The building that housed McPharrell Staffing was intended to be generic, with shiny reflective windows that looked out onto the several other identical structures that shared its industrial park address. In the cheerless lobby, I studied a wall-mounted directory to find the appropriate floor, skipping over the accountants and optometrists and insurance agencies before making my way down a bland hallway and into the low-budget-looking office with faded back issues of Good Housekeeping and National Geographic.
Though the waiting area was empty, the woman at the front desk seemed put out that I didn’t have an appointment. “I’m not sure anyone will be able to see you,” she said as she tapped an extension into the phone with her long, fake, French-manicured nails. “Hi, Dana. Can you see an applicant?… No, no appointment… I know, I know… Fine.” She hung up and looked at me, flicking at her dark, wispy bangs. “Dana can see you, but it’s going to be about five minutes since you weren’t on the schedule.”
“That’s fine,” I said cheerily, taking a seat. I watched the receptionist stare at her computer screen, clicking her mouse at regular intervals, her keyboard clattering. Whether or not her task was work related, she was performing it quite diligently.
Ten minutes later Dana came out, a small woman with masses of black curls and a thick application of makeup.
“Dana Sacco,” she said, extending her hand. She had a thick Jersey accent and a voice that combined a whine and a growl. “Come on back.” She walked briskly, her black suit making the telltale swish sound of synthetic fabric as she moved. She swung open the door to her office, which was small and littered with personal effects, pictures of sunbaked friends, a sorority paddle, and a Yankees mouse pad. “Have a seat,” she said, pointing to a blue office chair with itchy-looking, pilled fabric. That this was supposed to be the best temp agency in the area was forcing me to recalibrate my expectations.
“So,” she said, leaning back and appraising me carefully. “Do you have a résumé?”
I handed her a freshly printed copy and in my most chipper interview voice launched into the audio version, reciting my work experience and indicating that I had recently been laid off. “I would love to find another agency position,” I said, “but I’m open to anything.”
She laughed with a snort. “Well, that’s good. Because there definitely aren’t any agency jobs around right now.” She leaned forward and inspected my résumé. “There aren’t any jobs around right now period.”
“Really?” I asked nervously, picturing myself in a fast-food uniform. I’d always told myself that I wasn’t above any work, but I didn’t think my ego could take wearing a visor right now.
She looked at me in a way that made me think she almost relished knocking me down a peg or two. “Honey, you know how many people are coming in here after getting laid off from good jobs? I’ve got vice presidents working as admins.”
I uncrossed and recrossed my legs, my foot bouncing spastically, without rhythm. “So there is nothing for me?”
She pursed her lips in thought, then drummed her nails loudly on the desk. “There might be one option.” Turning to her computer, she pulled up a listing for the position she had in mind. “Yeah, see,” she said, pointing at her screen. “We’ve got a picky one here. A lawyer. His assistant left a few weeks ago and we’ve sent over four girls for trial periods, but none of them has worked out.”
“A lawyer?” I asked, suddenly hit by a painful pang. I apparently sounded less than enthused, because Dana gave me a look. I was clearly in no position to be choosy.
She gave me another appraising inspection. “He might like you, though.”
“Why is he rejecting all the other candidates?”
“You know,” she said dismissively, “he wants the right fit for his office.” She reached for my résumé. “I’ll fax this over to him. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
“And if this doesn’t work out, are there any other options that I might be able to pursue?”
She shook her head as if to say sorry, sister. “I’ll keep your name on file.”
. . .
Four hours later, my cell phone rang. It was Dana. “Good news,” she said in a flat tone that didn’t seem to register any news, good or bad. “Mr. Kent would like to meet you tomorrow morning.”
Dana gave me his address and instructed me not to be late. “Nine a.m. sharp,” she said. “Wear a suit and bring a clean copy of your résumé.” Her phone gave a telltale dead silence of a call waiting. “Oh, I gotta take this. Let me know how it goes.” Then she hung up.