Excerpt from
"Blessed Rage for Order"
With my fist wrapped around the folded Seattle Times, I sat in the outer office on a stiff leather sofa, waiting my turn. White knuckles and the newsprint staining my sweaty palm were a dead give-away. I needed this job.
I weighed my competition, happy that my education prepared me to be such a keen observer of human behavior.
Across from me was a matron whose fading strands of black hair streaked through her gray bun. Small flowers, like wilted blooms in the desert sun, adorned her summer dress, dulled by too many washings. A whistle on a lanyard hung around her neck and rose over her melon breasts. With a stiff spine, she leaned forward in her chair. No doubt, students acquiesced to her commands with a salute and clicked heels. I would wager my first paycheck she spoke with a German accent.
Near her, another competitor donned an unfathomable smile with perfect teeth as she molded into a straight-backed chair. Laced boots tapped beneath her too-long black skirt. Mary Poppins! I almost snapped my fingers. She lacked the famous nanny’s umbrella. But then again, it was a cloudless, windless day. With her liquid brown eyes and skin crinkling at the corners, I pegged Mary as sweet but firm.
The last applicant was a nurturer. With an ample body, she wiggled to get comfortable in a wide, over-stuffed chair. A large box of Lady Godiva chocolates, tied with a wide red ribbon and fondled by her plump fingers, rested in her generous lap. Was the gift for the interviewer or the child? Likely, she would prepare home-cooked meals and croon encouraging words.
I uncrossed my ankles, marshaling German confidence and wishing I had an umbrella or a present.
Each of the contenders carried worn briefcases. I imagined the contents. Resumes, letters of recommendation, copies of their proposed curriculum, and pictures of their previous charges with alert wide eyes and sunny smiles lighting their cherubic faces.
Since I didn’t own a briefcase, I took out a clean-covered, unspoiled notebook, which I had conscientiously brought along, and jotted down a few ideas to share. My list was short, highlighting brief but broad curriculum plans. My thoughts struck a nice balance between she-doesn't-know-what-the-hell-she's-talking-about and she-might-have-some-vague-idea., reading, science, social studies, music, and art. Oops. I added writing and physical education.
The gatekeeper popped up from his desk, calling Mary Poppins into the interviewer’s office. The German lady checked her watch as I dropped my gaze to my notebook again and added my experience. Younger siblings. One sister and two brothers. Lots of reluctant babysitting. High school graduate and National Merit Semi-finalist with a partial scholarship to college. A bachelor’s degree with a major in child psychology. Future plans include graduate school in the same major with an emphasis on trauma-induced disorders.
“Miss Murphy.” The gatekeeper flashed his business smile, doing the Vanna White thing with his arm as he motioned toward the door. “Mr. Fernandez will see you now.”
As I walked toward the office, Mary bumped my shoulder in her hurry to exit, no longer looking as if a spoonful of sugar would get the job done.
I smoothed my above-the-knee gray skirt and tugged at the long sleeves of my white cotton-blend blouse. The low-heeled pumps were a nice touch. I was going for the works. Mature. Professional. Caring.
After I cleared the threshold, the door snicked shut. Ahead, a wall of windows dominated the room and framed a view of downtown skyscrapers, sentinels paying homage to the American work ethic. I glanced at the interior, a monochromatic minimalist design. Huge, sterile, and pricey. A monument of chrome and glass. The only thought given to comfort was the thick-cushioned taupe sofa in the small sitting area.
The man at the desk faced the skyline but swiveled around in his leather chair when I entered. He waved a weary hand at the seat in front of him.
Blond hair swept boyishly across his forehead, but his youthful appearance ended there. Premature wrinkles creased the skin around his melancholy eyes, his lips were a cheerless slash, and his shoulders slumped forward. He was a man at odds with life.
Running a hand along the back of my skirt, I sat, crossing my ankles.
The interviewer sighed, cleared his throat, and began reading from a list, his gaze stuck to the paper. “Tell me about the experiences that make you an appropriate candidate for this job.”
I responded with an inspirational answer.
He droned on as he asked questions he had repeated too many times. After each query, I checked my notes and recited facts about my family, babysitting, and college activities.
The father-turned-interviewer threw out a few more questions, and I countered with insightful and lame answers, sometimes just to see if he was listening.
He picked up my application and anchored his eyes on it. “Do you like music?”
“I love music. All kinds. Country western. New Age. Punk rap. Folk hip-hop. Classical alternative. Disco blues.”
He inspected his sheet of questions. “At 14 my daughter is somewhat of a prodigy. With the cello. Do you like children?”
I chuckled. “Quite well. Not too long ago, I was one.”
“Do you find it easy to communicate with them?”
“I have trouble getting the children in my family to stop communicating with me.”
He flipped his wrist to glance at his watch. “Do you give up easily?”
“If I did, I’d still be in bed under the covers instead of here applying for this job.”
For the first time, his eyes dragged up from the prepared script to study me. The lapels of his pinstriped suit jacket flared when his chest expanded with a deep breath as if he already regretted his next query. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
My eyes darted to the notebook in my lap. I had not prepared for that one. How desperate was I? My rent was due. My college loan payment was overdue. I needed to save for graduate school tuition. “We all have ghosts. I suspect some more than others.”
His gaze caught mine as he nodded.
I weighed my competition, happy that my education prepared me to be such a keen observer of human behavior.
Across from me was a matron whose fading strands of black hair streaked through her gray bun. Small flowers, like wilted blooms in the desert sun, adorned her summer dress, dulled by too many washings. A whistle on a lanyard hung around her neck and rose over her melon breasts. With a stiff spine, she leaned forward in her chair. No doubt, students acquiesced to her commands with a salute and clicked heels. I would wager my first paycheck she spoke with a German accent.
Near her, another competitor donned an unfathomable smile with perfect teeth as she molded into a straight-backed chair. Laced boots tapped beneath her too-long black skirt. Mary Poppins! I almost snapped my fingers. She lacked the famous nanny’s umbrella. But then again, it was a cloudless, windless day. With her liquid brown eyes and skin crinkling at the corners, I pegged Mary as sweet but firm.
The last applicant was a nurturer. With an ample body, she wiggled to get comfortable in a wide, over-stuffed chair. A large box of Lady Godiva chocolates, tied with a wide red ribbon and fondled by her plump fingers, rested in her generous lap. Was the gift for the interviewer or the child? Likely, she would prepare home-cooked meals and croon encouraging words.
I uncrossed my ankles, marshaling German confidence and wishing I had an umbrella or a present.
Each of the contenders carried worn briefcases. I imagined the contents. Resumes, letters of recommendation, copies of their proposed curriculum, and pictures of their previous charges with alert wide eyes and sunny smiles lighting their cherubic faces.
Since I didn’t own a briefcase, I took out a clean-covered, unspoiled notebook, which I had conscientiously brought along, and jotted down a few ideas to share. My list was short, highlighting brief but broad curriculum plans. My thoughts struck a nice balance between she-doesn't-know-what-the-hell-she's-talking-about and she-might-have-some-vague-idea., reading, science, social studies, music, and art. Oops. I added writing and physical education.
The gatekeeper popped up from his desk, calling Mary Poppins into the interviewer’s office. The German lady checked her watch as I dropped my gaze to my notebook again and added my experience. Younger siblings. One sister and two brothers. Lots of reluctant babysitting. High school graduate and National Merit Semi-finalist with a partial scholarship to college. A bachelor’s degree with a major in child psychology. Future plans include graduate school in the same major with an emphasis on trauma-induced disorders.
“Miss Murphy.” The gatekeeper flashed his business smile, doing the Vanna White thing with his arm as he motioned toward the door. “Mr. Fernandez will see you now.”
As I walked toward the office, Mary bumped my shoulder in her hurry to exit, no longer looking as if a spoonful of sugar would get the job done.
I smoothed my above-the-knee gray skirt and tugged at the long sleeves of my white cotton-blend blouse. The low-heeled pumps were a nice touch. I was going for the works. Mature. Professional. Caring.
After I cleared the threshold, the door snicked shut. Ahead, a wall of windows dominated the room and framed a view of downtown skyscrapers, sentinels paying homage to the American work ethic. I glanced at the interior, a monochromatic minimalist design. Huge, sterile, and pricey. A monument of chrome and glass. The only thought given to comfort was the thick-cushioned taupe sofa in the small sitting area.
The man at the desk faced the skyline but swiveled around in his leather chair when I entered. He waved a weary hand at the seat in front of him.
Blond hair swept boyishly across his forehead, but his youthful appearance ended there. Premature wrinkles creased the skin around his melancholy eyes, his lips were a cheerless slash, and his shoulders slumped forward. He was a man at odds with life.
Running a hand along the back of my skirt, I sat, crossing my ankles.
The interviewer sighed, cleared his throat, and began reading from a list, his gaze stuck to the paper. “Tell me about the experiences that make you an appropriate candidate for this job.”
I responded with an inspirational answer.
He droned on as he asked questions he had repeated too many times. After each query, I checked my notes and recited facts about my family, babysitting, and college activities.
The father-turned-interviewer threw out a few more questions, and I countered with insightful and lame answers, sometimes just to see if he was listening.
He picked up my application and anchored his eyes on it. “Do you like music?”
“I love music. All kinds. Country western. New Age. Punk rap. Folk hip-hop. Classical alternative. Disco blues.”
He inspected his sheet of questions. “At 14 my daughter is somewhat of a prodigy. With the cello. Do you like children?”
I chuckled. “Quite well. Not too long ago, I was one.”
“Do you find it easy to communicate with them?”
“I have trouble getting the children in my family to stop communicating with me.”
He flipped his wrist to glance at his watch. “Do you give up easily?”
“If I did, I’d still be in bed under the covers instead of here applying for this job.”
For the first time, his eyes dragged up from the prepared script to study me. The lapels of his pinstriped suit jacket flared when his chest expanded with a deep breath as if he already regretted his next query. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
My eyes darted to the notebook in my lap. I had not prepared for that one. How desperate was I? My rent was due. My college loan payment was overdue. I needed to save for graduate school tuition. “We all have ghosts. I suspect some more than others.”
His gaze caught mine as he nodded.