|
|
|
According to the advertisement, a man named Don would be driving in from Boston to interview people for the job of Parking Lot Attendant. Apparently the company that owned the parking lot was changing hands and there was nobody in town to do the interviewing. He wanted anyone who was interested to "please call first." No need to send a résumé, the advertisement said. So I called.
Don asked me what my work history was. I told him. He said, "Send me your résumé and meet me in the lobby of the Sheraton at ten o'clock tomorrow." The next day, I put on my black suit, white shirt, maroon tie and black shoes, and went.
The lobby of the Sheraton was broad with a high ceiling and a chandelier. I sat by the fireplace and within minutes began to sweat, so I found a seat at the edge of the carpet in the lobby, beside a lamp. That was when I noticed her.
Across the lobby from me was a woman nearly twice my age. She wore a dress with an elaborate floral pattern. Her shoes were too tight. She caught me looking at her and then she looked away without smiling. Then a second later she looked at me again. We both had manila folders on our laps. I stopped staring at her and opened my folder to look at my résumé.
I was tempted to talk to her. To cut through the icy tension in the room. To make us both comfortable. Maybe even establish that we were a team, as unemployed citizens of this great-but-economically-fucked country. But I thought: No. There can only be one parking lot attendant. And I will be it. She will lose and I will win.
Thinking these thoughts, I found it hard to stop looking at her. I felt a strange need to stare, as if looking at her would help me understand her weaknesses and crush her. While she gazed at the fire, I examined her. She resembled Glenn Close, but only if Glenn Close were in a movie about a job interview for a dead-end job. Her hair was done up and her eyelids were smeared with glittery blue eye shadow. Then she caught me staring. I looked down at my résumé.
I resolved not to look at her again, which was made easier by the entry of another woman. This new woman was my age, or maybe a little older. She wore a short skirt and tight white blouse. She walked past me and went directly to the fire. She crossed her legs and her foot bobbed. I looked at the older woman, who was now staring at the younger, much prettier woman with a mixture of envy and hatred.
We were supposed to begin at 11 o'clock. At 10:55, a young man appeared and sat down as far away from the three of us as he possibly could. He wore wrinkled khaki pants, a polo shirt, and a necklace made out of sea shells. He was not a threat. He didn't seem like he was interviewing for the job. Then he took out a folded piece of paper and put it in his lap. I was too far away from him to see exactly what it was, but I imagined it had something to do with becoming a parking lot attendant.
The man entered the lobby, moving quickly. He wore loafers and carried a Blackberry and a stack of papers. "Are you Tom?"
"Yes."
"Don H--," he said. "Nice to meet you."
"Likewise," I said, my eyes turning to the women and the young man, all of whom stood up and came forward, wearing identical creepy, fake smiles.
"Let's sit by the fire," Don suggested. I wiped my sweaty palms on the legs of my pants.
Three of us sat on a couch--the young man to my left, the older woman to my right. The young woman and Don sat in armchairs at opposite ends of the long coffee table in front of me. Don spread out some papers in front of him on the coffee table.
"Well, thank you all for coming," said Don. "I hope you don't mind, given the circumstances, that we'll be doing a group interview."
Shit, I thought.
"Not at all," I said.
"Please take one of these," said the man, passing one of the stacks of paper to the older woman. We each took a sheet. It was a math test. Simple multiplication, division, addition and subtraction problems.
"If you're hired, you'll need to take one of these and return it to me," he said. "It's just something corporate wants to have on file."
The young woman spoke. "We can take it at home?"
"Yes," said Don, who had hesitated slightly before answering, as if remembering to always respond politely, even when questions at first seem dumb.
Don cleared his throat. "All right. So I'd like to begin by hearing about your work histories. We'll start with you, Bonnie." He smiled at the older woman next to me.
Bonnie smiled. She smelled strongly of the perfume counter at Macy's. "Well, I managed a parking lot in Detroit for ten years," she said.
She continued talking, but I didn't hear her. I made a mental retreat. She worked in a parking lot for ten years? This is a career ? What kind of experience do you need to be a parking lot attendant? Is there a degree for this shit? What could possibly be involved? You sit in a booth. A car comes in. You give the driver a ticket. When they leave, they give you the ticket. You calculate how long they've been parked there. You ask for the money and make change and that's. Fucking. It. Why even go through an interview? Why not just pick the first person who responds to the job ad, stick them in the box, and write them a check every two weeks? This man did not need to come all the way from Boston to meet us.
"And why do you want to work for The Parking Lot Company's Name?"
The woman smiled. "It's a reputable company and I'd be pleased to be a part of it." She smiled to indicate that she'd said everything she needed to say.
"Great, thanks," said Don, apparently satisfied. "Tom?"
I swallowed, then smiled. "I quit my job down south to live with my wife."
"That's right," said Don. "So why do you want this job?"
Possible answers: I need money. I am bored to death at home. My wife will eventually think I'm a failure if I can't find work. I actually don't want this job.
Actual answer: "Like Bonnie, I've heard good things about The Parking Lot Company's Name," I said, "and I admire a company that keeps its priorities in order."
"Which priorities do you most admire?"
Which priorities? I thought. He didn't give Bonnie the second-degree. Why was he quizzing me? Surely he smelled bullshit. But was it so hard for him to see things from my perspective? Who really wants to be a parking lot attendant?
I let the silence float between us. I have learned to let the silence float. It sounds better than umm-ing and ahh-ing.
"It's employees," I said finally. "I heard the company treats its employees well."
Don nods. I think that perhaps he was testing my bullshit skills. Those could come in handy, I guess. But I have not out-bullshitted Bonnie the Bullshit Queen with the career in parking lot attending.
"Thank you, Tom," he said. "And Jack?"
The young man to my left admits that he's only worked at the supermarket, stocking shelves and bagging groceries. And why did he want to work as a parking lot attendant? "I just want to sit down while I work," he said. "I don't know anything about parking lots, to be honest. But I can learn pretty quickly. I just finished college."
Don smiled. "Thank you, Jack. And Jennifer?"
Jennifer smiles. She pulls down at her skirt, which is riding up against her thighs. The skirt does not budge. She keeps her long legs tightly crossed, as if she regrets dressing like a whore.
"I worked at the Gap," said Jennifer. "But retail sales have slowed down and they had to let people go."
"That was part time, correct?" Don asked.
"Yes," she said.
"And why do you want to work here?"
"I, um. . ." she said. "I. . ." Then she began to cry.
Don leans forward. "Hey, hey," he said. "It's okay, Jennifer."
"I'm fine," she whimpered. She wiped her eyes. Snot ran out of her nose. "I'm fine. Oh, gosh, I'm so embarrassed."
Bonnie and I exchanged looks. If there was one thing Bonnie and I had in common, it was hatred for Jennifer.
Jennifer stumbled through the next few minutes, blowing her nose into a tissue every few seconds. Don seemed at a loss for words when she finally stopped talking about working at the Gap. Then he took a deep breath and said, "Well, let me tell you about the job." Then he began to explain a ticket system that the new company would install when it took over next month. It seemed needlessly complex and prohibitively expensive. I imagined the city issuing many more parking tickets in the five block radius surrounding the parking lot.
Don said he would call by four o'clock that evening with good news, or he wouldn't call at all. "I'm sure you understand," he said to us, tapping what looked like a Rolex on his left wrist.
We all thanked him. And in a matter of moments, the four of us went our separate ways.
Back at the apartment, I tried not to wait by the phone. But I never let the phone leave my side. I tried to read, but I couldn't concentrate. I cooked an elaborate lunch, making ravioli from scratch and a roasted red pepper alfredo sauce. I took two showers, vacuumed, scrubbed the kitchen floor. One o'clock came and went. Then two o'clock. Three o'clock came and I stared at the clock above the television, ignoring whatever was on. At three-forty-five, I thought I should probably boot up my computer and search for the next job.
Four o'clock came and my phone didn't ring. Then, at one minute past four o'clock, it rang.
It was my wife. "Hi, honey," she said. She'd just gotten out of work. "How did it go today?"
I tried to hold back tears. "I didn't get it," I said. I felt so dumb. It was quite possibly the dumbest job I had ever applied for. And I didn't get it.
There was a silence on the other end. Then she said, "Oh. I'm sorry."
"Yeah," I said. "I'm sorry, too."
I heard her shut the car door and the ambient noise of the street dropped away.
"I love you, Tom," she said. "I hope that counts."
It didn't count. Nothing but a new job counted. A new job would make everything else feel right.
"It counts," I said. What was the point in ruining her day, too? "I love you, too."
"I'll be home soon," she said.
I sat on the couch with the television off, staring into space. It took her twenty minutes to get home, and when she did, she hugged me for a long time. I hadn't felt better all day.
A few weeks later, I drove by the parking lot en route to the Laundromat. By now, the new company had taken over the lot--or at least it should have, according to what Don's advertisement said. There was a big sign announcing the first hour of parking was free. I pulled up to the booth.
Inside the booth was the young girl who wore the tight blouse and short skirt the last time I saw her. I was not surprised she'd been chosen, but I did feel bad for Bonnie. Bonnie did have experience doing this kind of thing. This whiny brat didn't. The girl seemed nothing like she did on the day of the job interview. She had been a withered flower of a girl that day, but today, she was perched on a small bench like a bird. A bird protected from the world by a secure cage. She seemed to wear the Parking Lot Company's official polo shirt with pride as she spoke on her cell phone. "Yeah, and I was like, I'll take the purple one," she said. Then she let out a long, carefree laugh. She held my ticket between two fingers as if she were holding a cigarette, my hand nothing more than an ashtray.
I made a loop around the parked cars and approached the booth to exit.
"I know, right?" she said into her cell phone. "I was totally not going to eat it after listening to that shit."
She took my ticket and put it into a machine. The machine clicked and buzzed, as if it were printing something. Then, for the first time, she looked at me. "You're all set," she said.
She looked away. But then something seemed to happen in her brain and she returned her gaze to me and looked more carefully this time. When her mouth fell open, I could tell she remembered. Perhaps she was thinking of the moment she broke down. Or maybe she was thinking of the public scrutiny I endured so that she could get this job sitting in a booth talking to her friends about nothing. Then she looked away from me, casting me far from her mind, and said into her cell phone, "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
Nothing, I thought. I didn't say anything. The next job was somewhere below the curve of the earth and I would travel there and beyond to find it. nth.