial climb toward his floor. A woman in a suit dashed past him out of the car, her heels clicking sharply down the hall toward the fake office. “Going up,” a passenger said to him, pointing above, and Applelow shook his head. When the door closed, he turned and watched the woman stop to check her appearance in the glass of a fire-extinguisher case, then pluck a piece of lint off her lapel and was gone.

  He walked home in what he later realized was a state of shock, his mind filled with the recurring playback of people streaming into the room, their faces contorted with laughter, their outstretched hands grasping at him. At times he caught himself standing on the street corner after the light had changed, so mortified that he had to urge himself forward, and at one point he became so disoriented he wasn’t sure how to proceed.

  Then he turned onto his block and saw Mrs. Gunther at the top of the stoop, a black garbage bag in her hand. She took each step right foot first, and once at street level she thre
w her bag against the pile of trash and kicked it, slapping her hands together like a child who’d just completed a difficult task—or like a woman who no longer needed his help. He waited for her to enter the building before he walked up the rest of the block, and the sun came out as he stared up the steps. It was so bright when he entered the foyer that his eyes had to adjust for a moment to the dark stairwell, which he staggered up, the banister creaking as he clutched it, to his landing, where he stood staring at his keys. Outside, the wind gusted fiercely, shaking the door frame and rattling garbage-can lids. He heard a woman on the street say, “Oh, my!” and then laugh.

  Marnie’s door opened behind him. She was wearing a suit, dressed for work, with her hair and makeup done. Her eyes looked large and bright, and her teeth very white against her lipstick, though in the gloom he could barely make out any colors. But she seemed calm and happy, and she smiled at him without pretense. “I heard you come up the stairs,” she said.

  He looked down at the sunlit foyer, then at the keys in his hand.

  “I wanted to thank you,” she said. “For talking to Zach. For letting him stay with you. I don’t know what you told him, but somehow you set him straight.”

  Applelow nodded.

  “I didn’t think he could be, but you did it. He left for school this morning, and he’ll go into the military in the summer. It’s been such a relief to me I can’t even say.”

  Again he looked at his keys, as if they wouldn’t work or he might jam the wrong one into the lock.

  “Are you all right?” Marnie said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look nice.”

  He glanced down at his tie. “Thank you.”

  “How about we have a drink this week?” she said. “My treat. You can stop by the hotel.”

  “All right,” he said.

  Marnie checked her watch and said, “God, I’ve got to finish getting ready,” then raced back into her apartment.

  Once inside, Applelow took off his coat, though he was cold to the bone. His message machine was blinking and he pressed Play: it was a restaurant manager from down the street calling to say he had an opening, that he’d appreciate hearing back from Applelow at his earliest convenience. In fact, if he was available this evening, he could start training immediately.