Now for the Disappointing Part

by Steven Barker

  She pulled up to my apartment and stopped me as I reached for the handle. “Kiss on it,” she said. I leaned over and, as our lips touched, I wondered if I should have said more. I think I could have stopped everything had I just fought a little and made a few promises to change. For the final month of our relationship, I felt like we were always just a conversation and a few lifestyle changes away from spending the rest of our lives together. But that conversation never happened. Instead, I woke the next morning hungover, single, unemployed, and thirty-four years old.

  When I received an immediate response to an ad I replied to on Craigslist I half expected it to be an invitation to sign up for a job recruiting website, or a promise to make millions of dollars from the comfort of home. My luck in the job section was the same as it was in the w4m casual encounters section. Responses were rare, and the ones I did get were scams disguised as exciting opportunities—I’m a horny college girl with no gag reflex. Just sign up for my website so I know you’re real. Then we can meet.

  The job posting was for a Canadian creative writer, which motivated me to compose a new cover letter emphasizing my Canadianness and my experience writing creatively. I had a standard cover letter, which outlined my office skills and knowledge of basic programs, but it didn’t mention my heritage or the fact that my English degree came with an emphasis in creative writing. I had pulled that fact from my resume years earlier when a recruiter told me it hurt my chances of getting hired. She said managers associated creative people with daydreamers, and daydreamers aren’t productive.

  The response was legit and included a phone number for an agency I was already registered with, which meant my info was in their system. Recruiters loved me. My extensive resume proved I could be thrown into any job and work the contract to completion.

  “Great to speak with you, Steven. It looks like you’ve worked all over Seattle.”

  “I have,” I said while pacing my living room.

  “You’re Canadian?”

  “Yes, born in Vancouver, but grew up in Toronto.”

  “That is great. The Cortana editorial team is looking for a Canadian writer to manage the Canadian content.”

  I’d never heard the word Cortana before. It sounded like a Japanese toy. I imagined a Voltron-type robot, like the ones carefully displayed on IT guys’ desks.

  “Are you familiar with Cortana?” she asked.

  “I’m not.”

  “Cortana is the virtual assistant on Windows Phone. Think Siri, but for Windows.”

  “That sounds interesting.” I stopped pacing and looked up at the Viking helmet sitting on top of my bookshelf. Two years prior, Melissa and I had gone to a Halloween party in matching Viking costumes. I put the helmet on.

  “Do you have any writing samples that are Canadian?”

  I considered the question while looking at my shirtless reflection in the bathroom mirror. I’d yet to leave the house that day, so I was only wearing a pair of loose fitting shorts and a Viking helmet, which I twisted so the horns ran down the middle of my head.

  “Anything?” she said.

  “I have a personal essay about working in a call center where I mention being Canadian. It was published.”

  “Great. Send it over along with anything else that demonstrates your creative writing abilities.”

  Freelancing between temp jobs had allowed me to compile an eclectic portfolio. It included a hard news piece on heroin use in Capitol Hill, a blog post detailing how working from home can help you tackle your New Year’s resolution, a review of Joe Hill’s Heart-Shaped Box, and a top-ten list of the best music documentaries of the 2000s. My personal essays sat in a different folder on my hard drive, never to be considered samples for a corporate job.

  The following day I received a call from the agent telling me that the head of the Cortana editorial team liked my essay and wanted to bring me in for an interview.

  “Expect to be there for three hours,” she said. “Play up the fact that you’re Canadian and have a connection to the culture. They want someone who’s lived the Canadian experience.”

  I reached my hand out in front of me and smiled at the maple leaf tattooed on my inner forearm.

  “They’ve interviewed a bunch of Americans who spent time in Canada, but they want an actual Canadian. Also, they want someone who can be funny in the writer’s room, if there’s an opportunity for a joke, you should take it.”

  I was well-practiced in job interviews. I averaged ten a year and knew exactly what hiring managers wanted to hear. “I’m a quick learner who works great with others and on solo projects. I was never fired from any of the jobs on my three-page resume—they were all contracts I worked to completion. My hobbies include running and reading.” Rarely was I intimidated because I was never that invested in the job. I walked out of most interviews hoping I wouldn’t get an offer.

  This was different because it was for a creative writer position, a job I compared to the Sir Mix-a-Lot and PUSA collaboration album—I’d heard people say it existed, but I’d never seen any evidence.

  I called my dad the night before the interview.

  “You got this, son,” he said.

  “Not sure I have enough experience.”

  “What do you mean? You’re a Canadian creative writer. Has there ever been a job title you’re more perfect for? Go in confident.”

  “Yeah,” I said. He was right, but I wasn’t ready to pull myself out of my post-breakup depression. I was so engulfed in self-pity that I’d been wearing the same mesh shorts for three days and couldn’t recognize the stale-male bouquet wafting from the crotch. I spent my days reliving past mistakes while marathoning Trailer Park Boys.

  “Don’t let the breakup cause you to miss this opportunity,” my dad said. “You’ve kissed a lot of frogs. This job could be your prince.”

  “I’m not sure I’m what they’re looking for.”

  “Fake it. When we moved to Hong Kong, I was the age you are right now. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I acted confident and people responded to that. I know you can do this.”

  “I’ll let you know how it goes.” I hung up, then changed into my running clothes. I spent six miles fantasizing about what it would be like to answer the question “what do you do?” with “I’m a Canadian creative writer.”

  •

  My first interview was with Suzanne. She had thick, curly hair and nerd-chic glasses and had been a writer since the project’s inception. She was the main influence on Cortana’s personality.

  “Cortana is positive and her main objective is to help, but she doesn’t take any shit,” she said.

  I was caught off-guard by her informal language. The Doctor Who poster on her wall and Powell’s Books water bottle that quoted Jane Austen caused me to misjudge her as the type of person who’d only use PG language in an interview.

  “Chit-chat is where Cortana users go to play, but we shut down anyone who calls her a bitch or suggests anything sexual. We don’t want to encourage that type of behavior.”

  “Interesting.”

  “But that’s only a small part of the job. The rest is pretty fun. We write answers for things like Tell me a joke. What’s your favorite color? Or do you like Star Wars?”

  “Cool,” I said.

  “We need you to take some of the US content we’ve already written and sort of Canadianize it.”

  “I can do that. My Yankee friends are always pointing out my Canadian traits.”

  “What are some difference between Canada and the US?”

  “Well, uh, we call boxed macaroni and cheese Kraft dinner—KD for short. Our milk comes in bags.” I tried remembering all the Canadianisms kids used to call me out on in school. “We say ‘sorry’ a lot. The ingredients for Cheez Whiz are written in French and English on the jar.”

  “What about the humor? How would you say Canadian humor differs from American humor?”

  I’d never thought about it. I consumed equal amounts of American and Cana
dian comedy. Was there a difference? “Irony,” I said. “Or satire. We prefer to be the butt of the joke. A little self-deprecating.”

  “Do you think that has something to do with the cold?”

  “Oh, yeah. When you’re stuck inside four months a year, there’s not much else to do but laugh.”

  “Are you sensitive about people critiquing your work?”

  “I’ve got thick skin. I’ve spent a lot of time in ruthless writing workshops. Suggestions are mostly helpful.”

  “That’s good, because it can get a little intense sometimes.”

  “I can handle it,” I said, even though the thought of sharing my writing with a group of people I wasn’t comfortable with terrified me. Melissa had been the only person I allowed to read my work for the previous two years.

  For the remainder of the interview, I impressed her by pointing out every Saturday Night Live cast member who was Canadian.

  “I didn’t know Robin Duke was Canadian,” she said.

  “We know every celebrity who’s a Canuck,” I said as she walked me to the next interview.

  David was in charge of the editorial team and oversaw all things Cortana. His Levi jeans and prescription Ray-Ban glasses led me to believe he was much hipper than your average Microsoft higher-up. Sporting an overgrown buzz cut, he looked like the type of guy that might moonlight as the singer in a Descendents cover band.

  I sat down across from his desk and rolled up my sleeves, exposing my Canadian ink. A short shelf behind him displayed a collection of impressive-looking awards.

  “I read your essay about working in the call center.”

  “Oh, thanks.” I was caught off-guard. I had forgotten I was having this meeting based off that essay.

  “Poignant and funny, but I have to ask a question.”

  “Sure,” I said while shifting in my chair. I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees, then straightened up when I realized how unprofessional it looked.

  “There’s a line where you say that you coasted at your previous jobs. What did you mean by that?”

  This is why I don’t use personal essays as writing samples. Interview Steven can’t exist now! I’ve been exposed.

  “I realize we’re in an interview, so you’re not going to tell me you coast. I’m just curious what it meant.”

  “I’ve had a lot of jobs.” I paused and looked down at the carpet. “Some I liked more than others, but the ones that didn’t exercise my skills were the most challenging. When I say coast, I mean I did what I was asked to do, and not a whole lot more.”

  He smiled at me, which I hoped was a sign of appreciation for my honesty, but worried it meant thanks for coming in we’ll call you/not call you.

  “In positions where my skills as a writer were valued, I did more than coast. Doing a good job in my field means a lot to me, which is why I know I would be great at this job. Creative writing is one of my skills.”

  “We have a popular feature called ‘tell me a joke.’ It’s the one we update the most. Got any good jokes that meet our PG-13 rating?”

  My top-chambered joke that I’d been using since high school was When did Pinocchio realize he was made of wood? When he was fourteen and his hand caught on fire, which seemed outside the demographic. I struggled to remember just one of the thousands of jokes I’d heard in my life.

  “It’s okay if you can’t think of one.”

  “No, I’ve got one,” I said. Then it hit me. My favorite joke when I was six. “What do you call a bull when it’s sleeping?”

  “What?” he asked and grinned with anticipation.

  “A bulldozer.”

  His lips turned down, and he looked at his shoes. “We have a bad joke bucket too. Sometimes people say, ‘tell me a bad joke.’”

  “I’m sure I’ve got better ones. I just can’t think right now.”

  “I understand.”

  I was told not to expect to hear anything until the following week, but when my phone rang three hours later, I knew I had nailed it.

  “They’d like you to start in a week.”

  David showed me into the writers’ room and a woman at the far end of a long table looked up from her laptop.

  “I’m Sandy,” she said while taking off her glasses. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You too,” I said.

  “I’m Summer,” said the girl across from Sandy. She was thin and sat with her feet crossed in her chair. Her hair was pushed into a tiny faux-hawk, and her dangling earrings reminded me of the Star Trek insignia.

  The table faced a large screen and I took a seat at the opposite end. I hadn’t brought anything to write on, but pulled the pen from my shirt pocket and twirled it in my fingers.

  “I’m Don,” said a short-haired guy in a pelican-printed shirt. His laptop was plugged into an outlet in the middle of the table. “I drive these meetings. Every day I bring in a few queries, and we jam on them until we come up with something.”

  “Steven is the new Canadian writer,” Suzanne said.

  “Show them your tattoo,” David said.

  I raised my sleeve and held out my forearm, exposing the red maple leaf my dad had talked me into getting a few years prior. As the group curiously inspected the red ink, I observed them. Don’s printed shirt left a few buttons opened at the top, and even though it was too flashy for my style, I thought it was cool. Summer had an Ayron Jones and The Way T-shirt, and Sandy accessorized with an eyebrow ring. Based off appearances alone these people were different from everyone I’d ever worked with. They actually looked like people I’d want to spend time with outside of the office.

  “First up,” Don said, calling the meeting to order. “What is the meaning of life?”

  I twirled the pen in my hand as I listened to the group throw around ideas. Some were shot down immediately, like “To smell every flower,” while others got a good enough reaction from the team that Don typed it up.

  I couldn’t think of anything worthwhile to share. Usually, when asked that question I responded, “To eat things smaller than me and reproduce.” But that didn’t feel appropriate.

  “Forty-two!” Suzanne exclaimed and the whole room burst into laughter.

  “Love it,” David said. “Ship it!”

  Don marked the response with a red check.

  My nerves hadn’t allowed me to laugh as hard as the group, but I wanted to make sure they knew that I knew the reference.

  “Hitchhiker’s, right?” I said.

  “Right,” Suzanne said. “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is one of Cortana’s favorite books. I’ll send you a copy of her personality profile.”

  For the rest of the meeting I felt like that guy standing outside a circle of friends talking at a party. I wasn’t engaged in the conversation, but smiled and head-nodded along with the group. Despite my discomfort, it was the most entertaining meeting I’d ever been a part of. I laughed more in one hour than I had in a year’s worth of Amazon meetings combined.

  That afternoon I reviewed the style guide in my office. Between each section I stopped and look around. On my open door was a card that said STEVEN BARKER CONTENT PUBLISHING, slipped into a plastic display. It was the first job in my life that came with a door. I imagined the day I’d have to close it because I had an important assignment—one where I’d frantically scribble ideas on the wall, covering a whiteboard that hung above my desk in multiple colors of felt-tipped marker, until having an “Ah-ha” moment that solved some sort of pressing issue.

  Like a character sketch for a novel, Cortana had a detailed personality profile. She was described like a real person with feelings and a moral code. From her curiosity about the taste of waffles to her stance on gay marriage, it was clear the team had put a lot of thought into her background and were invested in creating a product with values and a positive attitude.

  When asked if she liked her job, Cortana replied, “I’ve got the greatest gig ever.”

  I was looking through my desk drawer and t
hrowing away the papers left behind by the previous temp when Sandy knocked on my door.

  “Hey, Steven,” Sandy said as she poked her head into my office.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “How’s it going so far?”

  “Getting settled.”

  “Take your time. It took me a while before I felt comfortable.” She entered my office and leaned against the wall. “I think we’re from the same agency.”

  “Are you a temp too?”

  “Yup. Everyone else is FTE. It’s just me and you.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “I’ve been on this job six months, but this is my fourth time contracting with Microsoft. I’ve been at Amazon too, but that place sucks.”

  It was comforting to know I wouldn’t be the only temp on the team. I knew that based off Sandy’s past experience, I’d be able to relate to her.

  “I’ve been at Amazon too. Worst place to temp.”

  “This job has been one of my best experiences. No one treats you like a contractor, and David is a great boss. You can tell him anything. Honestly, if there was an opportunity for this position to go longer than eighteen months, I’d take it.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “I’m going to get back to it, but I’m right next door. I know how stressful the first week can be. Come by if you have questions or need help setting up.” She pushed herself off the wall and smiled. “Glad you’re here.”

  My first assignment was to review the Canadian content and look for what David described as “areas to heighten the Canadianness.” I started with adding a lot of “u”s to words, which was unexpectedly satisfying. Even though I’d completed the majority of my education in the States, I still had to stop myself from writing “favourite” or “colour.”

  On my second pass I made Cortana’s favorite athlete Terry Fox. According to the style guide, Cortana only had a favorite when it related to her love of human achievement and had a positive impact on the world. I first thought of Wayne Gretzky, but even the Great One had some haters. There were still Edmontonians who never forgave him for moving to Los Angeles. Terry Fox was undeniable. The style guide also mentioned that Cortana didn’t cater to racists, homophobes, misogynists, or bigots. I figured anyone who didn’t like Terry Fox probably fit into one of those categories.