Chapter 3
Lennon
“My greatest weakness?” I trill, looking down briefly to appear regretful.
“I guess that would have to be my perfectionism. That, and I care too much. I struggle with letting things go if I haven’t done them to a standard I find acceptable.
I can’t switch off for the day unless I know I’ve made a positive impact, you know, done all I can to improve the lives of the students I’ve served. ”
It’s bullshit on many levels, not least because I’ve never had an administrative job before, and I’m more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of guy than a perfectionist by any stretch of the imagination.
Moreover, I never even considered using the word “served” in the context of me performing a task before today.
To her credit, the woman interviewing me doesn’t buy it. She eyes me dubiously, narrowly managing to fight the urge to laugh in my face, and presses her lips together tightly.
“Mm-hmm,” she says. “Is that right?”
“Oh yes. It’s a struggle, but I know it’s a problem, and I’m working on it as part of my five-year personal-growth plan.”
“Are you working on the perfectionism, or the caring too much?” She’s taking the piss now, and I don’t blame her. She has my number, and she’s decided to have a little fun at my expense before kicking me to the curb.
“I’m working on both,” I say, “but I’m focusing more on the perfectionism because I think the caring too much may be rooted in that.”
“Ah, good plan. Two birds, one stone.” She runs her fingers through her hair, arranging her bangs just so. The name tag on her chest glints as she does it.
The other members of staff I’ve encountered during my interview process wear simple name badges.
Rectangular gold bars with their names in black block letters.
This one is bedazzled with tiny multicolored crystals and gemstones.
The colors on the name badge match her elaborate nail art so closely that it’s unlikely to be a coincidence.
She jots my answer down and looks up. “Now, do you have any questions for me?” she asks, clearly reading from the script in front of her.
I’d kind of like to ask how she types with such long nails, but I’m not sure she’d appreciate the question, so I shake my head and ready myself to be seen out.
I feel a distinct wave of relief that my latest act of insanity has been thwarted. Thank God for women like Beverly Washington, who have fully functional bullshit barometers.
“Great,” she says brightly. “Then I’ll fill all this out”—she stacks the pages in front of her into a folder and snaps it shut—“and I’ll see you on Monday.
” Wait. What? “And don’t you worry, young man.
Give us a few weeks, and we’ll cure you of your perfectionism and your caring too much.
We’ll crush that five-year personal-growth plan.
You’ll see. Student housing is real good like that. ”
It takes me several long seconds to work out what’s happened. I’ve played a player and lost. I’ve wasted this woman’s time and insulted her intelligence, and as revenge, she’s sentenced me to a terrible, terrible job.
I should open my mouth and speak right now. I should tell her I don’t want it and that I can’t take it.
I should tell her I’m in trouble.
I should tell her I need to be stopped.
Instead, I say, “Gee, thanks for the opportunity, Beverly. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Hey, kid,” she says in a quiet, personable way that almost makes me think she’s about to show mercy and release me from the latest in a series of gargantuan errors in judgment.
“You can call me Bev… And if you’re gonna be late, make sure it’s because you stopped en route to get me coffee. Double shot. Cream. Two sugars.”