5. Renee
This pad thai is the only good thing that’s happened to me all week.
I’ve struck out again and again on my job hunt, which was the second big item on my task list after moving into Sutton’s condo. The world isn’t exactly dying to hire freelance photographers, as I’m learning.
It means I have to switch things up. Find a better path. Pages of listings are spread in front of me, but the pickings have never seemed slimmer.
I could be a dancer at a go-go bar, if I felt like making an uncoordinated fool of myself on stage night after night. A couple bartending positions might be promising, if I suddenly figure a way to remember the difference between a whiskey neat and a whiskey sour. There’s always the endless array of gigs in fast food, retail, or coffee shops that would inevitably end with me throat-punching a customer.
Then there are the ones I’d actually want, which are few and far between. I’ve got an email in my inbox from the ad agency I interviewed at yesterday. The preview of the email begins, “Dear Ms. DuBois—Unfortunately…” I don’t need to read any further than that to know I didn’t get the job.
I’ve also sent an application into the Social Media department of the Los Angeles Firebirds or Firebrands or whatever, which I’m pretty sure is a hockey team. It’s radio silence on that front, too.
I wonder if my old boss Ayers is to blame. That pretentious bastard is refusing to give me a recommendation. Whenever anyone calls him as a reference, he hems and haws and ends up dooming me before I even get a toe in the door.
Never once does he mention the above and beyond I went for him. The way I organized his office, his papers, his files. Kept his life and his business on track.
All of that means nothing now, though.
I’ve spent many an hour contemplating the exact manner of death I hope befalls Ayers. Nothing is too out of bounds: rotting appendages, crushed by a falling piano, death by a thousand papercuts. Preferably something that takes every minute of the six years of my life I wasted in his employ.
I want to be a big enough woman to turn over a new leaf, to not spend time wishing for a flesh-eating fungus to take over the man’s life, but I’m not, as it turns out, above such wishing.
It’s not so easy to shake all the thoughts off, but the pad thai is calling my name. Sutton had it delivered when she heard how bad things were going. I don’t know if it’s consolation for not finding a job yet or if it’s supposed to provide inspiration because she knows I think better with a full stomach. Either way, it’s working.
When my cell rings, I expect it to be Sutton, simply because I’ve given no one else my number and job people don’t call this late. So I answer and say in a goofy Minnie Mouse voice, “Hey, girl!”
I should have at least looked before I leapt, though, because the voice on the other end is definitely not Sutton’s. “Er, hi, hello. This is Michelle Freeman. I am the head of the Social Media team for the Los Angeles Firebirds. I’m trying to reach Renee DuBois.”
Instant mortification clogs up in my throat. “Oh my—I’m so sorry. Yes, this is Renee. Hi.”
I think I can hear the faint traces of an amused smile in the caller’s voice. At least, I hope so. “I’m sorry to be calling so late, Ms. DuBois, but my secretary didn’t pass your information along to me until late this afternoon, and with the game tonight, this is the first chance I’ve had to call.”
I want to believe this is true, that it isn’t a prank by… well, I don’t know anyone who would play a prank on me like this.
“I’d love to set up an interview for tomorrow morning.” A crowd cheers in the background, and she waits until the sound dies before she continues talking. “Sorry. I’m still at the game. Can you come in tomorrow at nine?”
I pause and pretend to shuffle through my planner, like I don’t already know that I don’t have a damn thing to do tomorrow. “I think… Yes! Yes, I can make that work.”
A thousand times yes, I want to add. Hell, I’ll leave right now if I have to.
“Excellent. I’ll text you the information and an address, and I’ll see you then.” Another cheer. The team must be doing well. I should probably flick on the TV and have a look, but I’m too excited over the job interview to remember how to operate Sutton’s fancy remote.
“Absolutely. Thank you.”
But she’s already hung up.
A text notification pings in my ear with the promised info from Michelle. I look at the phone and smile.
Maybe this isn’t such a bad day after all.
It’s been so long since I had a lucky break that I’m not even sure what to do with myself. I could dance. I could sing. I have enough energy to act out the entire score from Grease, but I don’t do any of that.
Instead, because my life is a desert of despair and I don’t have anyone to celebrate with while my one friend is an ocean away from me, I sit at the kitchen counter and eat my Thai food.
I said things couldn’t get worse, right? This is better. This is a start.