2nd: The First Ever Serialized Adventures of You 1.6

The guards give you a little lip and eye your messenger bag skeptically, but they let you in. Well, into the elevators anyway. Once you get off you find that there’s no way to let yourself into the office so you end up standing in the hall like a doofus. You had cleverly added the company numbers you’d been given to your cell phone, so you call it, but no one answers. The HR coordinator was on vacation and forgot to give a number for their backup. The executive director of Shiny Widget Developments or whoever it was you’re supposed to meet wasn’t answering his phone either, though no explanation was given.
You think to yourself, hands jammed in your pockets, that you don’t need this bullshit. You came to New York to practice your art. You’re smart and well traveled. At least you think you are. You also think you’re hardworking and ruggedly handsome. This is not true. Regardless, the job you’re applying for is just to pay the bills and keep medical coverage until you make the big time. Nobody makes money being creative until they make a ton and a half.
You’re sure everybody knows this. And everybody appreciates theater and sculpture and music and TV and books and all. The things an artist does. Why then, you wonder, do they make it so damn hard for artists such as yourself to work their trade? Or any trade for that matter. Your buddy Phil the poet is always talking about how interviewers just don’t understand, man.
Suddenly the door bursts open and a heavy set middle aged gentleman crashes into the hall, looking around desperately. In his forehead you see permanently etched lines, as if he walked around with his eyebrows raised all day, every day. The man looks you up and down, eyeing your suit and messenger bag.
Well, he’s your only ticket into the office so you figure you better say something. “Hi, who are you?”
He glowers at you. Most people, you think, would cringe. You merely imagine punching his teeth in as you smile back.
“Depends.” He says. “What’s in the bag?”
“A book. And a notepad.”
Is this part of the interview? You vaguely recall seeing a Monty Python sketch long ago where John Cleese interviewed a terrified Graham Chapman by ringing a bell and chanting “goodnight” and then gauging his reactions.
“Who are you?” He asks more decisively this time. Without hesitation you tell him your name. He blinks.
“I thought you’d be a little more feminine.” He says. “If I’d have known,” he pauses momentarily “but since you’re here, might as well go ahead and do the interview anyway.” Suddenly you think that perhaps he’d been expecting that you were delivering a subpoena for a discrimination lawsuit. So you’re a guy looking for an executive assistant job. Okay. And sure, you’ve got kind of a girly name. Alright, whatever. It’s bullshit to turn people away for that.