Monkey Business

by Sarah Mlynowski

  SPG: Then I’m a Venus flytrap. Because I can trap success wherever I go.

  Me: Much better! (She can trap me anytime she wants.)

  SPG: (Scowling.) I hate interviews.

  Me: You’ll be great.

  SPG: Thanks. Crap. It’s one-ten. I have to go.

  Me: Your interview isn’t until two. And it’s in the Katz building. You don’t want to sit there for forty minutes.

  SPG: You’re causing me unnecessary stress. I have to go. Crap. My shoes. I can’t wear these shoes outside. It’s snowing. My nylons will get soaked. I can’t show up at an interview with soaked nylons. I need to carry my shoes. But what will I do with my boots? I don’t want to bring my schoolbag. What do I do? (Her eyes look wild as if she’s about to get hysterical.)

  Charming gentleman: Milady, I would be honored to accompany you to the Katz building and then return here with your boots.

  Layla gasps, then joyfully hugs me. “Thank you!” she gushes. “You’re a godsend! Can we go right now?”

  I escort her first to her room to get her coat and boots, and then to the Katz building. She sits on a wooden bench in the main hall and reaches to remove her boots. I gently slap her hands. “Allow me, milady. I wouldn’t want you to go to your interview with soiled hands.” I unzip each boot slowly, relishing the moment.

  “Oh, wow, I love you,” she says, blows me a kiss and runs to the elevator. “Wish me luck!”

  Love you? I wish. “Good luck,” I say. I have no doubt she’ll get the job. I saw her first-semester transcript by her bed this morning. She had a 4.0. Who has a 4.0 in business school? I only got a 3.3. I wish I were in her group. Both so I can work with her, and so I can watch her work.

  I step outside and the snow lands directly on my bald spot, numbing my head. I forgot my hat. Again, why am I not in Miami?

  This week is interview week, which unfortunately cuts into winter break, but it’s not as if I have any interviews lined up. I just can’t bear to work for a bank or a consulting firm. They seem so soulless. I need to have a job I’m passionate about. I guess I can always go back to writing. But I think I prefer to be in a career that involves more companionship than a computer.

  So why am I here? Sunshine notwithstanding, I was bored in Miami. And I knew Layla would be back.

  I have it bad.

  “Excuse me,” sings a blond undergrad in a parka and hat. Ringing a bell, she says, “Can you spare some change for the Children’s Hospital? We’re trying to raise money for the new pediatric oncology department.”

  I get instantly depressed. Here I am whining about my future. There are people out there, children, who might not even have a future. I reach into my pockets. All I have is a five. “Here you go,” I say, placing the bill onto the tray. I wonder how the kids’ ward at Miami General is doing without me.

  As my bald spot continues to freeze, I have an epiphany, which I decide to share with Kimmy. Back at the Zoo, I knock on her door.

  “Hold on,” I hear from inside. The door clicks open, and she scampers back under the covers. As far as I can tell, it’s just her.

  “Kimmy, my sweet, welcome back! Lover-boy not here?”

  “No. He’s flying back today, I think. His first interview isn’t till tomorrow.”

  “When did you get back?”

  She sits up in bed. “Last week.”

  I lean against her desk. “So early?”

  “I had to apply for a loan.” She groans. “Don’t ask.”

  I don’t. “When are your interviews?”

  “I only have two. One on Thursday, one on Friday. I’m glad you woke me, Jamie. I should start researching the companies.”

  “I’ll let you be, then. I just have a question. What did you do with your last-semester books?”

  “Nothing. They’re piled over there.” She points to the corner of her room. “Why?”

  “Would you give them to me? I want to hold on to them and sell them to the first-year students next year. I’m planning to donate the proceeds to help fund the pediatric oncology department at the Children’s Hospital.”

  “Definitely,” she says. “I’ll even help you collect them. That’s a great idea. Why don’t we make up flyers and then hand them out door-to-door throughout the Zoo?”

  Something occurs to me. There Kimmy was telling me she needs to apply for a loan, and she’s willing to give up the proceeds from selling her books privately next year. She really does have a heart, after all.

  I return to my room, feeling a familiar rush at the idea of making a flyer. I don’t think I can handle working for a hospital full-time again-living it, dreaming it, breathing it wasn’t right for me-but doing part-time work makes me feel great. Ideally, I should have a career that’s creative and that allows me time for charity work on the side. I’ll start collecting books tomorrow. Good thing I don’t have too many clothes. My closet is about to become a storage room.

  Forty minutes later, boots still in hand, I decide I should go pick up Layla. Why not? I don’t want her to ruin her adorable shoes.

  A half an hour later she spots me in the lobby of the Katz building. “You came back for me? I love you!”

  If she tells me enough times, I’m afraid I’ll start to believe it.

  kimmy’s prepping

  Thursday, January 15, 10:10 a.m.

  I’m sitting in room 316 of the Katz building, waiting for my O’Donnel interview to begin. Five hopeful prospects, including me, are waiting in this mini-classroom, each sitting in a different row. I’m sitting in the back row, and am very uncomfortable in my suit. What is the point of a suit? Really? And why blue? And why a skirt? Of the five waiting to be interrogated, three are guys, and I find their ties even crazier. Why is a rope around one’s neck considered formal? And why for a man and not a woman? Maybe I should apply to Ralph Lauren instead of to a consulting firm. Right. As if any clothing chain besides Frederick’s of Hollywood would want me working for them.

  None of us wants to be wearing a suit; we’d all rather be in sweats, or at least jeans, but nope, suit it is. I’d rather be in my bed, naked, with Russ.

  I bought this navy-blue atrocity especially for today. Do I have to get a second one if I make it to the second round? My coat is definitely wrong. All I have is a short ski jacket in candy-apple-red from the Gap. The three guys waiting all have dull, gray, wool, appropriate coats. Why didn’t I think of buying an appropriately dull coat? At the moment my highly inappropriate coat is bunched behind me in my seat. Maybe I should hang it up. When they call me in, the interviewer won’t see the flaming mess and think that I’m inappropriate.

  I hang it on the back of the door, then return to my seat.

  I’m going to do fine. I will. My eggs aren’t all in this basket, anyway. I have an interview with another firm tomorrow. And I’ve been practicing cases all week. All vacation. I can do this.

  Not sure what to do with my hair. It’s in a tight ponytail for now, which I think makes me look serious. I hope it doesn’t give me a headache. I’m feeling too good at the moment to have a headache. Russ came back last night. I wasn’t sure what to expect, after a month of Sharon.

  No one’s going to stop me from getting what I want. Not my dad and not Sharon. And not my period, since I’m still taking the pills.

  As soon as Russ saw me, he slammed my door behind him, pushed me against the wall and kissed me hard. Phew. Maybe they’re over. Maybe he broke up with her. We haven’t talked about it yet. I didn’t want to bring it up when we have so much else to worry about. (I don’t want him to think I’m a nag.) He has Stewart & Co. this morning, BCG this afternoon, and O’Donnel tomorrow. I just have O’Donnel this morning and BCG tomorrow afternoon.

  A man pushes open the door. “Ms. Nailer? We’re ready for you.”

  Here goes nothing. Or everything.

  it’s the doghouse for russ

  10:30 a.m.

  I shake the interviewer’s hand firmly and sit down. We’re wearing matching Brooks Br
others navy suits, white shirts and blue ties. He’s in his forties, balding at the top of his head. He hands me a pad of yellow paper and a black ballpoint pen, then opens the black leather folder in front of him.

  “We’re going to run a case,” he says. His chin disappears when he talks.

  No kidding. I relax my shoulders and try to smile. I need to invoke all of my superhuman mental strength. “I’m ready.”

  “How many dogs are in the U. S.?” He’s looking me straight in the eye to see if I flinch.

  Oh, man. Who gives a shit how many dogs there are in the U. S.? I try to remember all that I’ve learned about answering estimation cases. They don’t expect you to get the right answer. They just want to see how you think. How you analyze the problem and come to a conclusion. First you have to show that you can clarify. So here’s my clarifying question: “Is that just domestic dogs or working dogs, as well?”

  He’s still staring. “All dogs.”

  All dogs. Wait a minute. Maybe he doesn’t expect a number, like 2,000,577. Maybe he wants a list of types, like beagles and boxers. What the hell do I know about dogs? Wait. Maybe I’ll be creative, and list them by function. “All right. Let’s see now. There are domestic dogs, police dogs, show dogs and racing dogs.”

  “Are you sure that’s it?” he says, pointing an accusatory finger.

  Am I sure that’s it? I have to appear confident. If I can’t make choices in my real life, how am I supposed to make them here?

  “No. Let’s not forget hot dogs.”

  He smiles.

  Afterward I go straight to Kimmy’s room. She’s lying in her bra and panties. I take off my clothes and carefully arrange them over her chair. (Maybe she’ll be inspired to iron them?)

  Four hours to relax before my next interview.

  Relax. Now that’s a good euphemism.

  I inhale her warm, vanilla smell. “How’d you do?” I ask.

  She nestles her knee between my legs. “All right. I’m glad I’m done for the day.”

  “Cases suck, eh?”

  “Don’t laugh,” she says, “but I don’t mind them as much as I thought.”

  I mess up her hair. “Did you enjoy yourself? Did you find the cases fun?”

  She giggles. “A little.”

  Knowing how ticklish she is, I go straight for her underarms. “Stop,” she squeals, squirming in my hands. Her hands are now under my arms, and we’re both laughing and rolling around.

  I spent twenty-one years alone, and now I’m seeing two people at the same time.

  Shit. I freeze.

  “What’s wrong?” Kimmy asks, sitting up.

  Shit, shit, shit. “I forgot seeing-eye dogs.”

  second semester

  kimmy’s shrinking basket

  Thursday, January 22, 2:40 p.m.

  “We regret to inform you that we will not be hiring you for the position of summer associate.”

  Fuck. In an e-mail, too. You’d think BCG could pick up the phone to shatter my heart.

  All my hopes are now on O’Donnel. All of my eggs in one consulting basket. I think the interview went well, but what the hell do I know?

  Not much, apparently, according to BCG. I e-mail Russ.

  You hear from BCG? I’m a no-go.

  He’s sitting diagonal from me at the computer lab, but I like seeing his name in my inbox.

  Ding! He says: Yeah. I got a thanks but no thanks.

  Ding! An e-mail from Layla:

  Hi! What’s up? I’m in the library, where are you?

  Guess what? I got the second-round interview with the Manhattan Group! Not my first choice but the interview is in the city and Manhattan Group shares an office building with Lerner Investment Bank-where Bradley Green works! Maybe I’ll meet him…must go to futures and options now! XXX Layla

  Layla has second-round interviews scheduled all through next week in Manhattan. And each company is putting her up at some fancy hotel.

  Sigh.

  On the bright side, if I have no interviews, I won’t have to miss any classes and become even more clueless.

  Speaking of clueless, thank God I don’t have to take Futures and Options. It’s Layla’s elective. This semester our block has Finance on Monday and Wednesday at nine, then Marketing at ten-thirty, and GBE, Global Business Economy, at one-thirty. Today and Tuesday we have Operations at ten-thirty, and after an extralong lunch, Russ and I have our one elective, Corporate Strategy with Martin. We’ve both decided to become strategy majors. Why not? Martin’s class last semester was my highest mark, A-minus; maybe I’ll be two for two.

  More classes mean more books. Beads of sweat sprout on my forehead. Books I’ll have to buy with my nonexistent money. Why is it so hot in here? You’d think the school would learn to regulate its buildings’ temperatures. The computers could melt.

  I look over at Russ to see if he’s looking at me, but he’s fixated on the computer screen and typing away. He’s probably writing to Sharon. A love letter.

  We don’t talk about it, but I know he’s still with her. What’s wrong with him?

  Not that he has any incentive to break up with her. Why should he? This way he has his cake and gets to eat it, too. Those are Jamie’s words, by the way. Now that he knows about us, he loves to give advice. Yesterday, it was warmer than normal and we sat on the bench in the courtyard, the same one we first kissed on, and smoked cigarettes. I smoked and he talked. He said I deserve better, but I don’t know if he meant it or if he’s jealous. Either way, he said if I don’t ask for more, I’m not going to get it.

  I know he’s right. I’m being an idiot. I should tell Russ to choose.

  But what if he doesn’t choose me? I should dump him for doing this to me. Tell him to get lost. He’s never going to break it off with Sharon. Why should he?

  He will. He’s going to break up with her. He’ll have to choose between us eventually. He can’t marry both of us.

  Can he?

  No, he can’t.

  The clock on the bottom of my screen tells me I have eleven minutes till Corporate Strategy. I tap Russ’s computer and point to the clock.

  As we’re leaving Martin’s war dungeon, Russ’s cell phone beeps.

  He clicks it on to check. Is it Sharon? He gives me a thumbs-up. Is that his infantile way of telling me they’re over?

  “Second interview for O’Donnel,” he says. “Do you have your cell on you?”

  I left it in my room. “No.”

  “Do you want to check your messages with mine?”

  What if it’s a no? Then I’m left with nothing. It’s like giving Russ an ultimatum. Then the answer would be in front of me in black and white. At the moment I prefer the unknown of a shade of gray. “Not yet. Wanna grab a smoke?”

  “One new message.”

  My chest cavity is taking a beating from my heart. I sit on the corner of my bed, tapping my heels against the floor. I need this job. Otherwise, how will I pay back my ever-in-creasing massive debt?

  “Hello, Kimmy, this is Claire Moss at O’Donnel. We’d like to bring you down to Manhattan for a second interview…”

  Oh. My. God. She keeps talking, but my hand is shaking as I note down the number. Word on the street is that they make offers to three-quarters of those who make it to second round. Oh. My. God.

  I dial her number immediately.

  “Hi, Kimmy. Thanks for calling back. Would you like to come to the Manhattan office for our second round?”

  Oh, no thanks, I’d rather remain unemployed. “That would be great.”

  “Good. Second round will be next Thursday, and then we’re having a dinner for the prospective employees that night.”

  Amazing. I’ve never been to New York. Russ will be there, too, and it won’t matter who sees us together there. We can sleep in the same bed in the same hotel the entire night without setting the alarm for six-ten. I hate six-ten. I hope I never have to see six-ten again on my clock.

  I’m going to need a new suit. An
d an outfit for dinner. After I make the arrangements, I check my bank balances online.

  Bank account: $400.00.

  Visa balance: $1,000. (Stupid second-semester textbooks.)

  Loans…no need to torture myself and look at that link. Today I’m focusing on the positive. New York. Hotel. O’Donnel. Me and Russ.

  layla’s stakeout

  Wednesday, January 28, 4:00 p.m.

  I am stalking Bradley Green.

  All I need is a long-lens camera, a trench coat, cigarette hanging from my lip and dark sunglasses. I bet most stalkers don’t wear Chanel suits.

  The best part is that I didn’t even break in. Since my interview was at one, I just stayed in the building’s coffee shop. The woman behind the counter makes a mean vanilla chai. I’ve set up camp with my New York Times directly against a glass wall that faces the elevators. And it’s not just the potential of catching a glimpse of my potential Prince Charming that’s exciting me; it’s the energy. I love working. I seriously love the pulse of getting things done.

  Why hasn’t Bradley come in for a cup of coffee? Then I can casually bump into him and we’ll finally meet. Everyone needs a four-o’clock break. Maybe he’s not in his office today. I could be waiting here all day for nothing. I should call him. Why not? I’ll call and hang up. I take out my cell phone. No. Sitting here, minding my own business (meeting the man of my future is my business) is one thing, but stalking him on the phone is totally unethical.

  What the hell. I’ll star 67 and block the call. And Kimmy thinks she has nothing to teach me. I dial the company number, which I looked up just before I left for New York, and ask his receptionist to connect me to him.

  Connect me to him. That has a nice sound to it.

  It rings. I am going to hang up, aren’t I? I will. I will not speak to him. I can’t speak to him. I’ll sound like an idiot.