Page 13 of Joey

“What the fuck?” I say. “What the fuck is your problem? I’m telling you I can do this job. I’m telling you—”

“You’re telling me,” she says—loudly, I might add—“that you cannot be trusted.”

The doors open and two men in security uniforms block the entrance. “Come with us,” one says.

I stand up, hike my purse over my shoulder, and say, “I’m leaving.” Then I cast one more glare at Ms. Whatever-Her-Name-Is, spin around, and walk out.

Security follows me all the way down to street level. And when I walk through the front doors of the massive building, I look over my shoulder and catch them watching me leave.

Fuck them.

Fuck everyone.

I’ve been going on these interviews for weeks now. At first I told them the truth about almost everything. Not my past life or how I got to the city. That’s no one’s business. But I was upfront about my lack of education, and skills, and experience.

I figured they’d see me as a spunky up-and-comer. Because that’s what I am. I know what I’m capable of better than anyone. I might not know who I am, but I’m not trash. And that’s what they see. That’s what they all see when they look at me.

On paper Brooke Alder is no one. But in real life I feel like I can compete. Like in a real situation, I could have the starring role.

Despite my lack of direction and purpose these days, I am very good at figuring shit out. I’m very good with solutions.

So three weeks ago I… modified my résumé.

OK, I lied. I gave myself an education. Just a bachelor’s degree at first, but then I realized most of the good jobs wanted a graduate degree. So I gave myself a masters. MBA. Those are the magic letters on a résumé.

I went through several majors. First it was marketing, then business, then sales. Turns out there’s no degree in sales. Oops. That’s when things really started falling apart for me.

So I switched gears. I looked for technical jobs. I can cook, so I applied to be a chef. Yeah. That interview came with knives being pointed at me and a man screaming in French as I was kicked to the curb.

Then I went for less techy things and hit up middle management. But they checked my fake references.

Like, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to lie my way into a real-life opportunity, but seriously, I’m trying real hard here. They should see my lies as something of an asset, not a deterrent.

Because lies get shit accomplished.

I am… what’s that fucking poem? The path less traveled? That’s me! I’m the untrodden path. Or whatever.

And I totally looked the part for each and every interview. I’ve been shopping my little tenacious heart out every day trying to find just the right costume.

Why didn’t I think of the gray suit with pink blouse? It’s so great.

But the clothes aren’t working. They’re not fooling anyone.

There’s too much me showing.

Not enough lies. I think I need more lies.

Or maybe those self-help books were right? Maybe the only way to find your path in life is to be you. The true you. And let everyone see it.

I just don’t see how that’s gonna make anything better.

All I want is a freaking chance, you know? Just one chance. I need someone to open a door for me. Just one stupid door and my life changes forever.

That’s how doors work. I know this. I had a door open for me once when I was sixteen. It was a pretty great door and I lived that life until it ended. But then another door opened and now I’m here.

And here’s the thing. I still need one more door.

That’s the part that really sucks. I need more than just those doors I was given. I’ll probably need more than just one more too. I need tons of doors. And there’s just not that many out there. And everyone wants a door. There’s not enough to go around.