24. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
brADY
D riving to New York is no problem at all, but driving in New York? Holy hell. That’s another story altogether. People are crazy. That’s really all I can say.
It’s a vibe , that much is certain. The fact that I make it to my hotel is nothing short of a miracle.
And thankfully, the hotel is close to the office where my interview is being held, so I can walk there the following morning.
There are five different food choices on my block alone, and I opt f or pizza, because it brings back happy memories.
It is handed to me on a thin, white paper plate tucked into a brown paper bag, and within moments of holding it in my hand, the bag is translucent with grease.
It tastes good, though. Like good enough that I wish I could save some for Gretchen.
The hotel is fine. The room is small but clean, and the view of city lights and the people down below me on the streets who are tiny dots, like ants scurrying this way and that, is insane.
The sound of sirens is never ending, and I can hear it even through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my room.
I try to drown it out by watching SportsCenter, which I leave on all night, because I’d rather sleep with the sound of people analyzing baseball than the melody of mayhem that exists outside my door.
Fun to visit, for sure. Maybe not alone, and maybe not under such nerve-wracking circumstances, but still. I just don’t know how anyone would ever be able to live here.
I sleep. Well, sort of. I drift in and out.
At 6:00 a.m., I give up, head down to the gym and run a few miles on the treadmill just to burn off the nervous energy.
I grab breakfast from the complimentary selection in the lobby (a packaged muffin and a cup of coffee that is extremely strong).
I go back to my room, get showered, packed, and dressed in my new suit.
I stick my hands in the pants pockets to flatten out the fabric against my legs.
That’s when I discover the little piece of paper in my right pocket. A receipt? I wonder.
I pull out the paper, unfolding it. It’s a note.
You’re going to kill it, babe, it reads. I believe in you. Love you so much! Xoxo, G.
I steel myself. She’s right, I decide. I am going to kill it .
For her.
For us.
I check out, drop my bag in my car in the hotel’s parking garage, and head to the building that houses Gildersleeve Marketing Group.
It’s in Suite 1626, which, according to the map in the lobby, is on the 16 th floor of the building.
I go up in the elevator at 8:40, with about ten other people, all of whom ignore one another and either look straight ahead or down at their phones.
Once I locate the correct suite, I find a receptionist at a large glass front desk. She’s changing out of sneakers and putting on a pair of high heels.
“Morning,” she says. “How can I help you?”
“I have a 9:00 appointment with John Stellaris?” I ask, even though I realize it’s not a question.
She clicks around on her desktop computer. “Brady Hawthorne?” she asks.
I nod.
“Have a seat. His team will be with you shortly.”
I sit in a leather chair next to a glass table with a small stack of magazines on top of it. Forbes. Time. The New Yorker.
I opt to flip through my portfolio, which houses five copies of my resume (printed on fancy paper), a pad of lined paper, and a silver Diamond Excelsior pen.
I focus on my breathing. Close the portfolio.
Scroll through my phone. Put the phone away.
Want to seem adult. Secure. Capable of eye contact, not always glued to a screen.
I pick up a copy of The Wall Street Journal that sits on the mahogany coffee table in front of me. I’m not reading the words. I’m just pretending to. It feels like forever, but finally a tall, broad man with white hair and a grey pinstripe business suit enters the waiting area.
“Brady Hawthorne?” he asks.
I stand up, smooth out my jacket. “Yes, sir. Mr. Stellaris?”
He shakes my hand. “Please. Call me John.”
“Nice to meet you, John. Thanks for having me.”
“Thanks for coming. Follow me,” he says.
We head down a hallway into a room with a long, executive-looking conference table in the center. It’s surrounded by easily a dozen black leather office chairs on wheels. All but four of them are filled.
I scan the room quickly, positive that there must be a mistake. There are eight people in here.
“Have a seat, Brady,” John Stellaris says. Fuck. I only have five copies of my resume.
“We’ll start with introductions,” John goes on, and while each high-level adult member of this team introduces him or herself, I try – really, really try – to remember their names.
I pretend we’re playing that old game, We’re going on a picnic, and I’m bringing…
but by the fifth person I’ve forgotten the names of the first two people, and I’m starting to sweat.
Breathe.
John takes the lead on questions, at least at the beginning.
He asks me about my previous work in the industry and why I left.
(Easy softball. COVID. No one can argue with that.) He asks me what I enjoy about market research.
I go on for a bit. I describe growing up in an area fueled by tourism and learning the role market research can play in creating a viable economy.
I discuss the impact of the pandemic and how market research elevated the health and pharmac eutical industries during that time.
I explain that in such a volatile business environment, market research analysis remains more important than ever, as we need to forecast trends in order to keep companies sustainable and relevant.
They like my answers.
A lady with her hair up in a bun and glasses asks me the next set of questions, beginning with where I see myself in five years.
Married, I say, surprising myself, but warming inside at the fact that it might be true. Working my way up a ladder in a job I can be passionate about.
She asks about my greatest strength, followed by my greatest weakness. I say that my two biggest strengths are being a hard worker and being extremely loyal, and my biggest weakness is that I sometimes invest too much of myself into my work.
She asks for an example of that.
I tell her that right after the pandemic, I worked for my father, because he needed good help and no one wanted to return to the service industry.
I put in 110% of myself, only to learn that working with family is complicated.
I struggled to delineate between personal and professional there, which is why I ultimately left, I say.
She thanks me for my honesty, scrolls down the resume she’s got up on an iPad in front of her, and asks me when that was.
End of May, I confirm.
She asks what I’ve been doing since then. Side hustle jobs, I tell her. Anything to keep afloat while looking for the ne xt big thing, which, I speculate, might be this interview right now.
She smiles.
A different man takes over. He asks about how I heard about the position (found it online), why I want to work at Gildersleeve (seems like a fast-paced environment with top-notch professionals looking to make a real difference for the clients they serve), and what my timeline for moving to the city will be if I get the job.
Record scratch.
“I’m sorry?” I ask.
“I asked you what your relocation plans look like,” he clarifies. “Because the position comes with an allocation for that.”
I clear my throat. “I was under the impression that the position was remote,” I say calmly.
“Hybrid,” he clarifies. “Three days in, two days from home. We believe in balance here at Gildersleeve.”
“Does it matter which days, from a scheduling standpoint?”
“Not unless we have meetings like this. Otherwise, most of us opt for Mondays and Fridays from home.”
My mind races. The Acela train brings commuters to and from Boston, New York City, DC, etc. regularly. People do this. They make this type of thing work all the time. I nod at the table. “That sounds good.”
“Were you not expecting to move closer to the city?”
I think on my feet. “I’m open to anything. I’ve been interviewing in Boston and DC, too. So, I haven’t made any concrete plans, be cause that would be putting the cart before the horse.” They chuckle.
The rest of the interview goes well, but my chest feels like there’s something lodged in it. My phone vibrates in my pocket on two separate occasions, and I’m sure that at least one of those calls belongs to Gretchen.
We wrap it up, and I thank the interview team for taking the time to meet with me. Stellaris says they’ll be in touch very soon. Sounds like potentially good news. He walks me out, shakes my hand, and tells me I did great in there.
In the elevator on the way back down to the lobby, I check my phone. First up is a text from Gretchen. I got called for an interview by Eastport, babe! It’s for an after-school counselor position, working with grades 1-3. I’m so excited! Hope your day is going great! Xoxo!
There’s also a text from my mom. Still on for dinner tonight? I got a room with two queen beds in case you want to stay the night.
I reply to my mother first: Yes, can’t wait to see you! I’ll let you know about an overnight. Let me see how traffic is. I’ll keep you posted on my travels.
Then to Gretchen: So exciting! Can’t wait to hear all about it. Call you in a bit.
But I can’t shake the feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Before I head back to the car, I stop into a kitschy souvenir shop and buy Gretchen an I ? NY t-shirt.
I grab myself a bagel with cream cheese for lunch and eat it on a stool overlooking fast-paced Lexington Avenue.
Even at lunchtime, the city is fueled by an energy I’m not sure if I could ev er match.
It’s thrilling, but I feel like my blood pressure has been through the roof ever since my arrival.
I muster up the courage to drive my car out of there, and by the time I’ve left the Bronx and am driving up I-95 into Connecticut, I can finally feel my shoulders begin to drop.
I talk to Gretchen on the phone, and she shares all the exciting details of the interview she’s got lined up next week.
She asks me how my interview went, and I keep it vague, but let her know I have a good feeling, and that I’m just nervous about it.
I ask about her dad; how did it go when she told him about my “switch” over to Mulligan’s?
It went fine, she assures me. All is good again.
She asks if I’m coming home tonight or planning to hang with my mom. I tell her I’m not sure.
“You should stay, Brady. She probably really misses you. I’m sure she’d love to see you.”
She’s right, I know, but I tell her I’ll play it by ear.
It takes just over three hours to get to the Marriott hotel in Mystic where I’m meeting my mom.
She’s left a hotel key for me at the front desk.
Once in the room, I marvel at the quiet.
No sirens. No noise. Just the hum of the air conditioning unit.
I change out of my suit and into a pair of jeans and a polo shirt.
Then, I lie down on the spare bed and close my eyes.
Next thing I know, I’m waking up to the sound of my phone vibrating. I check the time. It’s 4:45. The call is from a 212 number.
I clear my throat and answer it.
“Hello?”
“Brady, hi. John Stellaris here.”
“ Hi, John.”
“I’m just calling to let you know that the team and I were very impressed by you. We’d like to offer you the job,” he says. “Starting salary would be $70,000, along with full health and dental, a 401k, and a $10,000 relocation package.”
I’m stunned. I never imagined this could happen so quickly. “Wow,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Of course, take your time and think about it. We don’t need to know until Monday,” he continues.
Monday? “Sure thing, John. I just need to discuss it with my girlfriend.”
“Roger that,” he says. “Give me a call by COB Monday. Meantime, enjoy the weekend. And congratulations, Brady. We really think you’ll be a valuable asset to the firm.”
“Thanks, John. I really appreciate the opportunity. Very exciting.”
“Great. Talk soon.”
“Bye,” I say, hanging up and rubbing my eyes.
Oof, I think. I look at the other bed and notice a stack of my mother’s notebooks sitting there.
Suddenly, I’m really grateful to have some time with her.
I think you’re right, babe, I type. I think I’ll stay the night here with my mom.
Aw, Gretchen writes back. That’s great. Hope you have fun.
Thanks. Love you. Have a safe night.
Love you too. Enjoy!
I set the phone down on the nightstand and work on intentional breathing to calm my heart rate.
For someone who’s supposed to be so excited about adulting, I’m suddenly realizing that it might not be all roses and sunshine .
Nope.
Something tells me a storm is definitely brewing.