by Roya Carmen
“I’m still doing this,” I tell her. “I don’t care if I’m late.”
I type furiously, my fingers still not moving fast enough. As soon as I’m done, I print a draft of my email and résumé and dash downstairs. Amber reads everything diligently and makes a few edits and suggestions. She wishes me luck as I sprint back upstairs.
I need this job application to be absolutely perfect.
August
I am utterly exhausted. I am spent… completely worn-out.
I’ve seen numerous job applications, been inundated with résumés, and fielded applicants. So many people are looking for work these days, and so few positions are up for grabs. I completely understand the allure of a position such as the one I’m offering – something creative and different, well-compensated. But hiring has been a tiring process. Over a hundred applications…
I don’t like any of them.
I’ll be the first to admit I’m a fastidious man. Millie calls me fussy, or a fuddy-duddy, which I don’t quite understand, but I’m sure it means something along the lines of particular, demanding, or finicky. I demand perfection. Why settle for anything less? I’m conducting my search for a new assistant with the same exacting standards I’ve always upheld.
First off, I’m appalled by the lack of respect for basic grammar. At the risk of sounding like a stickler, “lol” does not belong on a job application. “There” and “their” have their own distinctive uses; they are not interchangeable. A novelist can’t very well hire an assistant who lacks basic grammar skills.
I weed out approximately sixty percent of the candidates on presentation and grammar alone. The young woman who thought funny GIFs would be appreciated – dismissed. The young man who linked to his rap video – dismissed. The quirky young lady who included cartoons, although very well executed – dismissed. I suppose I made my own bed when I specified I was looking for someone creative.
I don’t mean to be exacting, but creativity, excellence, and professionalism are what I expect. Some would say that a creative person is rarely a perfectionist, for at the core of art is chaos and disorder, but I disagree. In my opinion, creativity and perfectionism are not mutually exclusive. Perhaps I’m searching for the Holy Grail.
I also seek out candidates with a large media presence. If they don’t have one, they’re instantly dismissed. To my dismay, amongst those who do, I find a few unpleasant surprises. Young people today don’t realize that prospective employers can and will study their social media profiles and might not appreciate the humour of their shenanigans, be they navel tequila shots, bad karaoke renditions, or ill-advised inebriated Facebook video posts. I know it’s all in fun and my opinions make me seem much older than my thirty-six years, but the thought of having to spend day upon day with one of these degenerates does not elicit any kind of excitement in me.
If I could offer a few words of advice to millennials, it would be this – have some class.
My eyes are burning. I cannot do this anymore. A nice afternoon coffee might be in order. “I swear, these kids today.”
“I swear, these kids today,” Miko sings.
I turn in his direction and shoot him a wide smile. “Exactly.” I chuckle as I scratch the scalloped feathers of his soft neck. “These kids these days are unbelievable.”
He inches closer, claws grasping his perch, and rubs his body against the bars of his cage, wanting more.
“And I don’t mean that in a good way.”
He chirps; this particular sound is a happy one. He’s having a good day. He’s pleased with me. When he’s upset with me, he lets me know. He’s a drama king of sorts. Regrettably, I haven’t had the chance to give him the attention he expects, and as a result, I’ve been in the dog house ever since. Last week, I was in the zone. Words rolled off the tips of my fingers so quickly I literally could not type fast enough. When I get like that, I have no time for anything, for anyone. I must ride the wave. I wrote forty-five thousand words in one week. But today Miko’s happy, so I’m happy. Despite the fact that I’m exhausted, it’s a good day.
“Two candidates,” I grumble. “That’s all I’m left with. Can you believe it?”
He cocks his head. “Can you believe it?”
Just as the words escape his beak, my tablet buzzes. A new incoming email. That’s not an unusual occurrence. I receive dozens of emails a day, but for some reason, I’m drawn to this one. I’m greeted by a pleasant greeting, free of typos.
Dear Mr. Hyde,
Earth and sky. Mother and child. Yin and yang. Reader and novelist. One cannot be without the other.
I am writing in response to your job posting for Novelist P.A. listed on Workopolis. Above all else, I believe the ideal candidate is a reader. I’ve been an avid reader all my life. I love the written word in all its incarnations, be it a romance novel, suspense, or a children’s book. I first fell in love with reading when my mother bought me a Beatrix Potter book. I was absolutely mesmerized by the illustrations and the poetry of the writing.
I am a graduate of Ontario College of Arts & Design and also have a Master’s of Design from OCAD. I’ve held numerous jobs working as a graphic designer, an administrative assistant, and a marketing assistant. I am extremely knowledgeable in all aspects of social media, including Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Goodreads, and Instagram. As an avid reader, I also have a good grasp of the English language and the romance genre. I am full of energy and eager to learn.
I apologize for the delay of my application. Unfortunately, I just stumbled across your posting today. Attached are my résumé and my social media links. I look forward to meeting you at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Ruby Riverstone
This email grabs me in so many ways. It intrigues me, captivates me. First off, there are no typos at first glance. Secondly, the introduction is original and engaging. Thirdly, the bit about Beatrix Potter tugs at my heart; it brings back memories of my own childhood, my mother and I crouched over a collection of Beatrix Potter stories.
In addition, the education and qualifications listed in the short introduction are up to my standards.
And lastly, that name… I’m familiar with it. Riverstone Farm and Estate sits right across the road. I wonder if there is any relation. I highly doubt it.
Despite the fact that she’s late in applying and I swore I would make absolutely no exceptions for latecomers, I soften. I melt like butter.
The résumé is flawless and confirms what is indicated in her original message. I’m tempted to check out her social media links, but I simply don’t have the energy to do so. At this point, I honestly don’t care if she enjoys wild parties or tokes up in her free time. She’s a shoo-in.
“I think I’ve found the one, Miko.”
I eagerly type a reply.
Dear Ms. Riverstone,
I have reviewed your application for the position of Novelist P.A. posted on Workopolis. It would be my pleasure to meet with you. Please call me at your earliest convenience, and we can discuss the details.
Best,
August Hyde
I suck in a long breath as I leave my contact info, hoping she’s everything I’m looking for.
Ruby
Slack-jawed, I stare at my iPad. The red lollipop in my mouth hangs off my bottom lip. I cannot believe I’ve received a reply so quickly. And he wants to see me for an interview. I can’t believe my luck.
I jump to my feet, and Ginger startles again. I bounce up and down like a five-year-old as Ginger studies me with wide eyes. She probably thinks I’ve gone bonkers.
Next I hop over to my closet and grab my mother’s vintage tweed suit. It’s a gorgeous 1960s Chanel, bubble-gum pink with large black buttons – worth a small fortune. I slip into the skirt, excited as a girl on the first day of school. As I button up the blazer, my trembling fingers can’t quite work the large buttons. I can’t believe he wants to see me. I slip on my black Mary Janes with the chunky three-inch heels. Perfec
t.
As I stare at my reflection in the wall-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door, I’m almost brought to tears. I look so much like my mother – the same hair, the same face, the same curves. Amber always says I inherited her beauty, but I don’t know about that. I study our mother’s picture sitting on my shelf. She was so much more beautiful than me.
Although I have to admit that I do look pretty smart in her suit. I’m pretty lucky – since I’m exactly her size, I inherited her whole wardrobe. Amber was left with jewellery, hair clips, and the like. I smirk as I study myself. Amber might have inherited our dad’s gorgeous red hair, but I got Mom’s hourglass figure.
“Yep, this is the one,” I tell Ginger. This is the perfect outfit for my interview. I’m so excited I can barely think straight. “I’m kind of bummed I don’t wear glasses – they would add the perfect final touch.”
“Ruby,” Amber clangs her dinner bell.
I check my watch. Yep, it’s dinnertime. I walk as fast as my heels allow to the kitchen, cursing all the stairs I need to go down.
I twirl as I make my grand entrance. “What do you think?”
Trevor and Amber both gawk.
“Wow, you look amazing,” Amber says, basket of bread in hand. “What’s the big occasion?”
“You look pretty,” Trevor chimes in.
I tousle his hair, beaming. “Why, thank you. I was just trying my outfit for my interview.”
Amber’s eyes grow wide. “They already contacted you? That PA job? The one you just applied for? When is your interview?”
I laugh. “Settle down. Take a breath.”
She breathes for a second, a huge smile stretched across her face. “I’m just so happy for you.”
“I just got an email,” I say as I help her dish out the lasagne.
“And they want to see you right this minute?” she asks, flabbergasted.
I shake my head, laughing. “Oh no, I was just trying out my outfit. What do you think?”
“It’s perfect. But you might want to take it off before you get sauce all over it.”
“Thank you. Thank you for reviewing and proofreading my résumé.”
“My pleasure,” she says, and I see it in her eyes – the precious relationship we share. It’s the same look I used to see in our parents’ eyes when they would look at us. I still see it in Amber’s.
“Where’s Aiden?” I ask.
“He should be here anytime. Probably running late again.”
“I’ll be right back,” I tell them. “I just need to go change.”
I think I might actually hyperventilate as I pick up my mobile and make the dreaded call. I’ve paced and planned all night, anticipating this moment and the upcoming interview. I cannot mess this up.
The voice at the other end of line is deep, measured, and slow. “August Hyde.”
My heart picks up speed. The sound of his voice. And that name… I’ve heard that name before. I’m momentarily thrown off and left speechless.
“Hello?” he says, the word laced with irritation.
Oh my goodness. I haven’t uttered a single word, and I’ve already managed to annoy him. “Uh… my apologies, this is Ruby – Ruby Riverstone – calling about the position for PA, the position advertised on Workopolis…” Stop talking. I finally breathe, waiting for his reply.
“Oh, yes, Ruby. I’ve been expecting your call. I’d very much like to meet with you at your convenience.”
“Yes… tomorrow?” I say before I can help myself. Too eager? I don’t want to sound too desperate. Do the laws of dating apply to job searches too? “Uh, or next week, possibly,” I add, attempting to sound blasé. I’m a smart, fierce woman in high demand – hear me roar. I wish…
“Tomorrow sounds great. Afternoons are better for me since I write in the mornings,” he says. “Is that convenient for you?”
“Is that convenient for you?” someone echoes in the background. It sounds like a little old man.
“Yes, that’s fine. My calendar is open tomorrow.” My calendar, my ass. I don’t have a calendar. All I have going on tomorrow is yoga class at ten o’clock.
“Two o’clock?”
“Two o’clock?” says the little old man.
I cock my brow, confused. “Yes, yes, two o’clock.”
“Perfect,” he says softly. “As you know, this is a position in a residential home. Do you have a pen and paper nearby?”
“Yes.” I scramble around my small desk. Hair clips and lipsticks go flying. Finally, I locate a scrap of paper and pencil. I ready myself to scribble the info onto the back of the tooth whitening flyer I picked up who knows where.
“Hyde Estate,” he says. “14320 Dufferin Street, King Township.”
My heart stops. My fingers freeze.
“I’m afraid it might be quite the hike for you. I’m located up north in the country, but it’s absolutely beautiful up here,” he carries on as I’m still reeling. “We’re surrounded by farmland.”
I know that name.
“Funny enough,” he says. “There’s an estate across the road called Riverstone Farm and Estate. Any relation?”
I know who this man is.
“Any relation?” he asks again.
I was asked the question not only once but twice. Yet, I cannot manage to answer.
“Hello?” he says softly.
“Uh, I apologize,” I finally say. “Yes, that’s my family.” And then I laugh. Nervous laughter pours out of me – I can’t help myself. “I guess… I guess I’m just across the road. Not a hike after all.”
I’m met with silence.
“Hello?” I say.
“What a small world.”
“What a small world,” the funny background voice repeats.
“Yes.”
“I apologize. I need to go,” he says. “I will see you tomorrow at two?”
“Yes. Looking forward to it.”
“Yes. Me too. Good-bye.”
And with those words, I’m left baffled. The scene almost feels like a dream, and I actually pinch myself. I pinch myself twice. Yep, this is real.
I dash downstairs to find Amber, and I find her and Trevor playing a game of checkers in the living room.
“You’ll never believe this, Amb,” I practically squeal. I’m breathless when I sit next to her on the sofa.
“What?” she asks eagerly.
“The job I applied for? The job for the PA? Guess who it’s for.”
She throws up her hands, mouth hanging open. “No clue.”
Trevor is curious too. His big eyes are fixed on me. Even Ginger is staring.
“August Hyde. The guy across the street.” I tell her. “The mysterious freak might be my new boss.”
I love the look on her face – pure shock.
“Oh no… hell no! You can’t work for him.” She abandons her game of checkers and settles into her mothering role. “You can’t work for some strange man all alone in his house.”
Part of me agrees with her. I’ve heard all the speculation and gossip about him, but there’s no way I’m not going to the interview. I love the mystery, the thrill of the unknown. I’ve wondered about the mysterious Mr. Hyde across the street, so I want to go there more than ever.
She shakes her head. She knows me well. “You’re going, aren’t you?”
“C’mon, Amb, what do you think is going to happen?”
“What did he sound like?” she asks.
“He sounded nice. But there was this weird old man in the background repeating everything he was saying.”
She cocks her head. “Weird.”
“I know.”
“Who are you talking about?” Trevor pipes in, apparently confused.
I smile at him. “I have an interview for a really cool job across the street, and your mother won’t let me go.”
Trevor’s cute red brows knit together. “Let her go. Why can’t she go?”
Amber squares her shoulders. “What time is your inter
view?”
“Two o’clock tomorrow.”
“I want to go with you.”
“You can’t go with me,” I scoff. “What do I look like – a second grader?”
“Then I want you to call me fifteen minutes into the interview.”
I shake my head, having had just about enough of my paranoid big sister. “I can’t do that. I’ll be in an interview.”
“Just make an excuse,” she suggests. “Tell him you have a sister in the hospital or something.”
“I can’t do that,” I scoff, trying to knock some sense into her. “‘Excuse me. I have an important call to make… this interview means nothing to me…’”
“I’ll call you then?” she suggests with a sweet smile. “Just to make sure you’re not locked up and bound in the cellar and all.”
I shoot her a tight smile. “I’ll call you as soon as the interview is over… you and your crazy thoughts.”
Then for a split second, I picture myself bound and gagged in a dark basement, and my heart skips a beat.
August
It’s only eleven o’clock, and I’m already at my rope’s end. I’ve narrowed my choices to three candidates, and it’s imperative that I hire one of them. I have no more time to invest in the hiring process. The next book in my series is due to be published shortly, and time is of the essence.
Rachel is perfect on paper. She’s one of the first candidates I vetted. She’s well educated and her résumé is professional.
She almost blinds me as she flashes a perfect ultra-white smile. She then proceeds to shake my hand a little too enthusiastically. “Hello, Mr. Hyde,” she squeals. “I’m so happy to meet you.”
Her high, shrill voice grates my nerves instantly. Even Miko is flustered; his feathers are literally ruffled. I know after only a minute that I cannot spend my days with her.
I am swift with my interview. Almost as if she senses my hesitation, she turns on the charm. She waxes poetic about my books, compliments my office, my sweater, and my bird. She tilts her head to the side, her long blond hair flowing over a single shoulder. Her prominent breasts jut out and are impossible to ignore. I presume they are cosmetically enhanced.