The manager, a middle-aged, redheaded lady glimpses at the front of my application then flips it over to scan the back.
“Can you work Sundays?” she asks as she sets the application aside and starts dropping flour tortillas on a large, flat grill. This question sounds hopeful.
“Yes, I can work Sundays.” I watch as she flips at least a dozen puffy tortillas in about three seconds flat.
“You sure? Because I can’t tell you how many times someone says they’re available on Sundays then, all of a sudden, they mark off every Sunday.”
“I’m sure.”
She uses the spatula to stack all the tortillas together and move them off the grill.
“When can you start?”
“Tomorrow. I can start as early as tomorrow if you need me to.”
She walks away from the tortilla stand, and I assume she expects me to follow her.
“Let’s do a quick interview,” she nods toward the back of the kitchen.
I get four stare-downs from the cooks on the line; I’m a newbie on their turf. The kitchen is loud. Someone’s dumping ice. Someone’s banging a dirty dish against the garbage in an effort to get the cemented refried beans off the plate, and someone is hollering at a cook about an order gone bad.
We make our way through the kitchen, and the slim and trim manager (how’s she so skinny working around quesadillas?) unlocks her office door with a key that hangs from a key ring worn around her wrist.
“Excuse the mess,” she says, but doesn’t try to give reason as to why the place looks like a hoarder with a notebook fetish lives here. She clears a chair for me to sit in, and I take a seat and cross my legs.
It dawns on her that she hasn’t introduced herself, so she turns around and says, “I’m Angela,” and offers her hand. I shake it and get the sense that she’s beyond exhausted. Dark circles. Haphazard makeup. Last night’s hairdo.
Three questions later, I’m hired.
On the drive home I think about the worker at the Goodwill.
Contentment.