Auctioned to Him

by Charlotte Byrd

  “You’re home! You’re home!” she runs up to me and wraps her arms around my neck.

  Maggie Mae has always been there for me. She has been with me throughout my mom’s sickness and death, and she has been there for me afterward – when I wasn’t the nicest person to be around.

  “So? How was it? I’m ordering pizza, and you’re going to tell me everything!” Maggie Mae screams from the kitchen even though our walls are paper-thin.

  Maggie Mae and I have a wonderful afternoon at home. I tell her about the trees, the earth, the trails, and the lake. I tell her that it was the most beautiful place that I’ve ever been and that it really helped me put myself and my place in the world in perspective.

  She listens and nods along. Maggie Mae is not an outdoorsy girl, but she’s a really good friend, and that means that she supports me in doing things that are good for me.

  Of course, I save the best for last.

  Tristan.

  “I’m so happy you had a good time,” she says, tossing her long blonde hair from one shoulder to the next. Her hair is always shiny and beautiful, and if she weren't such a nice and kind girl, I would hate her for it.

  “And, in the end…” I take a deep breath. I have to tell her about Tristan. She loves men, and she loves hearing stories about men. And she would really appreciate this one.

  “And in the end, I met someone.”

  “You met someone!?” Her eyes open wide, and she leans in closer to me.

  She smells of figs and apricots, the argon oil sugar scrub that we had picked out together, the one civilized thing that I missed while I was away.

  “Don’t get too excited, I’m not seeing him again,” I warn her. “But it was really an amazing night.”

  Maggie Mae’s eyes light up, and she yelps and hugs me tight. “Tell me everything!”

  Later that night, Maggie Mae goes to her job at Brucci’s, one of the most expensive and fabulous restaurants in LA. It’s located in the hip area of Melrose Avenue, and you have to have a big name or big pockets to get a table there. The rest of us mere mortals have to wait for months for a reservation.

  Maggie Mae is a waitress there, and it was the hardest audition that she had ever had. She faced a panel of five judges who asked her a million different questions about her life, thoughts, opinions covering a variety of topics, including politics and religion. It was a casting director who had put her name through to Brucci’s Human Capitol staff, and the same casting director had prepped her for the interviews.

  “You have to be knowledgeable about what was going on in the world, but tactful. You had to have an opinion, but not a particularly offensive one. Honestly, it was like the most advanced and difficult improv class that I had ever participated in,” she had told me.

  But now, it was all worth it. She had passed the 90-day period where she could be fired without cause and became a full-time employee. Being a full-time employee at Brucci’s meant a lot. It meant a salary of more money than a nurse at a hospital with five years of experience. Plus tips.

  “I can’t ever quit this job, Annabelle,” she had told me. “Even if I ever quit acting and going to auditions, this is still the best job that I could ever get.”

  I am really happy for her. After years of struggling and barely making ends meet, she is now making as much money being a waitress as someone with twice her education and experience.

  And it’s this money, and her generosity, that pretty much help me to continue to exist.

  Unfortunately, my financial situation is completely different. I have little to no money to speak of and no prospects of any money on the horizon. I graduated from the University of Southern California with a 3.7-grade-point-average, but I couldn’t find a job after graduation. I didn’t have any internships, and I didn’t really know what I wanted to do with my life. I like writing, but I don’t know of anyone who actually makes a living writing except journalists. And current events aren’t my thing.

  I owe over a hundred thousand dollars in loans, and the first payments had to be made six months after graduation. After months of searching for full-time positions at a variety of companies, I finally landed a full-time, temporary freelance position. This position basically involved me going around to different companies and filling in when people took vacations or maternity leave.

  As a full-time temp, all my job titles were different even though I did the same thing. Personal assistant, administrative assistant, assistant to the executive assistant. Basically, I answered the phone and replied to emails.

  Maggie Mae didn’t know why I’d bothered. “Just come and get a bartending or waitressing gig just like me,” she had said on numerous occasions. “The tips pay way more than you make at that dumb white collar job.”

  At first, I had resisted. I thought I was better than serving people food and drinks. But after nine months of working for minimum wage at a job that required a suit to work, I gave up. It was then that I also got fired from the temp agency. Not fired but let go. Apparently there were way too many college grads seeking work and companies preferred people with more experience.

  By that time, I was ready for a waitressing job. Maggie Mae was already working at Brucci’s, and there was no way in hell that I was going to pass their grueling entry interviews.

  This all happened about a month ago, and if it weren’t for Maggie Mae, I wouldn’t have a roof over my head. She’s patient with me for not being able to pay rent, and she’s patient when I say I can’t find work.

  In fact, it was her idea that I go camping at all. She’s not into it, but I love it, and she worked hard to convince me that I could go on that trip even though I had approximately $200 in my bank account and no job.

  “You need to clear your head, Annabelle,” she had insisted. “After everything you’ve been through with your mom, this will be really good for you.”

  She was right. The trip had cleared my head. What it didn’t do was improve my financial situation. I am two months behind on rent, and I’m borrowing more money to pay for food and utilities. My credit cards are maxed out, and I’m months late on making my student loan payments.

  The week after I get back passes slowly. I worry about money and search job sites for possible options. I work on my resume and update my cover letter. I send them out to every single place available, but it will be weeks before I hear back - if I even hear back.

  Basically, I worry. I worry about what I will do when (not if) Maggie Mae gets sick of me.

  What will I do if Maggie Mae ever decides to move out of this dingy building with window air conditioners and cockroaches? She can afford a lot more. Yes, I kill all the cockroaches for her while she jumps on the couch and screams in a high pitched little-girl voice, but she can also afford to move out of this dump altogether. I can’t.

  What if she gets tired of walking past homeless people and drug addicts every day and decides to move to a better part of town?

  What if she meets someone and decides to move in with him?

  What will I do then? I can’t even pay my own share of the rent, all $800, let alone afford a studio apartment of my own, which usually runs into the $1200s.

  If not for Maggie Mae, I would be out on the street. Homeless. Surfing friends’ couches, if I were lucky. Fighting for a spot in a shelter, if I were unlucky.

  I desperately need a job.

  6

  No one writes me back. The week I got back, I sent out twenty resumes, cover letters, and numerous letters of interest, but not one company writes back. I’m starting to panic.

  And then I receive a call.

  My cell phone rings at nine in the morning, and the number is marked private. I usually don’t answer private or unknown numbers. Typically they are debt collectors calling about late payments. But I do today. What if it’s a recruiter? A human resources person? How lucky would I be?

  “May I speak to Ms. York?” a smooth voice asks.

  “Yes, this is me,” I say and immediately kick m
yself for not sounding more professional. Less casual. Would it kill you to say, yes, this is Ms. York? Dammit!

  “My name is Margaret Black, and I’m calling to set up an interview with you at Wild International. I’m looking at your resume, and you seem like a good fit.”

  “Oh yes, of course. That sounds perfect,” I say.

  Wild International? What the heck is Wild International?

  “Are you available later on today? We have a lot of people interviewing, and the spot will go fast.”

  “Yes, I am. Of course. What time?” I ask quickly. This is the first person who has called me in months. I’m not going to pass this up.

  “How about noon?”

  I look at my phone. Three hours is not enough time to get ready – mentally and physically – but I don’t have a choice.

  “Noon is perfect.”

  Ms. Greaves gives me the address of the building and tells me to arrive fifteen minutes ahead of time to take care of some paperwork.

  I hang up the phone in a daze. Did this really just happen? Do I really have an interview?! I can’t believe it. Also, for the life of me, I can’t remember ever applying to any Wild International. Something about that company sounds familiar, but I don’t know what.

  I pour myself a bowl of cereal and sit down on the couch with my laptop. According to their website, Wild International is a global pharmaceutical company that does drug testing and clinical trials on a variety of different drugs to treat a variety of different diseases. Biology was never my strong suit, but from what I gather, they develop and test drugs on cancer, tumors, and other kinds of diseases.

  Now that I know what they do, I try to find what position I actually applied for.

  I search my inbox for a confirmation email but find nothing.

  I then search my documents folder where I label each resume and cover letter that I send out to keep track of all of my applications. I had read online that resumes and cover letters should be tailored to each position to show the prospective employers that you’re interested in them and them alone. So I copy and paste my generic resume and cover letter and alter them with the name of each company and position that I apply to.

  I search the documents folder visually and find no trace of Wild International. Then I search it again using the ‘find’ button, but still nothing!

  How can this be? How did they invite me to an interview without an application? Did they think I was someone else?

  No, they couldn’t have. My mind continues to race as I start to get ready. I take a shower and lay out my outfit – a black pencil skirt, a pink polka dot blouse, and black heels.

  No, they couldn’t have thought that I was someone else. Ms. Greaves called me by name. Or did she? She did just say Ms. York, not Ms. Annabelle York. But if she wasn’t calling me, how did she get my number?

  By eleven, I’m ready. My makeup is demure and professional, but feminine. The high-waisted skirt makes it hard for me to breathe, but it does make me stand up straight and prevents me from slouching. The blouse is frilly and something that a hot secretary would wear in a movie. The stilettoes pinch my toes and send shooting pain up my heels into my hips. I haven’t worn heels in months, and I’m not adjusting well. But I’m ready.

  In the car, I put the address into Google Maps and turn up the speaker on my phone. The place isn’t very far away. About a ten minute drive. I’m sweating profusely, and my hands are ice-cold and shaking. I turn down the radio and try to focus.

  Wild International is right in the heart of downtown LA. That means that there’s no street parking, and I have to bite the bullet and pay $20 for parking in their parking garage. That was half of my food budget for the week. Maybe they validate. Either way, this interview had better be worth it!

  On the first floor, I hand the security guard my ID and wait for him to call upstairs to confirm my appointment. When I pick up a magazine, my hand is so sweaty and cold that it sticks to the cover. I decide against it, placing the magazine down once more.

  “Ms. York, you can go on up now,” the security guard announces. “Take the elevator all the way to the 67th floor. Take the elevator on the far right – it’s the only one that goes all the way up there.”

  The walls of the elevator are fabric. I don’t want to wipe my sweat off on my clothes, so I slide my hands against the wall behind me to get rid of some of the moisture.

  “Calm down, calm down, calm down,” I say to myself aloud. “You can do this.”

  On the 66th floor, I take a deep breath and only breathe out when the doors open to the 67th floor.

  The doors open to a large spacious lobby surrounded by windows. The entire space has not one wall. Clouds are hugging the windows, and a few specks of sunlight break through. The lack of sunlight is the least unusual thing about this Los Angeles day.

  “Ms. York, I’m glad you made it,” a familiar voice says. It’s Ms. Greaves. She is a middle-aged woman who looks a lot like Kathy Bates. She also puts off a no-nonsense vibe that makes me feel comfortable.

  “I’m going to be the one conducting the interview,” Ms. Greaves says. I can feel my shoulders relax. Even though she comes off a bit confrontational, she’s also straightforward, and I appreciate that.

  “Follow me, please.” Ms. Greaves leads me into a large ballroom with floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides. The ballroom is empty except for one small circular table and two chairs. She sits down and opens my file. I follow her lead.

  “Well, first of all, I would like to know why you applied to work here?” she questions, looking straight at me. I know that I should keep her gaze, but I can’t help but look away. I have no good reason for applying here since I never did, but I can’t blow this question.

  “Well, I’ve always admired Wild International and all the good that they’re doing all over the world. I want to be part of something like that. I want to work for a place that makes a difference.”

  Where did those words come from? I have no idea.

  “Excellent, okay then.” Ms. Greaves nods. I try reading her, but I can’t tell if she’s one of those people who say excellent all the time, the way that others say ‘okay’, or if she really is impressed with my insane answer. The one thing I know for sure is that I am certainly impressed with myself. Thinking on my feet is not one of my strong suits.

  7

  Ms. Greaves asks a few more general questions about my experience with working as an assistant and receptionist and what I did in my previous positions at the temp agency. Answering those, I relax a bit. My hands stop shaking, and my voice grows stronger and more confident.

  And then she asks, “How do you see yourself making a difference in this position?”

  My mind goes completely blank. I have no idea. I’m not even sure what the position is, let alone how I am going to make a difference in it. So I just open my mouth and let whatever is going to come out, spill out.

  “Well, I’m a very prompt and diligent and hard-working professional, and I will bring those same exact skills and attributes to this position. I will make a difference by being the best possible person for this position, and I will give my best in all situations.”

  The answer isn’t great, but it’s not crap either. Ms. Greaves smiles. I hope that she thinks that I referred to the job as ‘the position’ instead of its actual job title because I’m professional – not because I have no idea what position I’m interviewing for.

  “Well, Ms. York,” Ms. Greaves says, closing a thick manila folder with my name on it. “I think you will be an excellent fit for this position.”

  I nearly lose my ability to breathe. “You do? Really? Thank you. I really, really appreciate it!”

  “You’re quite an impressive young woman,” she continues. “Your file checks out well, and the thing that I was particularly impressed with was your ability to think on your feet.”

  “Oh really?” I nod. I can’t stop smiling.

  “Yes, especially since you came here without having the
faintest idea what position you were interviewing for and had never even sent in an application.”

  My mouth drops open. She knew! How did she know?!

  “Oh don’t worry, Ms. York. It’s okay. You have been pre-selected, and now that I’ve interviewed you, you have been approved for the position.”

  “Pre-selected? How? Why?” I mutter.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. We can’t discuss those details. What I can do is give you this packet with all the information for you to look over, and you can let me know if you’re still interested.”

  I nod and take the packet.

  “Please let me know by the end of the day. An email is fine,” she says. “If you’re interested, you start tomorrow morning.”

  I nod and say good-bye.

  I open the packet at home, sitting at the dining room table and holding my breath. The contract is long and tedious, covering everything imaginable. It’s close to seven pages in length and of a very small font. I skim it looking for the only thing that matters: the salary.

  Finally, in the last paragraph on the last page, I see it.

  * * *

  $4000 per month!

  Four fucking grand!

  * * *

  I can’t believe it. I never imagined making that much money. I pour myself a glass of wine and read the contract more carefully.

  I’m going to be a receptionist, a personal/executive assistant. My duties include answering phones, replying to emails, and miscellaneous other duties including picking up groceries and dropping off packages.

  The next two weeks will be my trial period, and if that goes well, then I will get full-time pay: an additional $1000 per month, plus benefits.

  Benefits. No other company I have worked with has ever offered benefits, and I’m constantly afraid of going to the doctor when I get sick out of fear of the medical bills that I’d incur. This place is amazing!