Love in Photographs

2. Excuses Excuses

May 18, 2015

    "Rhiannon Oliver. I'm here to meet with Mr. Jennings." I tell the blonde receptionist who eyes me warily.

    I arrived at the building where the travel magazine I was to interview for was located. I'd assumed that the building would seem like a business building should- cubicles or various offices, phones ringing, people walking around, perhaps there'd be a parking lot. Well, I guess that's what I get for assuming.

    The building was the sketchiest locale I'd had the privilege to enter, and I'd been in some rather sketchy areas. The paint was literally peeling off the walls, and the floor couldn't quite be considered level. There were  wobbly ceiling fans that could quite easily knock someone's head off if they were only mere inches taller than me.

    The receptionist seemed very apathetic to the fact that there was another human in the waiting area. It was dreadfully empty, the only sound being that of an ailing window-unit air conditioner running. She was dressed in a t-shirt and jean capris, and could quite possibly scare young children.

    "Mark, this girl says she's here to meet with you." She says, opening the door to reveal a middle-aged balding man with a very large stomach sitting behind a table. Not a desk with even the excuse of an early 2000's era Dell desktop- a table. A wobbly one, at that.

    The man rises to his feet, his head almost skimming the ceiling, and motions for me to sit in the fold-up chair on the other side of the desk.

    "You Rhiannon?" He asks with the greatest of etiquette.

    "Um, yes. My name is Rhiannon Oliver." I answer skeptically.

    "What kind of name is that?" He asks with one eyebrow raised.

    "One that isn't very common." I answer monotonously.

    "Well, can you write?" He asks, out of nowhere.

    "My specialty is more along the lines of imaging and photography, I also work in graphic design. My skills in journalism are limited, but I learn quickly and adapt well." I answer, thrown for a loop with the question.

    "Ok. Well, that should do it. Thanks for stopping by, Rihanna." He says, getting up from his desk and walking straight out of the room.

    I sit motionless in the crappy fold-up chair and stare at the closed door.

    "You've got to be shitting me." I mumble under my breath.

    I shake my head and rise slowly from the chair, walking to the door. I walk out and there's no one there, a sign made of printer paper and sharpie sitting on the receptionist's desk reads "Out for Lunch, Be Back Later".

    I stare at the sign for a few more seconds, subconsciously waiting for someone to jump out and say "gotcha" because there was no way for me to rationalize any institution being this ridiculous.

    As I walk out of the shit hole, I can't help but think I dodged a very disappointing bullet.

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    "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." I tell Grace once I'm back in my hotel room, preparing to tell her all the gory details of my "kind've" interview.

    "Was it that bad?" She asks horrifically.

    "I did fine, but I would hardly consider that a job interview. I'm kind've thankful it went as horribly as it did. Grace, you should've seen the place. It was horrible. Even for me. The paint was peeling, the floor was slanted, the ceilings were maybe 6 feet. There were only three people in the entire building, and that's including me!" I rant, throwing myself onto the luxurious hotel bed.