You, Again

Interview Confusion

Devin had sweat through her dress. She had known this would happen. In fact, it happened every time she wore it. It was the dress' fault. It's fake synthetic silk material trapped all the heat inside her body and suddenly she had pit stains. She whipped her trusty cardigan out of her purse and prayed that by the time the interview was over, she wouldn't have sweat through that as well.

She looked across the table at the interviewer. It was her second time in the office. She had made it past the initial screening and was now meeting with her potential boss. The role wasn't what she wanted but she didn't have another option. She didn't even know what she wanted anymore so who was she to be this picky?

"I see you did five years at The Public Theater. What led to the switch to corporate?" It was a fair question. Devin had spent the better part of her five years building a solid reputation as a want-to-be Broadway producer. The Public Theater was a great place to kickoff said career. She got to work with off-Broadway shows that would eventually make their way to the larger houses if they had the right team behind them. She always wanted to be on the right team. It was the only way to keep moving up in the ranks. The theater community was so small that one wrong step and her reputation could be ruined.

She thought of Rosie. Their friendship blowing up in a glorious fashion that could only occur in the most dramatic of industries. It involved pyrotechnics, a screaming match and of course, crying into a her champagne. But that was long in the past. Things would get better. They just had to.

"To be honest, I got burnt out. The long hours at the theater until ten or eleven at night were sustainable for the first few years but by the end of it I wanted more balance." This wasn't such a lie. She really did get burned. The pyrotechnics had left the faintest scar on her leg when a piece of ash flew out and adhered itself to her shin. She dumbly ripped it off, taking the skin right with it. Out of habit she reached down and ran a hand over the spot. It was smoother now and didn't quite sting anymore. But she could still feel the phantom pain of the sharp, brief burn.

"I see. I see you left them a year ago. What have you been doing in the interim?" The interviewer wasn't kind. Devin ignored it. She didn't care if she was kind at this point. All she wanted to know was if this woman could in fact provide her with a paycheck that would be enough for her to leave her parent's apartment or alternatively, afford the premium plan on Hinge so she could bag a rich husband. If she got the job, she would start hedge fund husband hunting immediately.

"Well, I actually wrote a few screenplays. I also worked on a television set because I was thinking of moving to LA."

"Why are those not listed on your resume?" She scanned the sheet of paper once again.

Devin hesitated. In truth it was because she had gotten fired from the set for failing to show up on time. Once was a free pass. Ten days in a row was inexcusable.

"I didn't want to mix medias. I understand that this role is for Broadway to commercial television crossover research. Creating focus groups to discuss the potential of moving large scale productions into more user friendly arenas like a TV special or even potentially a multi-season show." She was impressed by the way the words flowed right out of her mouth. When she explained the role that way, it felt useful as though she could actually make something of it. In actuality the job description had been for a research coordinator aka the poor soul that sits in the office all day scrolling through pitches to television studios looking for typos before sending it to the higher ups who actually did the meetings.

"Hmm." She could tell the interviewer didn't like her. She didn't blame her. She wouldn't like her either. It was clear as day that Devin had no idea what she was doing. The only confusing part was why she was even still in this conversation to begin with. Typically, she made it about two questions in. She would get to the part where they asked why she left The Public Theater and something in their faces would change. It's as if they could vaguely recall the NY Post article where she landed on Page Six. Her face partially obscured by the hand she was running through her hair from exasperation. She would wait patiently as they would change their tone and cough uncomfortably. The realization of who they were speaking to dawning on their faces.