Whatever you’ve heard about the wheels of the government moving like molasses definitely didn’t apply in this case. Early the following morning I received an email reply.
Miss Martin,
I’m enthused that you live in Seattle and have such impressive credentials. Please confirm an appointment for a personal interview tomorrow at 2:00 p.m. Federal Association of Correctional Reform, 527 South 1st Avenue, Suite 600.
Julia Harris, Director,
Consulting Resource Services.
Federal Association Correctional Reform
Could salvation possibly be mine this fast? What if Federal Association of Correctional Reform turned out to be what it sounded like—part of the federal prison system? My elation ebbed just a bit, but at this point a job was a job, and I needed one desperately.
At two o’clock the next afternoon I entered the Consulting Resource Services executive offices, definitely surprised to see expensive-looking artwork and a granite reception station. At first I thought I was in the wrong suite.
Maybe the horror story awhile back about our government paying $8,000 apiece for toilet seats was actually true. I checked out the rest of the luxurious lobby.
Most of the chairs were already taken by attractive, well-dressed women and men, but I spotted a vacant one at the far end of the room. The whole scene looked like a theatrical cattle call. At least, I think that’s what they call it when hundreds of wannabe actors show up to audition for one available part. I selected a magazine from a wall rack and scanned it, trying to look like I was really interested. About fifteen minutes later, a pretty but somewhat hefty woman came into the room.
She stood by the reception desk and called softly, “Miss Martin, Kimberly Martin?” My hand automatically flew into the air as though a teacher had just called upon me. How dumb is that?
She motioned me to approach. “Kimberly, I’m Julia Harris.” I caught a whiff of lilac. She guided me through a hall lined with more expensive-looking artwork. About halfway down the corridor we approached a set of rich paneled doors. “JULIA HARRIS, DIRECTOR,” was spelled out in tasteful brass letters.
Mahogany paneling with inserts of real leather covered the walls of her cavernous office. The room had that unmistakable scent of buttery leather seats in a new luxury car. She motioned me a navy blue leather chair across from her. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a magnificent view of Elliott Bay. An elegant mahogany desk and credenza made her office every bit as lavish as the fantastic one I had called home before disaster day. Correction. Her view of Elliott Bay made this office better, definitely a notch above mine.
Fortunately, I caught myself before I blurted out, “No wonder our government is in the red.”
“Kimberly, we’re putting together a national marketing team for the Furniture Manufacturing Division of Federal Association of Correctional Reform. We call it FACR for short.”
Okay, she’d said the letters individually but if you wanted to pronounce it as an acronym it sounded a lot like faker. I wondered if they realized that.
She shuffled papers until she plucked one from the pile. She waved my resume back and forth reminding me of a flag in a holiday parade.
“I see you have a very impressive background. Tell me, why did you apply for this job?” Her eyes were such a striking emerald-green I figured she had to be wearing green contact lenses. To tell the truth, those eyes really creeped me out. They reminded me of twin laser beams looking right into my soul.”
I stared back at her and said the first thing that popped into my head. “Um, because I decided I want the security of working for the government.” A nervous laugh escaped. “Federal Association of Correctional Reform. Is this part of the federal prison system?”
I guess my question broke the ice, because she actually laughed—a fairly harsh but gleeful sound.
“Don’t sound so alarmed. Yes, this division is part of the prison system and we intend to hire twenty sales representatives, project management support staff and, of course, a controller by the end of the week. The entire new team will be trained at our prison factory in Paradise Hills, Washington. It’s about forty miles off the main highway. You’re in for a big surprise, Kimberly. Most people think the only things made in prison are license plates. We actually manufacture over 150 products, including office furniture and cubicles.”
I’d occasionally seen signs for that town’s turnoff when I drove down to Portland, but never paid much attention. If a town named Paradise Hills located way out in the boonies, its main attraction being a federal prison isn’t an oxymoron, I don’t know what is. For the next 19 minutes she elaborated about the duties of the controller and filled me in on some facts about the new Sales and Marketing Division.
Julia hadn’t mentioned salary up to this point, so I finally said, “This all sounds so interesting. May I ask what the controller position pays?” She threw out a figure that wasn’t at all what I’d hoped for. I’m sure my reaction telegraphed my disappointment, because she added “Oh don’t, worry Kimberly. You can look forward to a huge bonus for performance. That’s only the base salary.”
Get job, keep wolf from door.
A quick calculation told me if I cut out some luxuries, even after paying my bills every month the base salary would still leave enough to make payments on new furniture plus a TV and DVD player. Damn Ryan. I’d have to use the only credit card he hadn’t maxed out.
While Julia kept talking, images of Ryan’s face flashed before my eyes like the chips in a kaleidoscope. I clenched my fists, blinked a few times to clear the unbidden apparition, and replaced it with thoughts of covering bills and getting my mattress off the floor. I’d show him. For a moment delicious thoughts of revenge played in my head.
Julia rose from her chair. A smile lit her face. “Well, I have a few more interviews scheduled for this job, but you’ll definitely hear from me.” She extended her hand for a firm shake. Shoulders squared, I strode into the packed reception room confident I looked professional and chic in my Armani suit, silk blouse and sling-back pumps. I felt pretty sure I’d be offered the job.
On my way out of the still-full reception room I noticed two women who registered eleven on a scale of one to ten; a striking auburn-haired beauty with an air of elegance and a darling perky blond who reminded me of Goldie Hawn playing a female executive role. They looked like orchids among the daisies.
I prayed neither of them was a CPA. I really did need the job.
The next morning the phone rang while I was still asleep on my mattress. Julia Harris’s voice greeted me, light and happy. “I just emailed you a formal offer, Kimberly. I realize with your qualifications you must have many other positions to choose from, so I didn’t want to wait. I’m hoping you’ll decide to join the CRS team.”
A vision of prisoners marching around the exercise yard invaded my mind, but the good news was I wouldn’t be living in a cardboard box in back of the supermarket any time soon. I hesitated long enough to make it seem like I had to consider her offer. “Thank you so much. I’ll take a look at the offer and get back to you. If everything is what we discussed, I would be delighted to join the team.”
When I hung up, instead of chanting “I’m in the chips again” while doing a victory dance around my empty living room, I put my energy into trying to ignore the fact that I would actually be an employee of the prison system. I pictured part of what she’d said during the interview.
“You may not realize it, Kimberly, but this is big business. FACR had sales of more than $800,000,000 last year.”
I’d let out a low whistle.
“Some of our projects actually reach millions of dollars. We have just under 100 factories on prison grounds around the country, and more are planned. You’ll be a very busy lady.”
The facts and figures she had thrown around floored me. $800,000,000 was staggering. You didn’t need to be a numbers genius to know that was just $200,000,000 short of a billion. Who would ever imagine it was that much?
She’d responded to my shocked silence. “You heard right, Kimberly. However, our mandate only allows us to sell to the federal government. As I told you, we manufacture everything from flak vests to furniture. Our division has responsibility for marketing furniture products. Truthfully, that’s where the big money is. About $600,000,000 last year. When you get to Paradise Prison, you’ll see how the inmates learn to make furniture and operate sophisticated equipment just like a regular business. FACR employs 25 percent of the prison population.”
Later that day I called to accept the job.
We exchanged a few more questions and platitudes—standard stuff any intelligent person would ask upon being hired. I mustered false enthusiasm, “I am so excited about working with a rehab program like this. Julia. I can’t wait to see the factory at Paradise Prison.”
Liar!
She laughed. “Believe it or not, all of our plants are fully-equipped facilities. They don’t look much different than any other factory on the inside. It will be a real experience.”
Yeah. I can’t wait to be inside a federal prison. Whoo hoo. I simply answered, “Really?”
She continued. “Oh yes. Prepare for a surprise. Once you’re through the security, you won’t believe you’re on prison grounds. Except, of course, when the day is over, the inmates go back to their cells. Our workers don’t spend their nights in a comfortable little house in suburbia with their kids and dogs.” She punctuated that with a terse laugh.
What had I gotten myself into?
“If you don’t mind my asking, couldn’t some of the tools they work with become weapons? I mean, isn’t it a bit dangerous?”
“We have very tight security. Believe me, armed guards watch the inmates like hawks. They can’t sneak anything sharp or potentially lethal back to their cells. I swear, if they didn’t wear different uniforms, it would be hard to tell the inmates from the guards. Between you and me, sometimes I think the guards are the ones who should be locked up at night.” She chuckled at her own joke.
I placed the receiver back in the cradle and marched into the kitchen. No more need to wallow in self-pity. I was employed. As long as I allowed Ryan’s note to remain on the fridge, I knew I’d feel sorry for myself every time I passed it.
So, I snatched it off the refrigerator, crumpled it into a little ball and dumped it in the trash under the sink.
That will show you, Shithead.