Chapter 3 #3
When the door opens, it’s not Wil, and I can’t say I’m not disappointed. It’s a shorter, muscular guy with scrubby brown hair and colorful tattoos on his forearms. “Hi!” he says. “You’re Abbey, right? I’m Jeremy, the general manager. I’m here to conduct the third interview.”
“Oh!” I wrinkle my brow. “What about the second interview?”
He waves a hand back and forth and sits down. “Eh. We’ll just skip that part.” He scans my application and looks up with a smirk. I know what he’s about to say before he says it. “Your name is Abbey Rhodes?”
I nod. I was born Abbey Marie Parker, but my last name changed when Dad adopted me. He happens to be a big Beatles fan, and he always puffs up his chest when he introduces me, although he’s quick to point out it’s not the only reason that he’s proud to call me his daughter.
“Huh,” Jeremy says. He runs through a series of standard interview questions. And then: “Why did you leave your last job?”
My throat tightens around a lump of emotion lodged there. “I was laid off. Yesterday. They… eliminated my position.”
Jeremy’s eyes widen. “Yesterday?” At my nod, he continues. “And you have a degree in… journalism, minor in women’s studies. You worked at TC Weekly for three years. If we hire you, can you guarantee that you won’t go back to something in your field?”
I can’t blame him for asking. “Well,” I say tentatively, “when I woke up yesterday, I thought I was guaranteed to go to the office, do my job, and keep doing that until I decided it was time to move on.” My hands shake, so I tuck them under my thighs.
“Don’t you want to give yourself some time?” he asks in a surprisingly gentle tone. “You’ve never worked retail before, other than—what was it, Mr. Movies? Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
What I wanted to do, Jeremy, is write for music and entertainment at TC Weekly, and not have to worry about some creep squeezing my thigh.
I lift my chin in an attempt at confidence.
“I need to work.” That doesn’t seem like the right thing to say.
“I want to work. I’ve loved Hometown Electronics since I was a kid.
I’d love to sell music, talk to people—fans—about music.
Music makes people happy. Music makes me happy.
” I pause and glance at Jeremy’s tattoos.
Motley Crüe. Guns N’ Roses. I’m in safe company. “Except crappy music like this.”
I point at the ceiling. There’s no speaker in this tiny office, but I can still hear it from beyond the door: Celine Dion, “Because You Loved Me.”
Jeremy chuckles. “You don’t like Celine Dion?”
I hold his gaze. I don’t care if it costs me the job; I cannot lie about this. “Not even a little bit.”
“You’re hired.”
I’m hired! He hired me! “And Wil?” I have to ask. “He’d be my boss?”
“Aurora would be your direct supervisor, but yes, Wil manages the media department.”
Well, too bad about that. Wil and I already have so much in common—musically, anyway.
Tucker didn’t know The Black Crowes from Counting Crows.
But Wil would be my new boss, and the very last thing I need right now is any sort of entanglement with a superior, especially after what happened yesterday.
Not now, not ever, even if that swizzle I felt with him was unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
“Do you have any questions?” Jeremy asks.
I shake my head.
“In that case,” he says, “I’d like to officially extend an offer of employment as a full-time Hometown Electronics media specialist, contingent on a standard background check.”
“I accept,” I say, feeling a) excited because I’ve only been unemployed for approximately twenty-four hours and I already have a job offer; and b) a trickle of guilt when I think about the money I spent on a four-year degree, which is not required for the position of full-time media specialist at Hometown Electronics.
But it doesn’t mean I won’t ever go back to a publication or that my years at TC Weekly have been a waste of time.
They call jobs like this stopgap for a reason.
Jeremy goes over benefits, dress code, and finally, pay.
The amount lands like a brick at my feet.
Oh, shit. How can a person live on that?
I should have asked this question back at the cash register before I even filled out an application.
Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all. I once again think of my last paycheck…
and the folded-up square of hush money in the ashtray.
“That’s the best we can do,” Jeremy says, “but you’ll have a review at ninety days with a possible pay increase.”
“Sorry?”
“You asked how a person could live on that.”
“I did? I said that out loud? Oh, shit. Oh, no, I said shit in an interview. Twice.”
“Three times. You said, and I quote, ‘Oh, shit. How can a person live on that?’ Welcome to the Hometown Team, Abbey Rhodes. You’ve officially been drafted. I’ll walk you out.”
Wil’s back at the registers with his clipboard, and as we walk past him toward the front door, Jeremy calls out, “Hey, Wil, buddy, looks like I’ve solved your media problem!”