Chapter 9
Last time I went to a job interview, I was a lost twenty-two-year-old, fresh out of college. I think things were less scary back then. I don’t remember sweating this much or my heart pounding this hard.
The man sitting across from me hasn’t stopped smiling the entire time I’ve been here.
He’s not old, early forties at most, and I’m only making that assumption due to his receding hairline.
The thick beard gives him a sophisticated look.
He’s the editor in chief at a local news outlet.
They had an opening for a junior position in the Sports Department.
Not ideal, not what I want, but once inside it’s easier to move around.
Besides, it’s a temporary job. I might be gone before my trial period ends.
But it pays weekly per word, and what I need right now is quick money.
The man caps the pen he’s been using throughout the interview, scribbling away I’m not sure what. If the purpose is to intimidate me, he’s succeeded.
He sets the pen aside, intertwines his fingers, and sighs. “Do you mind answering one last question?”
“Not at all,” I blurt out, too quick.
“How come you’re changing your lane from Lifestyle to Sports?” he asks.
I anticipated this question. I’ve gotten it at every other interview in some shape or form, so I’ve perfected my answer by now.
“A career change is always good,” I say. “I don’t want to be perceived as merely a love columnist. I want to expand, learn, grow. Five years doing the same job is hardly the way to do that.”
It’s a half-truth. If he asked me on a deeper level, I would have to tell him this job is just a means to an end.
I would have to disclose my goal of becoming an Arts journalist. I would have to tell him the real reason I’m not at Ellas anymore and that I’m in need of money.
But no one discloses those kinds of details while trying to impress their future boss.
He nods, still smiling. Extending a hand to me, he pushes to his feet. I take it, standing as well. “Thank you for coming, we’ll be in contact.”
The other six interviewers have said the same thing. They haven’t contacted me yet. I understand it’s a long process—it’s always a long process—but I don’t have the luxury of going through a two-month hiring process.
“Will you?” I find myself asking.
I’m immediately horrified.
His smile finally falters. “No.” Oh. To his credit, he looks like he’s just as surprised to hear himself answer that question as I was hearing myself ask it.
“It’s nothing personal, you simply lack the experience for the position we’re looking to fill.
You have mostly worked with social media.
My advice, if I’m allowed to offer it? Look for a job in that field.
Your experience is extensive and impressive. ”
I take a step back with a nod. “Thank you for your honesty. And the advice. Have a great day.”
—
When I get home, I fall face-first on my bed with a groan. I scream into my pillow as Caballo de Troya blasts from the speakers in my bedroom, drowning out the sound of my misery.
It’s official. I’m like one of those actors who are typecast as their most famous role and no one ever hires them again for anything different. Sure, I’m talented. Sure, I’m impressive. Sure, I’m good at my job. But apparently I won’t be good at any other job.
I groan again before tossing the pillow to the side, flipping over to lie on my back. I’m starting to run out of breath.
The ceiling has scars drawn by time and decay, but I trace every line, every humidity stain, in an attempt to regulate my emotions.
I try to find three truths to focus on as music plays in the background.
One, I’m young, I have plenty of time to find another job.
My career is not over at twenty-seven. Two, it’s not the interviewers’ fault that I need a job tomorrow.
It’s my fault, for posting that video on Ellas’ account.
A hiring process can take months, they’re just looking out for their company.
And even I know I’m not the right fit—I’m planning to leave within a month.
Three, tomorrow is another day, another opportunity to go out, try to land another interview, try again.
There. Three truths. They’re all BS and they do nothing to soothe me.
A knock on the door makes me sit up, my bones shifting under my skin, telling me I’m not a teenager anymore and that I need a new mattress. My mother pokes her head in my room, holding her phone away from her face while she covers the lower part, like it’s a landline.
“Mamita, do you mind turning the music down? I’m on a call,” she says.
I do mind. I want to sulk in my misery. But she’s my mother, so I obey with a few taps on my phone. There’s nothing quite like sharing a living space with one’s parent to make one feel like a teenager again.
Mamá winks at me and whispers, “Gracias,” before ducking out. But her voice, previously drowned by the music I was blasting, still reaches me.
“—did they already hire one of those TikTok kids?” she’s asking someone.
“My stepson taught me how to do it…I know, it’s a real time-suck…
we need to find one fast. I don’t think anyone even knows it’s happening.
It’s a kids’ show, we need to get on whatever the kids are doing these days.
” She pauses. I sit up. “Well, clearly what they’re doing isn’t working.
Last time I asked, we didn’t even have contestants. ”
Curious, I grab my phone and go through the Talento V tag in every platform I can think of.
My mother told me shooting should have started days ago.
To not have contestants is bad. When I dive into the content they’ve been putting out, I understand why.
Each graphic looks like it was created using PowerPoint and WordArt.
There is no mention of where, when, or how to apply.
Their TikTok is nonexistent. There is no intention to their Instagram feed; it’s just a bunch of pictures that, when seen together, make no sense.
It doesn’t feel like an organic experience.
It looks like the profile of a government facility.
Which should be a compliment, but isn’t.
My mother must have moved to the balcony or to her room because I can’t hear her anymore.
Maybe you should try for a job in that field.
That’s what the last interviewer said. And maybe I should.
I’m running out of options. For a temporary job, what does it matter if it’s running social media accounts?
Hell, what does it matter if I’m working as a bartender?
I won’t be there forever. There’s no shame in working.
I’ve been supporting myself since I was eighteen.
I’ve been an assistant, I’ve been a waitress, I’ve been a social media manager, I’ve been a love advice columnist. I can be whatever I find first. However, asking my mother is not an option.
For one thing, I would never hear the end of it.
For another, I’m not in the mood to throw almost ten years of emancipation out the window.
I move to my chair, google Talento V’s contact info and send in my CV.
It’s perfect. The job ends in twelve weeks.
I could do it remotely for most of the time, pick a couple days a week to make content, and then come home and create magic.
It won’t even feel like I’m working with my mother.
Worst-case scenario? I don’t get the job. There’s nothing to lose.
Thirty minutes later, my mother pokes her head back inside my room to ask if I want to go out for lunch.
I take us to where they make my favorite roasted chicken.
Because it’s rush hour, parking is next to impossible.
When we reach the doors, a young woman tells me there are no tables available.
And then she sees Mamá standing behind me and a table is magically offered to us.
We’re in the restaurant for an hour. I snap no less than forty pictures of my mother with various types of people as our chicken grows cold on our plates.
I do it without complaining because my mind isn’t here.
I don’t know what song is playing in the background, or what my mother is saying to the couple of women standing next to us.
My mind is on my inbox and the notification for a new email I just got, waiting for me to give it the attention it deserves.
I’m afraid to do it here and have my face betray me.
After the last picture is taken, Mamá announces she has to go to the bathroom and I take her absence as my chance to check my email without making her feel her company wasn’t enough to entertain me.
Hunched over my phone, I read the email, muttering to myself, skimming through the initial hello in search for any crumb of hope I could cling to.
“…thank you for your interest…impressive…excited…” I stop. My spine straightens. “Could you come in tomorrow?” I read the words over and over, just to make sure I’m reading them correctly.
I type a quick response confirming I can meet with them tomorrow.
I need to put together a plan, a vision, the way I did every week at Ellas.
If my mother’s call was any indication, they are desperate to find someone.
And the truth is, they need to hire someone sooner rather than later. Hopefully, that someone will be me.