“And what about you?” the reporter asked, turning her attention to me. “What brings you to the job fair?”
“My mom,” I said, rolling my eyes. “She saw the ad in the Times and suggested I come. Parents, you know?” I began to laugh and waited for the two of them to join in.
The reporter stared, then thanked the Yale grad and disappeared into the crowd. The Yale grad turned away, too. Nervously, I worked to straighten the seams on my stockings. What had I been thinking when I put this on?
When my turn came fifteen minutes later, I removed my kidskin glove and gave the HR rep a firm hand. “Etiquette guides don’t require women to remove their gloves prior to shaking hands, but if women and men are to share the workplace, I believe they should be held to the same standards. I’m Iris.”
A pale, bespectacled boy a few years my senior, looked back. “How modern.”
He rattled off a list of stock questions, which I answered the same I would any man asking to buy me a drink. The key is not to appear too interested, while not suggesting complete indifference either. I flashed him a look that said, We both know what you want, a look that said, No, I’m not that kind of girl—how dare you!—but I’d be happy to exchange a little witty banter while I down the whiskey you’ve so generously provided.
He looked down at my résumé. “Wow, you interned at The New Yorker. Did you apply there?”
“Nope.”
He looked up.
I gave the line a tug.
“I just felt like, ‘been there, done that,’ you know? Also, I dated a few guys in the office so it would’ve been awkward.”
He adjusted his glasses.
“This is actually my first interview,” I added, and flashed a reassuring smile. I could tell he was nervous.
“What have you been doing since graduation?”
“I was in Greece. My mom is Greek and I have family there so I go every summer. I stayed longer this year though, figuring I probably wouldn’t be able to get away much once I get a job. What did you do for the summer?”
“I worked.”
“Cool. Where at?”
“Maxim,” he said, looking down. “It says you went to NYU.”
“Yes, I started out studying Acting at The Tisch School of the Arts, but then in my junior year decided I wanted something more practical, so I transferred to the Gallatin School for Individualized Study and designed an interdisciplinary concentration in Literature and Philosophy. Also, I write poetry. Mostly free verse.” I guided him to that line on my résumé and to the three directly below it: “make my own paper,” “Reiki massage,” “fourteen years tap dancing.”
“Wow.”
“I also play the saxophone, but had to cut a few things in order to keep my résumé under three pages.” I directed him to the list of plays from which I’d performed scenes and monologues while still at Tisch.
“Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom,” he read aloud. “What’s ‘Alexander Technique?’”
“Theory of standing.”
“Sense Memory, Voice . . .” he went on, reading the names of NYU’s most competitive, invitation-only drama workshops, classes I’d had to audition for, classes that cost my parents upwards of twenty thousand dollars a year, classes that suddenly sounded preposterous. “Advanced Movement, Speech. . . .” Apparently, in order to master the basic skills most humans pick up during infancy—walking and talking—I had had to undergo elaborate and expensive training while at college. I blushed.
“Do you type?”
“Not well,” I said, trying to smile. I had lied before, but in this context where a little white lying was expected, my desire always to defy expectations prevented me.
“Do you know Excel?”
“No.”
“Could you learn?”
“Probably not. I find it very difficult to learn things I don’t already know.” Then, remembering the advice that I try to sell myself, I added, “But I’m sure I’d pick it up eventually.”
At last he lowered my résumé. “So, tell me. Why do you think we should hire you?”
Here was the big question. The one I’d worried about the whole walk over. I summoned all of what remained of my confidence and did my best to answer without crying.
“You shouldn’t,” I said. Perhaps he might hire me for my refreshing honesty? I laughed faintly, then added, “Just kidding,” and gave him jazz hands.
“Fair enough. So why do you want to work for Maxim?”
I played it cool. “I just went to the booth with the shortest line.”
“Is there anything you like about the magazine?”
“Couldn’t say as I’ve never read it. To be honest I don’t really read magazines. They’re expensive, and for the same price I’d much rather read a classic like Madame Bovary.”
“Yes, that’s a good book,” he answered politely. “Given your interests, Iris, I’m wondering why you want to work at a magazine at all.”
“That’s a good question . . .” I heard myself say, for at some point during the conversation, I’d lost control of the vehicle. It was like the way survivors of car crashes describe the moments leading up to impact. Everything slows down, your senses become keen, and while you are completely aware of the impending collision, you are also unable to stop it. “. . . I suppose I feel about working the way Thomas Paine felt about government, ‘at its best, being but a necessary evil; at its worst, an intolerable one.’” I paused. “A magazine job just seemed like the least bad. I’m actually working on a novel right now. That’s my main thing. Also, I draw cartoons. Does Maxim publish cartoons?”
He thanked me for coming and moved to file my résumé. Then he invited me to arm-wrestle The Maxim Man. “That’s our little gimmick for the fair,” he said smiling, and motioned to a small card table set up just next to his booth, behind which stood a man, six-foot-two, covered in red and blue lycra.
2
The Maxim Man’s superhero costume stretched over his whole face and body, so I couldn’t actually see him, though I was able to make out the contour of his nose and cast of his eyes. He held out his hand. I raised mine to say, “I’ll pass,” but he grabbed it firmly and wouldn’t let go. “Okay, okay,” I sighed and, like a good sport, planted my elbow on the table.
There, dressed like a 1939 career-gal and struggling arm-to-arm with a superhero, I reviewed the details of my disastrous interview, consoling myself that at least no one I knew had witnessed it. Forget it, Iris! I told myself, blinking back tears and gazing up into the shady hollows behind The Maxim Man’s lycra-covered eyes. I was looking directly into them, wondering what I was going to do with my life, now that it had officially started, when it hit me: The Maxim Man was Donald.
Donald, the boy I had loved all through college. Donald—my Beatrice!—about whom I’d written so many of my free-verse poems. Donald, whom I still always hoped I’d run into somewhere—he’d see