Pounding the Pavement

by Jennifer van der Kwast

  “No offense? Are you kidding? That’s the most offensive thing I’ve ever heard anyone say. There are plenty of gifted actresses out there who aren’t necessarily all that pretty.”

  “Yeah? Okay. If you can name just one, I’ll take it all back.”

  I open my mouth. I pause. I can’t call up a single name.

  “See?” he taunts.

  I narrow my eyes. “How about Anjelica Huston?”

  “Okay, first of all, Anjelica Huston was a model even before she was an actress. And secondly, you’re probably only thinking about her because of the Jack Nicholson connection.”

  “Possibly. Cameron Diaz?”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Oh, come on. She’s great at what she does. And she makes excellent choices.” Please don’t bring up The Sweetest Thing. Please don’t …

  “She’s still no Goldie Hawn.”

  “Goldie Hawn, thirty years ago maybe.”

  Jake leans back against the booth. “What about Sandy Dennis? Do you know who she is?”

  My heart spins and stops on a dime. “I love Sandy Dennis! Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? is one of my favorite movies of all time. She was brilliant in that!”

  “No one else quite like her, huh?”

  “No one could hold a candle to her. Such a pity …” I let my voice trail off. Neither of us mentions the fact she’s not around to be reading menus for our pleasure anymore.

  I slurp down the last of my milkshake. For a moment, I keep the straw between my teeth. I’m heartbroken there is nothing left. The Greek salad didn’t really cut it. I’m trying to remember if there is still a danish left in my refrigerator.

  Jake tosses his napkin onto his empty plate. “This was fun. Thank you for coming out with me tonight.”

  “Thank you for bringing my phone back.”

  “No, seriously, I mean it. Thank you. I really needed this.”

  He sighs. I make another heroic attempt to suck down more milkshake.

  Don’t pry.

  Jake shakes his head. “You know, I just broke up with my girlfriend.”

  Let the record show I didn’t pry.

  “We dated for five years,” he continues. “I caught her cheating on me last week.”

  Oh, good God. Fat lot of good it does me not to pry.

  “I’m sorry,” I offer idiotically.

  “Don’t be. I’m fine now. I just know Gregory told you I was having problems, and I just didn’t want you to think I was a psycho or anything.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind.”

  “Good.” He pulls out his wallet. “ ’Cause I really did have a good time tonight. We should do this again sometime.”

  Yeah, where have I heard that one before?

  “Sure,” I shrug.

  “The new Soderbergh comes out next week. You have any desire to see it?”

  “I can’t wait!”

  “How about Friday, then?”

  Well, knock me over with a feather.

  Jake and I split the check and he offers to walk me back home. We manage to avoid any of the usual, end-of-the-night awkwardness by intermittenly throwing out more names of rising young stars. I say Jake Gyllenhaal, he suggests Maggie, and we both shoot down such obvious choices. Kirsten Dunst? Too vanilla. Kiefer Sutherland? Unfortunately, too TV. Colin Farrell? He had such a promising start, but …

  I come to a halt in front of my apartment building and turn to wait expectantly. Jake, however, keeps on going, waving good-bye to me over his shoulder.

  “I’ll see you next Friday!” he calls out. His pace quickens and he trots lightly down the subway steps.

  How about that? No kiss on the cheek, no extended hugs, no fond farewells? Nothing at all? I’ll be damned! I turn in a huff and shove my way through the entrance doors.

  It occurs to me, however, as I climb up the stairs to my apartment, that I’ve got no reason at all to feel so peeved. So, big deal if this wasn’t a date. Big deal if Jake doesn’t find me wildly irresistible. I can live with that. You know what? I think I can safely say I quite enjoyed our pleasant and painless evening together anyway.

  This is good, I decide. What am I saying? This is great! I’d take a mindless conversation about movie stars over the self-pity banter of ex-jobs and ex-girlfriends any day. I like having a new friend. I especially like having a new friend who is a boy. Between Amanda and Laurie, the men I meet just get devoured. And it isn’t like I can foster any thriving platonic relationships with the other sex in the workplace. I don’t have a workplace. So, this is nice. This will work out just fine.

  For the first time in nine weeks, I sleep in. I don’t wake up until mid-morning, when my alarm goes off. I swat aimlessly at the clock on my nightstand for a full minute before I jerk upright, suddenly recalling I haven’t set my alarm in months.

  My phone is ringing.

  I leap out of my bed and into the living room, my eyelids still sealed with dreams not ready to be dispelled. I grope blindly on the sofa for anything that might resemble a phone receiver.

  “Hello?” I answer groggily.

  “Hello, is this Miss Sarah Pelletier?”

  “Yes, speaking.” I remove the phone from my mouth and yawn.

  “Hi, Sarah, this is Bob calling from Time Warner.”

  “Oh, hi, Bob! Thanks for calling!” Desperately, I rack my brain.

  It only slides further into the sheets and hides under a pillow. I can’t recall anymore which department of Time Warner I sent my résumé into. Was it HBO? New Line?

  “Miss Pelletier, I’d like to talk about to you about some of our new online services—”

  “Oh, of course.” That would explain the call. I must have applied to AOL. “You’re looking for content writers?”

  “Uh …” Bob sounds a little confused. “Maybe. I’m not sure. I’ll have to look into that. But today I’m calling to tell you about the new residential, high-speed Internet access we’re offering at competitive, low rates.”

  Oh. Now it makes sense. Bob’s not hiring. He’s selling.

  I hang up the phone without another word.

  I suppose I should be thankful Bob pried me from my blissful slumber when he did. God forbid I waste any more time before I get cracking on that oh-so-busy day ahead of me. Some people would call my day uneventful. But I can tick off at least ten events that occupy my morning alone. I wash the dishes, check my e-mail (no word from Aspen Quarterly). I mop the bathroom, vacuum the living room, and check my e-mail (still no word from Aspen Quarterly). I put my clothes in the washer, check my e-mail, transfer my clothes to the dryer, check my e-mail, fold my clothes, check my e-mail. (Maybe I should resend my résumé and cover letter just in case?)

  And somehow, in the middle of all this activity, I also manage to find the time to finish the shitty mystery novel Princess sent me. Now, because I know for a fact you’ll never read the book yourself, let me just say I knew the killer was the glamorous model’s deformed twin sister all along.

  I crank out a quick summary of the book, add a few scathing comments, and don’t even bother to reread it before I e-mail my thoughts to Princess. It does me no good, however, to remain seated in front of my computer, keenly aware that NO NEW MESSAGES are coming in for me. So, I try to devise new ways to torment myself.

  Then one occurs to me.

  Okay, don’t tell Amanda, but I recently discovered she hides her scale in her closet behind the shoe rack. Stealthily, and on tiptoe just for the heightened drama of it all, I sneak into her room and gingerly reach behind her calfskin high boots.

  I place the scale cautiously on the floor. I put one foot on, close my eyes, then add the other.

  My phone rings before I can even open my eyes.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” I curse, hopping off and making a buffoonish attempt to put back the scale and answer the phone all at the same time.

  My caller is a frantic Mark Shapiro.

  “Did you make the changes on your résumé I to
ld you to?”

  “Of course,” I lie.

  “Great. E-mail me the revised copy right away. I found the perfect job for you.”

  “You did?”

  “Yup. The company is looking for a bright, think-on-your-feet kind of person. Plus, they need someone with strong writing skills. They sounded really excited when I told them about you.”

  “Wonderful. What’s the job?”

  “It’s an assistant property manager position at one of the top real estate agencies in the city.”

  What? “Umm, okay.” I think for a moment. “Why do I need strong writing skills?”

  “Well, you’d be working for a man who doesn’t speak English very well. He needs an assistant to type up his eviction notices.”

  Oh, geez.

  “It’s an entry-level position for now,” Mark continues. “But it’s got a lot of growth potential. Most of the assistants become property mangers within a year.”

  “But I don’t want to be a property manager—”

  “It pays fifty thousand a year.”

  “Oh.” All of a sudden, it doesn’t sound so bad.

  “I’ve already set up the interview for you tomorrow.”

  “What time?”

  “Nine a.m.”

  Ugh.

  Early-morning rush hour. Long lines at coffee stands. Blinding light bouncing off skyscrapers, loud horns wailing from screaming-yellow taxis. Subway turnstiles chiming like Atlantic City slot machines. And stir-crazy, sleep-deprived, New York Post—wielding commuters packing onto the trains, clinging to hanging straps, saluting the workday with Right Guard and Secret. Headed to toil the mines with mighty axes slung over their shoulders. Well, heigh-ho, here we go!

  chapter seven

  On first viewing, my résumé might look exactly the same to you. There are differences, though. Subtle differences, but differences nonetheless. And in some cases, incredibly important differences. Please note:

  Résumé writing is an art. It is a precise art. Employers look for specific words to jump out at them. And depending on exactly what kind of applicant they are seeking, they’ll want to see words like “operated” or “programmed” or “created.” In more common cases—my cases—they prefer “answered,” “organized” or “obeyed.”

  Granted, most employers are going to skim over the juicy parts. If you were to write that you “were responsible for the distribution of high-quality narcotics to underprivileged children in New York City boroughs” and that “you acted as a liaison between Colombian drug cartels and organized New York City street teams,” all an employer is going to know is that you can distribute and you can liaise. And that looks pretty damn good. Moreover, they may even be impressed that you choose to work so closely with kids. I highly recommend you hint at your altruistic streak as often as possible.

  So, for a résumé I plan to send to a property management firm—property management being something I know nothing about and for which I doubt I am qualified—I keep my skills to a bare minimum.

  My employers won’t need to know that I can coddle filmmakers or that I can consume mass quantities of sub-par entertainment in search of one film that could be deemed, at best, “marketable.” They may, however, be impressed that I can type without looking at the keyboard.

  “Content Development Assistant”? Too fancy. It’s been changed to the more accessible “Administrative Assistant,” which is nonspecific enough to keep everyone happy.

  Under my extracurricular activities, I’ve also added that I was a “Junior Executive.” That sounds promising, doesn’t it? That I was the junior executive of my college Film Society will probably go unnoticed.

  And if you’re being particularly observant, you’ll also notice I did, in fact, include a section for my computer and typing skills. To make room for it, I got rid of my job experiences as an intern. Who needs to know I was an intern, when already my later job descriptions have me acting like an obedient, passionless twit? You’re not going to get any feistiness from me, not with this résumé. I’ve just painted myself as a perfectly responsible, perfectly capable little assistant. Vacant eyes, insipid smile, and all.

  At 7:30 in the morning, I rub the sleep from my eyes and shuffle my way to the bathroom. The door is closed. I knock.

  “Come in,” says Amanda. I open the door.

  Amanda and I don’t usually cross paths in the morning, and I am pleased to find her in front of the mirror, skin wan, lips faded, light blue eyes hidden behind thick, dark bags. Her hair is a messy mop of curlers on top of her head. She looks almost human.

  “What are you doing up so early?” she asks into the mirror.

  “I have an interview.”

  “What for?”

  “Assistant property manager,” I mumble, grabbing my toothbrush.

  She unwraps one of her curlers, and a familiar, lush tendril falls into place. “Do you need to borrow any of my clothes?”

  “Not unless you’ve got overalls and a hard hat.”

  She unwraps another perfect curl. “You know, that could be a really good look for you.”

  I make a face into the mirror.

  Barb Wallace, the director of Human Resources at Cooper Union Management, is a spry little Chihuahua of a woman. Unfortunately, she’s a Chihuahua in a designer navy suit. I am beginning to rethink my choice of outfit. Even though I do consider these to be my nice clothes, I am slowly beginning to understand that “nice” does not necessarily mean the skin-tight black pants and lacy halter top I saved for special occasions in college—like Homecoming or the first day of new semester classes.

  Maybe it’s the Chihuahua connection again, but Barb reminds me of my tiny little high school Spanish teacher who used to sit on her desk with her legs crossed. As friendly and as animated as Barb may be, she still makes me feel like a teenager without a clue. When she asks a question, she waits patiently, smiling encouragingly, as if she were ready to applaud any response I’d be willing to give.

  When prompted, I assure her I am looking for a “learning experience” and that I am willing to work from the bottom up as long as the position offers, of course, “growth potential.” Barb is understandably impressed with my coached and well-practiced replies.

  She then moves on to stage two—The Challenge. She looks at my résumé, ponders it for a moment, then thinks of a tough question. This is what she comes up with:

  “I see you’ve had a lot of experience in the entertainment industry. I’m just curious. Why do you no longer wish to work in film?”

  It’s a good question. Excellent, in fact. And the answer is very delicate indeed. Because, the truth is, I do want to work in film, any aspect of film. But the jobs I want don’t seem to be available these days.

  Luckily, I have a prepared response that is a little more, shall we say, tactful.

  “Oh, I love film,” I say honestly. “But I love the kind of films people don’t make anymore. I love when Marilyn Monroe dips potato chips in champagne. Or when Marlon Brando lights a match off the back of his jeans. But that doesn’t exist today. Now we have trilogies and remakes and Vin Diesel vehicles. I just don’t want to be part of that. I’m happy to watch old movies as a pastime. But as far as work goes? I want to do something more fulfilling.”

  Barb smiles. She’s pleased. So, moving on.

  She draws me a chart. I haven’t really been paying attention, but I believe the chart is supposed to depict the corporate hierarchy at Cooper Union Management. As Barb diligently attempts to distinguish an exec V.P. from an S.V.P., my mind wanders and I try to envision my future as a legitimate property manager.

  I’m wearing a hard hat. I’m sitting on the ledge of a fifth-story scaffolding contraption, eating a bologna sandwich from out of a tin lunch pail. Then sure enough, the scaffolding gives out from under me. No reason. It just vanishes.

  So, there I am, splayed on my back on the sidewalk. I can’t move my neck. I’m paralyzed. And I am forced to look up at my former ledge, the spot t
hat marked the height, the pinnacle, of my so-called growth potential. Then I hear the lurch. The entire contraption creaks and collapses, barreling toward me—

  “So,” Barb leans forward, breaking me from my disturbing reverie. “Do you think this job might interest you?”

  Have I mentioned before how much I hate this question? It’s not like I can say, outright, “No. The job sucks. You could turn it sideways and cram it for all I care.”

  “I’d be curious to explore the possibilities,” I say lightly.

  “Great.” She stands. “Then it’s time for you to meet Vladimir.”

  I cast a quick glance at Barb’s makeshift graph and see a box labeled “Vladimir—Exec V.P.” Directly below it, there is a box labeled, “You.”

  “Okay, do me a favor …” Barb implores as I rise from my seat. “Try this on?” She removes her suit jacket and hands it to me.

  Let me make a couple of things clear. First, I know my pants are a little snug and my shirt a little revealing. But I resent the fact that Barb’s blatant disapproval of my outfit makes me feel like a stripper some impertinent office peon hired for Vladimir’s surprise birthday party.

  And secondly, as I think I’ve mentioned before, Barb is a wee, little lady. Now, I’m no Amazon, but I’m certainly no five-foot-one, eighty-pound bundle of joy. Trying on her jacket is a ridiculous idea, and I am annoyed she would even suggest it. The shoulders of her sleeves don’t even clear my elbows.

  “Well, okay …” She takes her jacket back reluctantly. “Maybe if you just pull your shirt down a bit …”

  Fighting back tears, I tug down on the edges of my shirt to conceal the inappropriate sliver of my stomach.

  It comes as no surprise, then, that Vladimir gives me a critical once-over as soon as I walk into his office. I have no doubt this interview will be particularly painful. Right off the bat, he grabs his yellow legal pad, and hits me with his most obnoxious question.

  “You have strengths?”

  Believe it or not, I am unprepared for this line of inquiry. All of my former interviews have been conducted rather informally, more like a forum for discussion, a salon de thé if you will. Minus the thé. I consider myself above the questions regarding my strengths, my weaknesses, my most challenging experiences. Wouldn’t he just prefer if I told him a little bit about myself first?