Pounding the Pavement

by Jennifer van der Kwast

  When I’ve completed the form to satisfaction, I’m given a gold star. Only it’s not a star. It’s a sticker that says “Visitor.” The woman in uniform narrows her eyes and watches me closely to make sure I wear it correctly.

  And even that is not enough. The elevator opens up on the twenty-third floor and puts me squarely in front of a shielded door. I flag down the attention of another woman behind another desk and eventually she buzzes me in.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  “I’m actually here to return a phone.”

  “Oh?” The receptionist cocks an eyebrow. “Whose phone?”

  “It belonged to Laurie—”

  “Oh, there you are!” cries a voice from down the hall. Caught off guard, I wheel around to find a woman in perilously high-heeled Mary Janes prancing toward me, a heavy stack of papers clutched to her chest. I don’t recognize her immediately. But only because I wasn’t expecting her.

  “Thank you soooo much for bringing that back!” Laurie gushes, her wide eyes pleading with me to remain silent. “I don’t know how I would have gotten through the rest of the day without it.” She motions to the reception desk with her elbow. “Just leave it there. I’ll walk you to the elevator.” She takes two steps toward the security door and stops.

  “Hey, Sonya?” she calls over her shoulder. “You mind?” The receptionist obliges by pressing the buzzer. The security door swings open. I follow Laurie out into the lobby. Behind us, the door vaults closed again.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask through clenched teeth.

  “You don’t have to whisper. They can’t hear us through that door.”

  “Well?”

  She sighs. “Sarah, I can’t be unemployed. It’s just not in me. I’m not strong like you.”

  “You don’t have to be strong to be unemployed. You just have to be out of work.”

  “You know what I mean.” She hits the elevator button. “But listen, I found out about a job lead yesterday that I think might be good for you.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. There’s an opening at the WCA talent agency. Marianne Langold is looking for an assistant.”

  “Who’s Marianne Langold?”

  “Don’t you know? She’s only one of the top talent agents in New York. You wouldn’t believe who she reps.” Laurie ticks off a list of actors I haven’t even dared to fantasize about.

  “And? What’s she like?”

  “Oh, she’s a raging bitch.”

  Figures. “Okay. And what about the job?”

  “I’m not going to lie to you. There’s a high volume of calls.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Phone calls. You’ll be answering a lot of them. And when you’re not answering them, you’ll be making them.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “Send me your résumé when you get back home. I’ll get it over to her office ASAP.” She doesn’t spell it out. She actually says “ay-sap.”

  The elevator doors open in front of us. I step on.

  “Oh, hey, wait!” Laurie checks over her shoulder. “Take this.” She removes the top half of her stack of papers and hands it to me.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a historical romance.”

  “Oh, no,” I groan.

  “No, no. I think you’ll like it. Meryl Streep is already attached to star. I’ll talk to you later?”

  “Sure.” The elevator doors slide closed between us.

  I use the time wisely as I go down in the elevator reorganizing my bag. I pull out the case for Tootsie so I’ll have it in my hands and remember to return it on my way home. And yet, as I stare at Dustin Hoffman’s lovely dolled-up face on the cover—his glossy smile, his feathered wig—a small germ of a thought takes root in my head.

  Two facts become crystal clear to me all at once. First, everyone lies on their résumé. And second, no one wants to hire somebody who is overqualified. So, I ask you, then: how wrong is it, really, to lie on a résumé to make yourself seem less qualified? What if I were to shave a couple of years off my age (employers aren’t allowed to ask how old you are anyway)? And what if I were to revert to an earlier, older version of my résumé?

  And if my résumé were, in fact, an accurate representation of my former, younger self—is that really a lie at all?

  chapter eighteen

  Even though my WCA interview isn’t scheduled until 11 a.m., I am up at the crack of dawn to catch Amanda before she leaves for work.

  “You in there?” I pound against the bathroom door.

  “Just a second!” The toilet flushes. She opens up the door a crack and pokes out her head, the end of her toothbrush jutting out between her teeth. “What’s up? You need to come in?”

  “I need to know what you think.” With one hand I hold a black turtleneck sweater against my chest, with the other, a wool skirt to my hips. “Well?”

  “Jesus! It’s like ninety degrees outside. You’re gonna fry!”

  “I know,” I drop my arms to my sides. “It’s just, this is the only sensible thing I have to wear. None of my summer clothes are classy enough.”

  Amanda removes the toothbrush from her teeth and spits in the sink. “You can always wear a tank top under a light blazer.”

  “A blazer? Come on, Amanda, you know me better than that. When have you ever seen me in a blazer?”

  “All right. Hang on.” She gargles a handful of water and replaces her toothbrush on the sink counter. “I have something that might work.” She grabs a hand cloth and heads to her bedroom.

  “Now, I just bought this last week,” she says, ducking into her closet. “But I don’t mind you wearing it. Just be careful you don’t get any stains.” She emerges from the closet and hands me a smooth gray skirt suit. I check the label—DKNY. Then, the size—six.

  “You’re crazy!” I hand her back the suit. “I’ll never fit in that.”

  “Sure, you will.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “I think you’re wrong. You’ve lost a lot of weight recently.”

  I have?

  “I have?”

  “Here.” She disappears back into her closet and rattles around for a bit. When she climbs back out, she has her most precious possession gripped tightly in her clutches. It’s her scale. She places it delicately on floor.

  I blink at her, uncomprehending.

  “It’s okay.” She nods at me. “Go ahead. See for yourself.”

  I suppose sucking in my gut won’t help. And keeping my eyes sealed shut only serves to stave off the inevitable. Still, I climb onto the scale gingerly, setting each foot down with trepidation. Then I open my eyes and look.

  One hundred and ten pounds.

  “Holy shit! I haven’t weighed 110 pounds since high school!”

  “Not bad, huh?” Amanda grins slyly. “It must be all that great sex you’ve been having.”

  I blush. Furiously. But it doesn’t matter. I feel fantastic. To be almost too specific, I feel fifteen pounds lighter.

  Now, nothing can ruin my day!

  I’m waiting on a comfortable couch in the WCA lobby, and I’m trying to act all cool and collected, but it’s really hard ’cause I just so happen to be sitting right next to that really hot actor whose name totally escapes me. You’d know him if you saw him. He’s that gorgeous blond Brit or Aussie (I’m pretty sure it’s Brit) who married Jennifer Connelly and, after years of playing to sidekick to Russell Crowe, has finally come into his own as a dashing leading man? Anyway, it’s just the two of us sitting here. I mean, there is a receptionist, but she’s lost in her own world, living between the twin earpieces of her headset. And there was another girl who walked in earlier, too, but she disappeared into the bathroom about forty-five minutes ago and still hasn’t come out. I suspect she’s touching up her highlights.

  And so. Just me and Mr. Hot Movie Star. He’s reading today’s issue of Variety and I’ve got the Hollywood Reporter. That way, when
we’re done, we’ll have something to talk about. I half expect him to turn to me—any moment now—and say, “You get to the part about the veep who ankled the weblet?”

  Any moment now. Any moment—

  “Sarah?”

  Crap. I look up. A woman with really taut skin and eyes that don’t blink approaches me like a crazed mannequin.

  “Yes?” I jump to attention. Rather than salute, I thrust out my hand for a stiff handshake.

  “Hi, Sarah, I’m Gail.” The skin behind her ears twitches. I think she may have smiled at me. “This way, please.” She beckons me with a bony finger.

  Naturally, she leads me through a series of security doors. This is a talent agency, after all. And talent is a rare and highly valuable commodity in desperate need of good security.

  We arrive at a room that appears a little out of the ordinary. For one, it’s soundproof. And two, there is a glass partition in the middle of it. Gail takes me past the glass, into the tiny adjoining room and motions for me to sit. She doesn’t need to point out which chair—there is only one.

  “Why don’t you get comfortable? Bob should be here any moment.”

  I can only nod in response. Because I have no idea what the hell she’s talking about. Then, sure enough, the door swings open and a pudgy bald man—presumably Bob—shuffles in.

  “Great! He’s here!” Gail’s ears twitch again when she looks at me. “Why don’t we just get started, then? Would you like a glass of water?”

  “Uh, no, I’m okay.”

  She smiles and taps me on the back with her long fingernail. A gesture of affection, I assume.

  I watch in dismay as she sails out the room, a heavy door lurching closed behind her. Like a caged animal, I pivot my head back and forth across the glass windowpane between me and my tormentors, trying to get a better fix on the commotion on the other side of the room. Gail stands behind Bob. Bob puts on earphones. He smiles at me and points downward. Gail’s hand lowers on a table in front of her and pushes a button I can’t see.

  “Sarah?” The room rattles with the echo of her voice. “We’re going to get some levels. Just talk into the microphone like you would normally.”

  Now, I have no doubt that Gail is insane. But at least she’s not hallucinating. There is, indeed, a microphone protruding from the table in front of me. I blink when I see it. I mean, really, are these people serious? To Laurie’s credit, she did warn me that there would be a high volume of phone calls. But this is just ridiculous.

  “Um, okay,” I say, leaning toward the microphone. Bob flashes me a thumbs-up. I clear my throat. “Marianne Langold’s office, please hold.”

  There is a moment of silence. And then the room shakes with laughter. Possessed laughter. Demonic laughter. And I grin oafishly like the unwitting comedienne that I am.

  “Very funny!” Gail chortles through the speakers. Her cackle is interrupted, however, when the door behind her flies open.

  I see only a silhouette at first. Then the figure steps into the light and I recognize the girl I spotted earlier in the lobby. Her highlights look fabulous. The rest of her—well, not so much. Her arms are folded over her chest and her eyes are narrowed. Suffice it to say, she does not look very pleased.

  I hear nothing. I see hands flail, and heads shake, and Gail’s face pull further and further against her skull until I can almost see through her forehead. Eventually, after a moment of confusion I am not privy to, Bob heaves open the door to my room and hoists me out of the chair by my elbow.

  As he leads me graciously out of the recording studio, Bob explains that the pretty girl with the lovely touch-ups is none other than Sarah Wagner, a gifted voice-over recording artist recently signed to WCA.

  “You have a nice voice, too,” he assures me.

  “Oh, why, thank you—”

  “But I think you’re late for your interview.”

  See, this is the problem. As it is, I already feel like a dime a dozen. It’s bad enough that I fit so nicely into the overwhelming statistic of the unemployed. But why do so many people have to be running around with my name too? It’s no wonder none of my prospective employers find me all that distinguishable. When I made the conscious decision to lie on my résumé, I should have just gone the extra mile and called myself Persephone. Do you know anyone named Persephone? No, I didn’t think so.

  As I scramble through security door after security door on my way to meet Ms. Langold, it occurs to me that instead of letting my mind wander so inanely, I should try to regulate my breathing and focus. If this woman is anything like the monster Laurie made her out to be, I’m going to have a fine time trying to work my way out of this one.

  “I am so sorry I’m late,” I breathe at her door. “But I can explain—”

  “No need.” Marianne Langold uncrosses her legs at her desk. “I just heard from Gail. How hilarious!” She lets out a peal of ringing laughter. Not demonic, not possessed. A singing laugh, the way laughs are supposed to be. She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often.”

  “Really? I was hoping you’d tell me it happens all the time.”

  She laughs again. And I think she’s quite beautiful when she does. Not your normal standard for beauty, but the kind that doesn’t come with a tuck behind the ears or an injection to the lips. It’s the beauty that keeps her eyes bright and lively, that smooths out the hint of wrinkles at the corners of her mouth.

  “Here, take a seat,” she says. “And let me look for your résumé. I had it right in front of me a second ago.”

  I settle down in the chair in front of her desk and take a deep breath. It’s Showtime.

  “Ah, yes.” Marianne picks up the sheet of paper. “So you graduated in May?”

  Here goes nothing. “That’s right.”

  “And what have you been doing with yourself since?”

  “Actually, I went to Europe.” There. That was easy enough.

  “You did?”

  “Oh, yes. I traveled through the south of France with my college roommate for the first month. A friend of ours from Harvard was writing budget hotel reviews for Let’s Go in Paris, so we met up with him later and helped lighten the load. He compensated us, but only very modestly.”

  Please, bear in mind. These aren’t all just outrageous lies. I did go to France with my roommate right after college. And the hotel review I wrote for my Harvard friend? Let’s just say when the book went into publication, my piece failed to make the cut.

  “Really?” Marianne’s eyes widen. “You know, my father is French. I spent a couple of years of my childhood growing up on the Côte d’Azur. Did you go to Antibes at all?”

  “Of course! I love Antibes!” This too is absolutely true. My roommate and I fell so much in the love with the town, we even canceled one leg of our trip to stay there longer.

  Marianne cocks her head and smiles at me. “Donc, tu parles bien le français?” she asks, mischief dancing in her eyes.

  “Pas couramment. Je n’ai pas assez de temps pour pratiquer.”

  Mischief stops dancing. Mischief grows so fat and unwieldy, her eyebrows make way to let it pass. She’s impressed. And so am I. Who knew those four years of college French would actually stick?

  “Okay, Sarah, tell me something.” Marianne leans forward on her elbows, her palms pressed down on the desk. Is it time for the curve ball already? I must be doing exceedingly well. “You say you’re an avid reader on your résumé,” she says. “I’d be curious to know what the last good book you read was.”

  You have got to be kidding me! Man, if all my interviews were this easy, I’d—well, I guess I’d be employed.

  “Well, you know,” I inch forward a little, as if confiding a particularly juicy secret. “When I was in Paris, I picked up a French translation of a German book that was pretty good. Have you heard of Die Dämmerung?”

  “You read that?” she asks incredulously.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you
think?”

  “I thought it was fantastic.” I shrug. “I enjoy German absurdism. It’s a nice change from all the generic, cookie-cutter romances we have here.” Suddenly I remember Marianne Langold’s client roster includes a fair number of actresses who have eked out a damn good living playing the heroines in screen adaptations of such generic romances. “But, to tell you the truth,” I add, anxious not to alienate her just yet. “I really do enjoy a good romantic comedy, too. It’s my guilty pleasure.”

  Phew. Close one.

  There is a rap at the door. Marianne and I both pivot in our seats to find a young man with incredibly chiseled features and amazing bone structure open the door and lean his head into the office. He’s wearing a tie to put my entire wardrobe to shame.

  Marianne stiffens and scowls. “What?” she barks.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Langold. Do you have a second?”

  Her scowl deepens. “Absolutely not!” She gestures to me. “Look who I am talking to!”

  The man turns to me, stricken, and studies me with a look of terror I know oh-so-well. It’s the same look people gave me at the wedding when I told them I was a Rockette. The same look I know I gave Sarah Wagner when she waltzed into the recording studio. He’s trying to place me, trying to figure out what in the world could possibly make me so goddamn special.

  His uneasy silence is finally broken. The room chimes with the silver bells of Marianne Langold’s laugh once again.

  “I’m just kidding.” She chuckles and points to me. “She’s nobody!”

  Her laugh is contagious. Soon, the man at her door has caught it. And then I have, too. I laugh because I have to. Because crying in an interview is against the rules. But, inside I can feel myself shrinking. I am no longer Persephone. I am not even Sarah. I am, in fact, that dime a dozen, that one among many of the unemployed. I am nobody.

  The laughing feels good, though. The laughing gives me the strength to wave good-bye to the man when he exits the office, it gives me the strength to smile politely when Marianne describes the position she is looking to fill. It gives me the strength, in the end, to follow her when she stands and leads me out.