 
THE INTERVIEW

A Novella

By

Mac Zazski

Smashwords Edition

***

Copyright 2013 Mac Zazski

***

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it or it was purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

Dedicated to those who pursue noble dreams and shared happiness

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - The Cab Ride

Chapter 2 - The Coffee Shop

Chapter 3 - The Reception Area

Chapter 4 - The Director

Chapter 5 - The Cross Town Walk

Chapter 6 - The Lunch

Chapter 7 - The Trip Downtown

Chapter 8 - The CEO

Chapter 9 - The Recap

Chapter 10 - The Decision

Chapter 1 - The Cab Ride

The taxicab rocketed towards the sidewalk, bouncing to a halt in front of Scott. Entering the taxicab, many thoughts ran through Scott's mind. Today was the big day, so much to remember, so much to do...

"WHERE TO?" shouted the cabdriver happily, a small wiry man with blue/black hair, large brown eyes and a foreign accent dressed in a long sleeve tan shirt and matching pants.

"Sixty third and fifth, please," replied Scott pleasantly, sliding across the seat and depositing his briefcase behind the driver. Today was the day, today was the big day...

As they pulled out from the curb, a white Acura driven by a young black man suddenly shot around the car behind them, passing them like a missile. Scott grabbed the handle above the door and twisted away from what he was sure was going to be an impact, but the cabdriver managed to jerk the car back towards the curb just in the nick of time.

"STUPID NIGGER!" he screamed at the car as it sped away. "DUMB ASS FUCK!"

"Hey," shouted Scott. "You shouldn't use that word!"

The cabby looked at him in the rearview mirror, dark eyes peering at him from either side of a pronounced nose.

"WHAT WORD?" he replied, apparently unable to speak in anything but a roar.

"The N-word," said Scott. "That's highly offensive."

"EXACTLY!" snapped the cabdriver, "I WANT TO BE OFFENSIVE! HE ALMOST KILLED US DEAD! WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY, "HUGS AND KISSES TO YOU, MISTER TEDDY BEAR, THANK YOU FOR KILLING US"?"

"You shouldn't use that word," continued Scott. "It offends black people..."

"SHOWS WHAT YOU KNOW," replied the cabby, weaving through traffic like a thread on an industrial loom. "MY SON SAYS TO ME, "DADDY, DADDY, TAKE ME TO SEE JAZZY! I WANT TO GO TO JAZZY CONCERT!"..."

"You mean Jay-Z?" asked Scott.

"ABSOLUTELY, THAT'S WHAT I SAID, JAZZY," replied the cabby, "SO I SPEND A HUNDRED AND TWENTY BUCKS A TICKET, A HUNDRED AND TWENTY BUCKS MIND YOU, AND ALL IT IS IS LOUD MUSIC AND JAZZY SAYING "NIGGER, NIGGER, NIGGER" OVER AND OVER AGAIN! IN CASE YOU DON'T KNOW IT, JAZZY IS BLACK TOO!"

"I know Jay-Z is black," replied Scott, cringing as the cab nearly collided with another cab. "He can say it because he's an artist; it's artistic license, it's in a song..."

"OH MISTER," laughed the cabby, veering into oncoming traffic to overtake a slower vehicle, "YOU DON'T KNOW TOO MUCH, MY FRIEND? AN ARTIST, HUH? ARTISTIC LICENSE, IS THAT WHAT YOU SAY? LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING, MISTER, WHEN PEOPLE TRY TO INSULT ME THEY CALL ME ALL SORTS OF NAMES, TERRORIST, TOWEL HEAD, YOU NAME IT. IN MY COUNTRY IF AN ARTIST GOT UP AND SANG A SONG LIKE," his voice broke into a high pitched whine, ""HEY YOU TOWEL HEADS, LET'S GO HAVE SEX WITH WOMEN, HEY ALL YOU CAMEL JOCKEYS, LET'S GO AND DRINK MUCH BEER, HEY ALL YOU SAND MONKEYS, IT'S TIME TO HAVE LOVEMAKING IN A FANCY CAR" THEY WOULD FILLET HIS BALLS, HIS VERY BALLS! ARTISTIC LICENSE MY ASS, MISTER! AT THE JAZZY CONCERT, EVVVVVERYONE WAS SINGING, "NIGGER, NIGGER, NIGGER", THE BLACK NIGGERS, THE WHITES FUCKHEADS, THE FRIGGING CHINKS, THE DUMB SPICS, EVVVVERYONE!"

"Still, you shouldn't use that word," replied Scott. "It's demeaning."

"DEMEANING?" asked the cabdriver. "BLACK PEOPLE SAY IT ALL THE TIME, HOW OFFENDED COULD THEY BE, HUH?! YOU DON'T HEAR ME SAYING, "HOW'S MY SAND MONKEY" TO MY COUSIN JABAR, DO YOU? IF I DID, HE WOULDN'T TELL ME HE WAS MY SAND MONKEY, HE'D KICK THE SHIT OUT OF ME! BESIDES THAT FACT, WHAT ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE? HUH? LET ME TELL YOU, MISTER, THEY YELL AT ME ALL THE TIME, "HEY DOT HEAD, GO HOME", WELL I GOT NEWS FOR YOU, MISTER," the cabby spun his head one hundred and eighty degrees like a demented owl, his dark eyes staring triumphantly into the back seat at Scott and pointing to his forehead, "YOU SEE ANY DOT? HUH? HUH??? NO, NO DOT!"

"Can you please look at the traffic," begged Scott, his eyes peering past the driver to the dangers looming beyond the windshield.

The cabby's head rotated back forward, "I'M NOT FROM INDIA, I'M FROM PAKISTAN! THE DOT HEADS ARE THE DAMN HINDU'S; I'M A FRIGGING MUSLIM, NOT A DAMN HINDU! SAY THAT TO SOME BLACK GUY AND HE'LL TELL YOU, "OH, YOU'RE A TERRORIST!" THEY CALL ME TOWEL HEAD! THE TOWEL HEADS ARE THE FREAKING SIHKS, I'M NOT A FREAKING SIHK, DO YOU SEE A BEARD HERE? I'VE NEVER WORN A TOWEL ON MY HEAD EVER! AND EVEN IF I DID, WHAT'S THE BIG DEAL ABOUT A TOWEL ANYWAY? THE JAMAICANS KEEP THEIR HAIR BUNCHED UP IN BIG BAGS ON THEIR HEADS, BIG BAGS THAT ARE ALL DIFFERENT COLORS. DO I GO AROUND AND CALL JAMAICANS "DIFFERENT COLORED BAG HEADS?" DO I? NO, I DO NOT! MY BEST FRIEND IS JAMAICAN, MALCOLM, HE IS A GREAT GUY! I TELL YOU, IF YOU CALL HIM NIGGER, I'LL KILL YOU MYSELF, DON'T YOU CALL MALCOLM NIGGER EVER! HE'S A GOOD MAN, BUT IF YOU CALL HIS BROTHER NIGGER, WELL, YOU'RE RIGHT, BECAUSE HE IS NO DAMN GOOD!" The cabby bounced the front tire off a curb, using the momentum to help him speed around an ambulance, "LET ME TELL YOU, MALCOLM MAKES THE BEST DAMN BEEF PATTIES THIS SIDE OF HEAVEN. EVERY NIGHT, HE WORKS LIKE A DOG TO MAKE BEEF PATTIES AND THEN HE SPENDS THE WHOLE NEXT DAY SELLING THEM ON THE CORNER, BUT HIS BROTHER, HA! ALL HE DOES IS SMOKE POT, PLAY BOB MARLEY SONGS AND TRY TO MAKE BABIES! HE HAS NO MONEY AND YET HE TRIES TO MAKE BABIES, THIS COUNTRY, I TELL YOU... IN MY COUNTRY IF YOU MAKE BABIES AND THEN ALL YOU DO IS LOOK TO MAKE MORE BABIES WITHOUT TAKING CARE OF THE BABIES YOU HAVE, THE GOVERNMENT WILL KICK YOUR ASS, THAT'S WHAT HAPPENS!"

As a light turned red, the cabby slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt in the middle of a crosswalk. Staring at Scott happily in the rearview mirror, he continued.

"IN MY COUNTRY, THE OLD GOVERNMENT, NOT THE ONE WE GOT NOW, THE OLD ONE, THEY USED TO SEND OUT SQUADS TO HARRASS PEOPLE. MY COUSIN, HE GOT GRABBED BY THEM AND YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DID? THEY SHOVED HOT METAL RODS INTO HIS PENIS!"

"Oh my God," replied Scott, horrified.

"AS YOU PROBABLY IMAGINE, THAT WASN'T TOO POPULAR A THING TO DO, THAT'S WHAT YOU CALL OFFENSIVE! NOW BECAUSE IT WAS OFFENSIVE, YOU DON'T HEAR NO SONGS ABOUT IT! IF YOU TURN ON THE RADIO IN KARACHI YOU AIN'T GOING TO HEAR ABRAR SINGING, "I GOT SOME HOT METAL RODS STUCK IN MY PENIS" BECAUSE EVERYONE WILL SAY, "GEE, THAT'S OFFENSIVE!" TRUST ME; NO ONE IS GOING TO BUY THAT SONG! NOW IF NIGGER IS SO OFFENSIVE, WHY ARE THEY SINGING ABOUT IT?"

The light changed and the cabby happily slammed on the accelerator causing the taxicab to launch down the street like a torpedo.

"BESIDES, THIS IS NEW YORK CITY! THE ONLY TIME ANYONE IS FRIENDLY IS WHEN SOME ASSHOLE BLOWS UP SOMETHING. BLOW UP A BUILDING AND ALL OF A SUDDEN, EVERYONE GOES TO CHURCH AND PRAYS AND HANDS OUT WATER AND SAYS TO THE NEWS REPORTERS, "WE'RE ALL BROTHERS" OTHERWISE, YOU INSULT EVERYONE AND CALL THEM NAMES! I SAW A GUY IN A WHEEL CHAIR YESTERDAY CURSING OUT A PRIEST! A PRIEST! I DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT PRIESTS, BUT I WOULDN'T CURSE ONE OUT, ESPECIALLY IF I DON'T HAVE LEGS TO RUN AWAY WITH!"

"Look," said Scott, sorry he had ever brought up the subject, "the N-word is just not a nice thing to say. Can't you say something less offensive?"

"YOU DON'T KNOW YOUR OWN LANGUAGE," laughed the cabby, cutting a police car off in an intersection and then making an illegal left hand turn. "ENGLISH IS MADE FOR CURSING. BESIDES, I'M FORTY THREE YEARS OLD; I CAN'T CURSE LIKE A LITTLE KID. ENGLISH IS A PROGRESSIVE LANGUAGE."

"Progressive language?" asked Scott.

"SEE, LIKE I SAID, YOU DON'T KNOW YOUR OWN LANGUAGE. WHEN YOU ARE LITTLE, YOU CALL PEOPLE DOO-DOO HEADS. WHEN YOU ARE SIX YEARS OLD YOU SAY, "JOHNNY IS A DOO-DOO HEAD" BUT IF YOU SAY THAT WHEN YOU ARE TWELVE, YOUR FRIENDS WILL SLAP YOU AND SAY, "DON'T SAY DOO-DOO HEAD, THAT IS FOR LITTLE KIDS, CALL HIM SHIT HEAD" AND YOU SAY, "OKAY, I CAN SAY SHIT HEAD NOW". THEN YOU GET OLDER AND THEN YOU LEARN OTHER WORDS, DAMN, FUCK, BASTARD AND YOU USE THOSE. THEN YOU GET EVEN OLDER AND YOU BEGIN TO PUT WORDS TOGETHER, FUCKING SHIT, STUPID ASS, MOTHER FUCKER AND EVERYONE SAYS, OKAY, THAT'S HOW IT IS. FINALLY, YOU GET TO THE POINT WHERE YOU ADD A NATIONALITY OR A RELIGION OR A LOCATION TO MAKE IT MORE PERSONAL, SO IT BECOMES, FUCKING CHINK, DAMN NIGGER, STUPID BASTARD JEW, BACKWARDS ASS SOUTHERN STUPID COUNTRY FUCK, SEE, YOU PROGRESS! I AM SURPRISED YOU DON'T KNOW ALL THIS, MISTER, WEREN'T YOU BORN HERE?"

"Yes, I was born here," replied Scott. "I even went to school here. Oddly, none of my English teachers brought up the fact that it is a "progressive" language."

"YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE TO NIGHT SCHOOL LIKE ME," replied the cabby, twisting the car around a bus and almost sideswiping a pedestrian. "THEY TAUGHT US REAL ENGLISH, NOT THIS PREDICATES AND VERBS CRAP THEY TEACH MY KIDS. THEY TAUGHT US, IF YOU WANT FOOD, ASK FOR FOOD, WHO THE HELL CARES IF AQUARIUS IS IN THE CONJECTIVE SENSE OR WHATEVER. YOU SAY, "GIVE ME FOOD" AND IF THEY MOVE TOO SLOW SAY, "GIVE ME FOOD NOW ASSHOLE!" TRUST ME, YOU GET YOUR DAMN FOOD!"

"But do you have to swear at everyone and call them names?" asked Scott.

"IT'S MANHATTAN," replied the cabby happily, "WHAT OTHER THINGS CAN YOU DO WHEN YOU MEET AN ASSHOLE? HEY WHAT ARE YOU, MISTER ANDY GRIFFITH, HUH? YOU CAN'T SIT DOWN EVERY ASSHOLE LIKE HE WAS OPIE AND TELL HIM HE DONE BAD, CAN YOU? WHAT CAN YOU SAY, "AUNTIE BEA WON'T GIVE YOU NO PIE BECAUSE YOU WERE AN ASSHOLE, OPIE", THAT'S NOT GOING TO FLY, MISTER, EVERYONE WILL LAUGH AT YOU! NO! SOMEONE ACTS STUPID, YOU YELL OUT THE WINDOW, "HEY ASSHOLE, DON'T DO THAT!" IF THEY DO SOMETHING REALLY BAD, SAY SOMETHING MORE OFFENSIVE, MAYBE THEY WON'T DO IT AGAIN, BUT I DON'T THINK SO. I'VE BEEN SHOUTING AT PEOPLE FROM THIS CAB, MISTER, FOR FIFTEEN YEARS," he shook his head wistfully, "THAT'S RIGHT, FIFTEEN YEARS AND THESE BASTARDS, THEY'RE ALL STILL BASTARDS..."

Out of the surge of traffic swarming across the next intersection, a bicyclist shot across the front of the car. The cyclist was riding an expensive racing bike and wearing multicolored bicycle shorts trimmed in pink, a multicolored short sleeved racing shirt of the same material, a multicolored helmet and bright lime green sneakers. He barely missed the front end of the taxicab, swerving at the last moment as the cabby jammed on the brakes.

"YOU STUPID FUCKING QUEER FAGGOT MOTHERFUCKER!" screamed the cabby.

"Hey!" snapped Scott.

The cabby's head rotated again, leaving him staring at Scott with huge, questioning eyes, "WHAT?"

Scott thought a moment and then let out a slow sigh, "Nothing..."

Chapter 2 - The Coffee Shop

Scott's taxicab came to a screeching halt on the corner of Third Avenue and Sixty Third Street. After paying the driver, Scott exited the cab with his briefcase in hand. Today was the day! Checking his watch, he saw that he was about forty five minutes early for this, the third and final interview. Walking midway down the block, he checked his reflection in a store window. He saw a man who would be twenty nine soon with short cut, curly brown hair, dark eyes and a round, pleasant face. His new gray suit and black briefcase made him feel that he looked like an executive. In truth, he wasn't a bad looking man, a bit heavier than necessary, but all in all, he presented a pleasant, competent impression.

Ducking into a small coffee shop he had scouted out on his previous two trips, he ordered a small coffee and took a table near the window, settling in to go over his last minute preparations. Scott always tried to arrive early for his appointments, taking time to decompress and mentally prepare for the coming ordeal. Like most people, he hated interviews. The first interview had gone well; he had met with a recruiter from the human resources department and had been given the standard questions. His second interview had allowed him time with the head of the Human Resources Department. That had been a little more difficult but Scott must have given the right answers or he wouldn't be here now. When he got the call last week that he was one of the final four being considered for the post, he could hardly contain his enthusiasm.

He thought of his line of work: Development. It sounded so important, so much like a vital part of the organization and it was, but not in the way people usually assumed. Scott, to Scott's way of thinking, was a professional beggar. It was his job to ask people for money, to beg them to give to an idea that could somehow changed the world for the better.

Like most people in the field, he hadn't started out his life looking to become a development person. He had been a communications major in college, had wanted to write movies and get into television and film production. The main problem was that Scott didn't know anyone in those fields and no one was much interested in giving him a chance. He needed to live and he slid into development work.

At first he had been proud of his new found vocation; he helped other people get more out of life. That should have been a good thing, but now, after having spent a few years doing it, he realized that there was both more and less to it than he had originally thought. Often he found himself a drift between the people he was trying to help and the people who were contributing, trying to make everyone feel good about themselves and more often than not feeling like a second class flunky at best and a non-entity at worse. Still, since a movie deal wasn't in the offing, development work paid the bills and that was Scott's motivation now.

Interviewing was full of pitfalls, but perhaps the most difficult pitfall for a development person to negotiate were people with good intentions. It was a cliché, but many of the people with the best intentions cannot handle money. Because he knew this to be true, he had worked hard to find an agency with a worthy cause that was also solid and stable financially. The non-profit agency he was interviewing with was according to his research solid. The only thing that continued to haunt him was its name; SocioPath. What the hell type of name was that for a non-profit agency dealing with homeless people?

He had gathered the courage to ask where the name had come from on his second interview, hoping that he did not sound too judgmental at the time, but the head of the Human Resources Department had brushed the question aside, suggesting to him that if he made the third round, he ask Doctor Gillio, the founder of the agency, that question. He would meet Doctor Gillio later today and he was still debating whether or not to bring the subject up. He had asked Jill what she thought he should do and she replied that it would probably be best to steer clear of the discussion.

He thought of Jill, imagined her pretty face before his eyes, thought of her soft voice and infectious laugh. He couldn't imagine life without Jill; all he wanted to do was marry her and settle down and have a family and a life. The problem was money. Oh, he had purchased the ring, had it in his dresser at home in his crummy one bedroom apartment. He had scrimped and saved and gone without and had loved doing it, but he wasn't going to ask Jill to do it. He wanted Jill to have everything but in order for that to happen, he needed a new job, a real job, a job that would pay for more.

They had met in college, he was a communications major and she was undecided, leaning towards a major in history. They had a history class together and she just floored him, both with her looks and her knowledge. He asked her to go with him to lunch one day to study for an exam and they had had such a great time, it became their regular Tuesday lunch date. Then he worked up the courage to ask her out and to his surprise, she said yes. To this day, he couldn't imagine why; he wasn't the best looking guy or the smartest. He sure as hell wasn't a flashy dresser or a future president in the making, but for some strange unexplainable reason, she liked him just as he was, liked him for just being him. He fell in love with her; truly fell in love with her, within two dates. It took a little longer for her, she had a lot less to work with, but he didn't care. When he told her he loved her and she said she loved him too, his whole world began. Now all he wanted was to share that world with her, if he could only nail this damn interview, get the job and ride off into the sunset, Jill on his arm as well as in his heart forever.

It was true, he hated interviewing and wearing a suit and smiling and being enthusiastic all the time, but for Jill, he'd do anything. When the chance came up to work for Socio-Path, he jumped at it, ready to hop through any hoop they put up as long as they paid him the salary he needed. With the increase the position promised, he could ask Jill to become his wife and start their life together. Until that happened, everything, every hope and dream was in a holding pattern, waiting to be liberated and realized.

He shook his head and tried to put his beloved girl out of his mind. He had done well on the first two legs of the interview because he had been focused and prepared. If Scott had a true weakness, it was that when he was faced with boredom, his imagination kept him entertained. He would think of inappropriate remarks, find something serious hysterically funny because he would take it out of context, or would just allow his mind to wander, always to the detriment of the interview. He wasn't going to allow that to happen here, no sir! He had studied, perusing all of his interview books last night and continued running countless scenarios in his head. He thought of questions they would ask and questions they might ask and questions no sane person would attempt to ask and he silently answered them all. He felt like a prize fighter, trained and ready to do battle. He checked his briefcase making sure he had his resume, his references, his questions to ask, a list of names of all of the people he had already met, a handy reference of days and dates and two pens and a pencil. He was ready to take them on, he was ready to shine.

He thought back to his first two interviews and tried to get the gist of what they were looking for from a new Development Manager. Obviously they wanted an increase in revenue and through his contacts he could almost guarantee additional interest in the agency. Their support was almost completely from government sources, but there were many foundations that would be willing to take a look at their programs if approached properly. Then there were the individual donors, they had a very small group which he believed he could increase almost immediately. Yes, he could be a good member of the SocioPath team... He just could never say that out loud.

Where the hell did they come up with that name? What did their letterhead look like? He checked the logo, nothing but the name in fancy script; thank goodness they hadn't attempted a picture logo. What would have fit? Perhaps an axe murderer offering a homeless person a sandwich and a room key... Suddenly a flood of comical designs came to Scott's mind.

"Stop it," he muttered to himself. "Stop it now."

The waitress clearing the table next to him eyed him with some suspicion and then moved on without offering him her back. Scott glanced around to see if anyone else in the coffee shop thought he was crazy and then reviewed his notes from the first two interviews.

On his first interview, he had met with a young woman at the human resources department. Her name was Heather; she was perhaps twenty years old and she was pretty and pleasant and had no interest in anything she was asking him. She sat behind her desk, pretty and pleasant and asked him all of the standard questions. The problem was that after a few years in the work force, the questions simply made no sense. Honestly speaking, what true information did the answers give but to settle who was the most inventive liar of the group being interviewed? He thought back to Heather, sitting behind her desk trying desperately not to look at her sheet of prepared questions, smiling at him and not seeing him there, ready to jot down his answers to the important questions she was uttering.

Heather - "Why would you like to work at SocioPath?"

Scott - "I believe that with my education and experience, I could make a positive impact on the homeless situation through my work at SocioPath..." WHILE THINKING - I want money for my wedding and my future happiness. I'd work for Donald Duck if he'd pay me.

Heather - "Where do you see yourself in five years?"

Scott - "I am looking to advance in my field, the best case scenario, of course, would be to rise in the ranks here..." WHILE THINKING - In Bermuda with a drink in one hand and Jill, scantily clad, in the other.

Heather - "Are you willing to work extra hours?"

Scott - "I always stay until the job is done properly..." WHILE THINKING - See that clock on the wall? Why do you think they put that there? When that clock hits quitting time, I'm out the door, so long, sayonara! I'm a wage slave; I accept that but don't ask for extras! Trust me, my friend, you'll be off for a long weekend with your new boyfriend and I'll be at some half assed golf outing handing out programs and making sure Mister Big Wallet doesn't have to ask twice for a drink. Now I signed up for that and I'm not complaining, but don't ask me to be here longer than I have too!

Heather - "What appeals to you about the SocioPath mission?"

Scott - "During my research of the company, I've become acquainted with the message and mission of the organization and I believe that the expansion of this agency is extremely crucial for the homeless people of New York. SocioPath's mission is a beacon for the less fortunate, a..." WHILE THINKING - If you mean do I want to kill people I meet because I'm a sociopath, well normally, no, but then again, this is Manhattan. Have you ever gone more than a block before entertaining the thought of strangling some inconsiderate jackass? I could be a sociopath, honest. I mean, just try walking across Time Square when it's filled with stupid tourists trying to take pictures while traffic is trying to run you down and some moron is on his cell phone walking in front of you at the speed of the average ninety year old. Oh yeah, I could be a sociopath!

Heather – "What do you consider your strong points?"

Scott – "I'm a people person. I can be persuasive and I can get other people to see the sense in what I am saying..." WHILE THINKING – I bath regularly and I rarely spit on midgets or kick small dogs. I'll kick a cat, they're sneaky and not to be trusted, but never a dog, unless it's like a pit bull and it's trying to chomp down on my leg, then I'm kicking for all I'm worth. Also, I'm insanely sexy, my girlfriend can't keep her hands off me, which isn't true but brings me to my strongest point of all, my imagination!

Heather – "What do you consider your weakest points?"

Scott – "I may get too emotionally attached to my issue; that is, too emotionally invested in what I believe in. I mean, in my mind, you can't be too passionate about helping the homeless, but you have to maintain a certain objectivity..." WHILE THINKING – No matter how I try, I can never pick up a seven pin spare when I'm bowling. I don't know what it is; I just can't seem to do it with any sort of consistency. Any other pin is dead meat, but a seven pin, well; I just can't seem to nail that little bastard. Another weak point of mine is that my mind tends to drift during interviews, just because you people ask such asinine questions. Why not ask me to predict the winning numbers of the lottery, at least then you could say I'm a good guesser. What the hell does this nonsense tell you? You don't honestly believe me, do you? I don't honestly believe me and I'm saying all this crap!

Scott shook his head and refocused. So much for Heather; that interview had gone well enough to get him a second interview, an interview with the Director of Human Resources. What had been her name? He checked his notes, Martha, Martha Manson.

Martha had been an attractive, flirty black woman of about thirty, decked out in a skin tight blue dress and a very unprofessional pair of heels; well unprofessional for a Human Resources Director anyway. There were some professions he was sure those heels would have been perfect for; lap dancer, porn star, or prostitute all came to mind.

Martha had a nice figure and apparently someone had mentioned it to her, because she really seemed to enjoy showing it to anyone who entered the office. He just wished that someone had spoken to her about her hair; he just could not understand her hair. It isn't often a man really is confused by hair, but he couldn't tell what look she had been going for; it was like a combination of Rick James, Cleopatra and a rope ladder. Head on, it almost looked okay, there were bangs and it was straight until it hit her ears when it suddenly went into overly thick braids and then in the back, well he just had no idea what the hell had gone on back there. Interviews were confusing enough without having to worry about being confused by hair, it just seemed unjust somehow.

Still, Martha had gotten him nervous, even frightened at times. There was the laughter, the touching of hands, the lingering smile; there had definitely been a flirtatiousness going on back and forth. Normally, he would not have minded it, but then he began to wonder if it was a set up and if one of those news reporters was going to come in and tell him that he was being filmed for a documentary on sexual mores in the work place. As near as he could determine, Martha had a problem with setting limits, either that or he was going to be a featured guest on some bad talk show in the future with the host screaming, "Bullshit, Scott, 'cause we have you right here, ROLL THE TAPE..."

The thing that worried him most was that most of the time he would never have noticed something like excessive flirtatiousness, but he had! The fact that he HAD noticed it made him think that it must have been even worse than he remembered. When she rose to shake his hand good-bye, she first leaned all the way over the desk so that he could get an eyeful of her cleavage and then she sauntered around the end of the desk and took his hands in both of hers, smiling at him invitingly and telling him she thought he would be going on to the next round of interviews.

The encouragement was fine with him, but he had to wonder. He was a guy and no matter how in love a guy is, he will always wonder if another woman liked him. Not that Martha really left a lot of room for him to wonder, but he did wonder if it was him, or just how she dealt with everyone. It didn't matter, whatever she and Heather had agreed or disagreed on, he got a call two days later asking to set up an appointment with him for round three.

He had aimed to be the last person interviewed, taking the advice of the book he was reading, "HOW TO INTERVIEW LIKE SOMEONE BETTER THAN YOU". The strategy propounded so far had seemed to work; he had gotten to the third interview and he was pretty sure that he was going to be the last person interviewed. Now he only had to remember all of the other "helpful hints" that the book offered.

"Smile but be serious, listen but be prepared to speak, don't anticipate but be ready to answer everything," the list went on and on. The thing that the book continually went back to over and over again was the need to smile. Smiling, apparently, was some sort of subliminal code that interviewers didn't know about by which you could control their minds and force them to give you a job. The book was FULL of examples of how to respond, each of which always started with, "SMILE!". "Smile on the phone, they can hear it in your voice," "Smile when meeting someone, it puts them at their ease," "Smile before answering, it makes you seem self-assured and confident," "Smile at the board of directors and they'll fall over themselves to give you a raise," "Smile at the receptionist and she'll give you all the dirt on people you might work for..." it was the magic cure all for everything. He sat in the coffee shop rubbing his jaw; he'd be smiling a lot today! Still, sticking to the program had seemed to help and all of this, he reminded himself, was for Jill; never forget this is for Jill!

He took out his notes on today's interview and frowned. He was going to meet several people today, including Doctor Gillio, the CEO and founder of the agency. He had been told that he was going to meet another executive and one of the agency's biggest donors, but he hadn't been given any names. Without information, all he could do was look up information on Doctor Gillio.

Doctor Rita Gillio was sixty eight years old and was a distinguished psychiatrist and mental health practitioner. From her company profile, he had gathered that she was originally from South America, though he could not determine her exact origin. She had founded the agency twenty years ago and had left to join the Pennsylvania State Office of Mental Health, returning to New York and the agency four years ago to take over from the previous CEO.

Her picture on the company website showed a distinguished looking career woman in an expensive business suit, her hair styled in a short, fashionable way. She looked younger than her sixty eight years and the letter she had written to those visiting the site gave out a little background and a little of the philosophy of the agency. Not much to go on, but still it was something. He checked her picture again and warned himself, don't be fooled by appearance, it was the little old, "motherly" ones who got you every time!

What he could find out about her work for the state didn't amount to much. She had sat on a lot of committees but there didn't seem to be any big accomplishment or noteworthy action she had instituted or taken. When she had stepped down from her post, the governor had called her a "dedicated and passionate advocate for the mentally challenged", which led Scott to believe that no one in the administration had known what her job had been either. Still, she seemed well connected and connections were what made money.

He leaned back and sipped his coffee; it was the two people he would be interviewing with that he had no information on that bothered him. SocioPath had lots of people with impressive sounding titles, it was impossible to narrow down the list to who would be the one to interview him. Also they said he would be interviewing with a major donor, was it someone on the board of directors? He had no idea, which made him nervous. Scott liked to be prepared, liked to have a little information on the people he was dealing with; in his business you never wanted to go in blind if you could avoid it. No, there was nothing for it; he would have to just be ready for anything.

Chapter 3 - The Reception Area

Scott walked the block to the large stone building on the corner and entered, stopping at security to get a pass before proceeding to the fourth floor. SocioPath shared the fourth floor with several other organizations, so stepping off of the elevator, Scott turned to his left and proceeded down the hall to a pair of frosted glass doors, the SocioPath logo emblazoned in silver etched about chest high. Trying the door, he found it unlocked and slipped beyond it and into the reception area.

It was a large room, all white, with beige furnishings and a light brown rug. The reception desk was a shiny metal affair with a ledge that forced you to stand close to it in order to speak with the receptionist who was hunkered down below. Gaining the desk, Scott peered over the top and saw a young woman with long, dark hair speaking into the mouthpiece of her headset as she doodled on a writing pad in front of her. He would estimate her to be about twenty years old, perhaps a summer intern from high school and upon seeing him; he noted how her attitude immediately changed. From girl on a summer job chatting with a friend, she suddenly tried to morph into a professional receptionist. Suddenly her voice dropped and she made several not so subtle attempts to cover up her doodles.

"Yes, yes, I will pass that message on to the doctor for you, thank you, thank you very much, we'll be in touch."

Looking up as she hung up the phone, she smiled, "Can I help you?"

"My name is Scott Russell; I'm here for an interview..."

She nodded knowingly and checked a black book to her right. Slowly and then with increasing panic, she searched the pages of the book.

"I'm afraid I don't have anything here for a Scott Russell..."

"I think you're looking at last week," he said, gingerly pointing to the date at the top of the page.

The receptionist blushed and turned to the proper page, "Oh, yes, yes, Mister Russell, yes, here you are... oh..."

Scott raised an eyebrow, "Oh?"

"Oh," she tittered, "it's just that you're meeting with Ms Sandler, the Director of Development."

"They hadn't told me who I would be meeting with..."

"Oh..."

Scott smiled, trying to be charming, "There's that "oh" again. Is there something wrong with Miss Sandler?"

"Ms," corrected the girl quickly, "whatever you do, don't call her miss." Gradually the desperate attempt to be perceived as professional was giving way. The receptionist looked at him with sympathy, "And don't say anything about the paintings..."

"Paintings?"

The girl leaned in closer, "She's got these crappy paintings all over her room, her son made them, he's like five or six. Whatever you do, don't say they're cute, 'cause she'll throw a fit that you aren't noticing his "innate genius" and don't say that they're good because then you're "being subordinate". It might be easier being a guy and all, but don't mention them, just stay clear."

"Okay," said Scott, "anything else I should know about MS Sandler?"

"He'll be there," whispered the receptionist, checking over her shoulders to make sure no one could hear her.

"Who'll be there?" asked Scott, his uneasiness growing.

"Dylan," replied the receptionist as she rolled her eyes, "Dylan her son. His daycare is closed for the next two weeks, so he's here, with us."

Scott followed her lead and began looking about to see if anyone was listening in. Once they had confirmed that they were alone, the girl leaned closer.

"She brought him in for the last week; every, single, DAY! Usually she isn't too bad when he's not here, but she screams at him when you aren't expecting it, it's unnerving. The kid sits in her office and gets bored and then she starts yelling, it's a mess. Then she starts calling people on the phone and she gets nasty with them. Normally, like I said, she isn't too bad, but these two weeks have been hellllll...."

"Is he that bad a kid?" asked Scott anxiously.

The girl lowered her voice, "I have no idea, she yells at him for everything. She has help at home, a nanny or something and he's usually in school during the day, but she can't handle him. Anything he does makes her nuts. Doctor Gillio gave her permission to bring the kid in or else there would have been a complaint, I'm sure."

"Should she be conducting interviews?" asked Scott.

"Trust me, you won't be in there long," replied the girl. "The last three were in and out in fifteen minutes. The girl who interviewed for the position looked like she was going to cry. Anyway, you should take a seat, they'll start to notice I'm talking to you and then they'll think something funny is going on."

"Thanks for the info," replied Scott.

"Good luck," whispered the girl and Scott retreated to the chairs on the far side of the room, preparing for the worst.

An overworked working mother, reasoned Scott, someone who is having a bad week, that's all. He had never seriously considered the possibility that his boss might be a psycho prior to the interview. He thought of the book's advice; "Don't listen to hearsay and innuendo. Because other people might have problems with your supervisor, does not mean that you will have those same problems". He took a deep breath, look on the bright side. If the situation had upset the girl who had applied that badly, you'll have less competition.

"Settle down," he whispered to himself, "just settle down. The receptionist might not be her favorite person, who knows. Don't go in with any preconceived notions; just concentrate on what you have to do."

Feeling himself relaxing, Scott casually opened his briefcase again and checked to see that his papers were in order. Everything good, he thought, glancing at the book sitting securely above the binder that held his resumes. Somehow it was a comfort to have the book near him, just in case. Glancing about the room he smiled, it was a beautiful building, he'd be lucky to work in a place that was so attractive. Even the elevator had character, yes, he'd be lucky to work here.

The receptionist's phone rang and she answered it quickly. Scott could not hear what was said, but her head popped up from behind the desk wearing a slight smile.

"Ms Sandler will be out to see you in just a moment, Mister Russell."

"Thank you," he smiled. A few minutes later, he heard the click of high heels on the polished floor behind the receptionist's desk. Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself to appear calm, professional and to smile. For God's sake, don't forget the smile!

Chapter 4 - The Director

"Mister Russell?"

Scott rose and began to cross towards the receptionist desk where a woman in her forties stood, examining him over the top of her glasses. Ms Sandler was a prim looking woman with short cut gray hair parted on the left hand side. She wore no makeup and was wearing a plain, long sleeved white blouse and dark blue slacks. She did not smile or look as if she could. Scott smiled and offered his hand.

"Ms Sandler, a pleasure to meet you."

Taking his hand in a dry, hard grip, she shook it quickly and then turned from him, addressing him over her shoulder as she walked.

"Please follow me, we'll speak in my office."

Passing various offices as they moved down the corridor, Scott glanced in and saw several of his hope to be co-workers sitting at their desks, working at their computers. Only one, a heavy set black man, acknowledged him with a slight nod, the rest never looking up.

Ms Sandler's room was a corner office, two of its walls featuring floor to ceiling windows that offered a view of several neighboring buildings. The furniture was modern and severe, the floor, to his surprise, tiled, not carpeted. One of the walls was completely covered in drawings and painting either done by a modern art master or a five year old. Just inside the door and opposite the desk stood a table surrounded by four chairs, three of which were unoccupied. In the fourth chair sat a small boy of about six with sandy blonde hair and dark eyes who glanced up at Scott before returning his attention to the paper upon which he was drawing.

Ms Sandler directed Scott to a seat opposite the desk and moved quickly to her own high backed leather chair. Without a word, she reread a copy of Scott's resume that was sitting on her desk and at last, looked up at him with an expectant air. Scott felt like a school boy about to be quizzed on his multiplication tables.

"I apologize," she began stiffly, "I am afraid that my son's school is closed this week, so he will be here, but he's well behaved and should not bother us."

"No need to apologize," replied Scott, giving the young man a quick, winning smile over his shoulder, which the child ignored.

"Now, if I understand your resume correctly, you were a Development Manager at your last job..."

"Yes, that is correct..."

"Did you specialize in any particular role?"

"I was placed in charge of major donor relations," replied Scott, settling into his chair slightly. "I was responsible for maintaining contact with our major donors and assisting the director in making requests of them for specific programs."

"And you've been doing that for three years..."

"Yes."

She leaned back, speaking while looking down at the desk, "I'm a bit surprised that after three years you are looking for a similar position instead of trying for a development director's job..."

Scott smiled, "Well, I think I have some more to learn and my present situation is with an organization that is much smaller than SocioPath."

"So you are looking to... DYLAN!!!!!"

Scott jumped in his chair and turned his head to look at the little boy working at the table behind him. He thought for sure from the intensity of the yell that the kid would have been in some sort of mortal danger, but he was sitting, working with his pencil on the paper. The scream had solicited the merest of pauses, Dylan had barely looked up.

"DIDN'T MOMMY TELL YOU NOT TO COLOR ON THE TABLE??? DIDN'T MOMMY TELL YOU THAT???"

"I slipped," replied the boy in a bored voice, returning to his work without a care in the world.

"DON'T SLIP ANYMORE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? DO YOU YOUNG MAN??? DO YOU???"

Dylan offered a slight nod, "Okay."

Scott took a deep breath; smile, reminded the little voice in his head, smile at her, there is a chance she is insane. Ms Sandler looked up and saw Scott's smile return, his attention completely hers.

"Where were we?" she asked, adjusting her glasses.

"Uh, we were discussing why I am applying for a manager's job rather than looking for a director's job," replied Scott.

"Is it that you don't feel qualified?" asked Ms Sandler.

"I have worked for several small non-profits and my team experience is limited," replied Scott. "I thought that it would be beneficial to become part of a truly first rate development team before seeking out a jump in status." Scott had already applied for four director's jobs, but he had to be careful here. He didn't want to scare her into thinking he was after her job. "SocioPath's numbers...."

"DYLAN!"

Scott had seen the eruption coming this time, the squinting of her eyes, and the tightening of her lips just before she let fly. Yes, if he could time it and remember to smile, he would be all right. He was proud of himself; he barely jumped at all at the screeching voice.

"I didn't do nothing," stated an eerily calm voice behind him.

"I HAVE EYES, DYLAN!!! MOMMY CAN SEE!!! THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH MOMMY'S EYES!!!"

"Then why do you wear glasses?" he asked curiously.

"I WEAR THEM TO READ, YOU KNOW THAT!"

"I didn't do nothing..."

"I SAW YOU DRAW ON THE TABLE!!! DID YOU DRAW ON THE TABLE??? DID YOU???"

"Some of the pen got on the table..."

"HOW DID IT GET THERE, MAGIC??? I DON'T SEE ANYONE ELSE WHO COULD HAVE PUT IT THERE??? DO YOU THINK I DID IT??? DO YOU THINK THE MAN DID IT??? I DIDN'T DO IT!!! THE MAN DIDN'T DO IT!!! SO WHO DOES THAT LEAVE, DYLAN, WHO DID IT???"

"I did it," replied Dylan, apparently exhausted from the revelation.

"DID MOMMY TELL YOU NOT TO DO IT??? DID SHE??? DID SHE???"

"Yeah..."

"THEN DON'T DO IT!!! I'LL CALL THE POLICE, I SWEAR, I'LL CALL THEM!!! THE POLICE WILL TAKE YOU AWAY AND YOU'LL NEVER SEE MOMMY AGAIN!!! DO YOU WANT THAT??? DO YOU??? DO YOU???"

Call the psycho ward, never mind the police, thought Scott. Stop it, behave! Focus! Focus!

"What software applications have you worked with?" asked Ms Sandler as if the screaming had been done by someone else.

"I have experience in Giftworks and in Raiser's Edge..."

"Do you have a preference?"

"I liked Giftworks, it worked well for our development staff, but I don't know how well it would do with a larger data base. Raiser's Edge is a bit more complicated, but has a lot more features..."

"DYLAN!!! DYLAN DID YOU DROP THE PENCIL??? DID YOU??? DID YOU???"

"It fell off the table..."

"PENCILS DON'T JUST FALL, DYLAN!!! DO YOU THINK PENCILS JUST FALL??? YOU PUSHED THE PENCIL, DYLAN, I SAW YOU PUSH THE PENCIL..."

"I hit it by accident..."

"I SAW WHAT YOU DID, DYLAN!!! I SAW WHAT YOU DID!!! ARE YOU LYING TO MOMMY??? ARE YOU???"

If I was this kid I'd do something with that pencil and it wouldn't involve dropping it, thought Scott.

"...and other team members."

Scott tried not to look surprised, he had been caught napping, but as he refocused on Ms Sandler, he could see she that she had never looked at him and had not caught him. She continued with her thought...

"I like to think of our team as one of the best, but there is, of course, always room for improvement," she continued. "Mind you, Mindy was good at what she did, she was good with the major donors, but she's having her second child now and we just could not accommodate her wishes. She wanted to work from home you see; as you know, there are so many distractions in development work already we just could not allow her that privilege."

"There is no such thing as an average day," agreed Scott. "It can be difficult to juggle the calls and work load..."

"Exactly, so I could not allow her to work from home as she cared for two small children. I mean, I myself have a child who is much older and much more mature and even I sometimes need assistance. Unfortunately, Mindy didn't see things in a reasonable manner, so I am afraid that she will not be here to assist whomever we hire in the taking over of her duties. Because of that, the person who gets the job has to hit the ground running. I can't afford to allow for a big learning curve."

"I understand," replied Scott. "I know that your team works off a modified Raiser's Edge data base and I have already done a little research regarding the agency's more significant donors. With my experience and education, I think that I could be contributing almost immediately."

"The thing is that while we need the assistance immediately, we mustn't be too hasty in... DYLAN!!!"

Sweet God, thought Scott.

"DYLAN, DIDN'T MOMMY TELL YOU TO SIT STILL AND NOT RUN AROUND??? DIDN'T MOMMY TELL YOU??? DIDN'T SHE???"

"I have to go to the bathroom..."

"I TOLD YOU TO ASK MOMMY IF YOU NEEDED TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!!! DIDN'T I??? DIDN'T I????"

"I got to go..." he responded. Scott turned to see him shuffling urgently from foot to foot.

"GO AHEAD," she instructed, pointing towards the door. "YOU GO AND YOU COME RIGHT BACK, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME??? DO YOU???"

"Yes..."

"THEN GO AHEAD AND DON'T MAKE ME LOOK FOR YOU!!! DYLAN!!! DYLAN!!! DON'T MAKE ME LOOK FOR YOU!!!"

Turning back to Scott, she continued, "I would not want the person taking the job to try to take on too much at one time. As you've said, we are a team and we need to lean on each other when a new member joins the ranks. Currently, how many people do you work with?"

"I'm a member of a three person team, our Director, our Advancement Associate and myself."

"And how big is your donor base?"

"We have about eight thousand individual regular donors of whom ten to twenty would be classified as major donors. We work with seven foundations that provide grants for four of our programs and..."

"DYLAN!!!! DYLAN!!! DID YOU WASH YOUR HANDS YOUNG MAN??? DID YOU WASH YOUR HANDS??? DIDN'T MOMMY TELL YOU TO WASH YOUR HANDS WHEN YOU GO PEE-PEE??? DIDN'T SHE??? DIDN'T SHE???"

"I washed my hands..."

"THEY DON'T LOOK LIKE YOU WASHED THEM TO ME!!! THEY AREN'T WET, MOMMY CAN SEE THEY AREN'T WET!!! DID YOU WASH THEM WITHOUT WATER???"

"I dried them with the paper towels; that's why they aren't wet. Feel them; they're still cold from the water..."

She considered it, "NEVERMIND! JUST GO AND DRAW AND DON'T INTERUPT MOMMY! MOMMY IS TALKING TO THE MAN, SO YOU SIT AND BE QUIET AND YOU JUST DRAW!!! DO YOU UNDERSTAND??? DO YOU???"

"Yes..."

For a wicked second Scott pictured her acting this way while the child was being conceived. Perhaps that explained why she was MS Sandler still. No man likes to hear, "I WANT TO MAKE A BABY SO STICK IT IN NOW!!! DID YOU STICK IT IN??? DID YOU??? DID YOU???"

As Ms Sandler looked up, she saw Scott smile pleasantly. With a slight nod of her head, she refocused on him and continued their conversation.

"Would you object to us contacting any of your former employers," she asked.

"Oh, not at all," he replied happily. "The first one listed, The Orange Agency, they might not still be at that address. I did not realize it until I spoke to a friend of mine yesterday who said they might have moved..."

"That's quite all right, we can track them down," she replied formally. "That is if they still exist. I'm sure you know that it has not been a good time for non-profits right now. So many have gone out of business, it is a little unsettling. What did The Orange Agency do?"

"They were a non-profit that supported housing for immigrant families in Southern California. They opened an office here about ten years ago because they wanted to be closer to the foundations here in New York. They felt it was important to have prescience closer to the people making the money decisions."

"Most non-profits dream of having an office in New York," she concurred. "DYLAN!!! DYLAN!!! DIDN'T MOMMY TELL YOU NOT TO DROP THE PAPER??? DIDN'T SHE??? DIDN'T SHE??? BUT WHAT DID YOU DO??? WHAT DID YOU DO???

"I dropped the paper..."

"WHY DYLAN??? WHY DID YOU DROP THE PAPER???"

"It slipped..."

"PAPER DOESN'T JUST SLIP, DYLAN!!! PAPER DOESN'T JUST SLIP!!! MOMMY HAS LOTS OF PAPER ON HER DESK, LOTS AND LOTS!!! DO YOU SEE ALL THE PAPER ON MOMMY'S DESK??? DO YOU?? DO YOU??"

"Yes..."

"DO YOU SEE MOMMY DROPPING PAPER??? DO YOU??? DO YOU???"

"No..."

"DON'T DROP THE PAPER, DYLAN!!! DON'T DROP THE PAPER!!! NOW PICK IT UP!!! PICK IT UP!!!"

Scott heard the child drop to the floor with a thud and then the crinkling of paper as he picked it up. He watched Ms Sandler as she stared beyond him at the child. How could the kid stay so calm; with the constant screaming he should be a basket case. He must have developed nerves of steel from the constant yammering, it was the only explanation.

Scott peered into the future slightly, imagining what Dylan would become when he grew up. He could see him becoming a fireman or a police officer, involved in some sort of dangerous profession where people are in emergency situations all of the time. He could see Dylan calmly walking through the flames or the gun fire, people scattering all around him while he sauntered through it all, completely at peace.

He could imagine him doing something heroic and all of the news reporters gathering around him, asking him, "How do you remain so calm in the face of such calamities?"

He could picture Dylan looking at them and saying, "DIDN'T I TELL YOU HOW I REMAIN CALM??? DIDN'T I??? DIDN'T I???"

Ms Sandler nodded at the reappearance of Mister Russell's little smile. He seemed like a person who was at ease with himself; that was good. He also seemed to like Dylan, which was always a good sign, but then again, who wouldn't? She was blessed to have such a good child. Mister Russell's smile suddenly reminded her of the little smile Dylan's father always wore when he saw her, she couldn't imagine why...

"Uh, Mister Russell, do you have any questions for me?"

"Yes, yes I do. I was wondering if you were looking into expanding your event schedule?"

"As a matter of fact..."

Chapter 5 - The Cross Town Walk

After shaking hands with Ms Sandler at the receptionist desk and giving the receptionist a knowing smile, Scott retreated to the elevator to prepare for the second part of his interview. He would be meeting a member of the board of directors who was also one of SocioPath's largest donors for lunch. He would check his notes on Mister Robert Walsh in a few minutes.

They were meeting at the New York Athletic Club, which Scott knew to be near the start of Central Park, about half a mile away. Gaining the sidewalk, he looked up at the sky and then down at his watch. He had plenty of time, so he decided to walk to the club and avoid another cab ride.

Finding a bench beneath a shady tree at the edge of the park, Scott sat down for a moment and pulled out his cell phone. Hitting speed dial, he called Jill's office. The phone had barely rung when Jill picked up the phone.

"The Concorde Group," she said pleasantly.

"Hey angel, it's Scott," he said softly.

"Hey baby, how are you?" she asked. "How is it going?"

"I just finished the first part of the interview; I met the woman I'd be working for, Ms Sandler the Development Director."

"How did she seem?"

"Well, it's hard to tell beyond all the screaming..."

"Stop fooling around..."

"I'm not, her kid was in the office and she was screaming at him the whole time. It was so weird; she'd yell at him and then talk to me like nothing happened."

"What the hell was he doing in the office when she was interviewing someone?"

"Apparently his school is out and the nanny is sick or something. Thankfully the receptionist warned me or the first time she screamed at him I might have wet myself..."

Jill laughed, "You're disgusting..."

"I know," he chuckled, "but I'm telling you, she screamed. The kid will be deaf by the time he's ten..."

"Do you think you can work for a psycho like that?"

"Supposedly she isn't quite as insane when the kid isn't around," he laughed. "She seemed pretty normal otherwise, but it will take some adjusting. So how is my beautiful girl?"

"Same shit, different day," she replied. "Nick called in sick today..."

"She's sick every day," replied Scott.

Jill's voice dropped, "I think she may be pregnant..."

"No way!"

"Way! She's been having a lot of morning sickness lately but I think she's trying to keep it under wraps till she can get to the doctor."

"No one knows?" he asked.

"I'm not sure I'm right," replied Jill. "She said she wanted to speak to me yesterday, she said it was important, but she was at a conference so we didn't get to speak."

"Does Eddie know?" asked Scott.

"I have no idea. To tell you the truth, if she is pregnant, I'm not sure Eddie is the father..."

"WHAT?" snapped Scott. "You're kidding me..."

"They've broken up like five times in the last two months," replied Jill. "About a week ago she said it was over and I know she's been on at least two dates since they broke up the first time."

"He's gonna freak..."

"Why? He wasn't exactly faithful to her..."

"Really?" This was news to Scott. "I didn't know he went out with anyone else..."

"Not everyone is like you, my dear," she laughed. "She told me that she caught him with messages on his cell phone and they weren't asking him to buy an app. Seems he had a little number on the side and she caught him which is why they broke up in the first place..."

"I thought they were taking a time out," he replied.

"Yeah, that's what HE told everyone because he didn't want us all to know he was a screw up," she laughed. "Then things heated up with them again when they went to Clara's wedding..."

"Who's Clara?"

"A girl she used to work with, she and Nick are friends, she quit before I got here. Anyway, they saw each other at Clara's wedding and got hot and heavy and then started to argue so they broke up again and then got back together again, broke up again, so on and so forth."

"Wow, I just can't believe it," he said. "You think you know people..."

"So forget about them, what about us?" she laughed. "Am I going to finally see you tonight now that you don't have to study for this big interview?"

"Of course," he smiled. "I miss you so much..."

"I miss you too," she replied. "I don't get it though, Scott, why was this interview so important? I haven't seen you this focused ever."

Scott cleared his throat.

"It's just a real good opportunity, sweetheart, that's all. If I could get on with these guys, well, it could mean a lot to my career."

"I hope you're not becoming one of those guys who only thinks of his career," she giggled. "You know how I feel about my "career"; I can't wait until Friday and I curse every Monday!"

"I promise I have no ambition," he laughed. "You'll never be neglected for business or for any other reason..."

"Ohhh, I like the way that sounds," she purred. "Is that a promise, Mister Russell?"

"I should say it is," he replied softly. "Look, I'd love to stay and talk dirty with you, but I'm supposed to be getting over to see this big donor and I don't want to be late..."

"Go, go," she laughed. "We can talk dirty later."

"Promise?"

"GO! I love you!"

"I love you, too. I'll call as soon as I'm done."

He blew her a kiss as the line went dead. He pictured her beautiful face smiling; that was all the career goal he needed. It was getting harder and harder not to tell her about his plans, he wanted to tell everyone what he was doing, but now was not the time. A little while longer, all he needed was a little luck and a little more time.

He grabbed a manila envelope from his briefcase and opened it, peering at the contents. It was his research on the board of directors and several of the larger donors to SocioPath. He smiled as he found the information on Robert Walsh, thank goodness. He needed any edge he could get, he thought, as he scanned the paper. There wasn't much but at least it was something.

Robert Walsh had been born and raised in Port Washington on Long Island. He came from money, though Scott had not been able to find out exactly what his father had done for a living. Mister Walsh was sixty eight years old, was married and had a son and a daughter. He was a member of the New York Stock Exchange and a graduate of the St. John's University Law School. While he was an attorney, it did not appear that he had ever practiced law. It wasn't much, but it was something and he was glad to have the information.

Ms Sandler had explained to him that he was to meet Mister Walsh at the New York Athletic Club and have lunch with him. There might be another person present, but she did not explain who that person was, saying merely that Mister Walsh would make the introductions. He was told not to attempt to pay for anything, not to mention money at this point in any way, but to sit back, enjoy his lunch and let Mister Walsh get to know him.

There seemed nothing else to garner from her description or his notes, so Scott returned the papers to the envelope and putting them back in the briefcase, he rose from the bench and began to make his way south towards the New York Athletic Club.

He had been in the club once about five years before with another donor who lived there. He had no idea what the club did or what the people in it were there for, but he knew that you had to have a lot of money to belong and you had better be rather well off or at least appear that way if you visited. Snobbery hung in the air and even the help affected a superior attitude.

He thought back to the book and its section on "How to Speak Normally to Wealthy People". The book had taken the position that wealthy people were just plain folks like you and me, but should be indulged in little idiosyncrasies that came with having a lot of money. One shouldn't be offended by wealthy people speaking down to them because wealthy people shoulder an enormous burden. The book had never really explained the enormous burden they carried and Scott could only imagine that it must be caused by the strain of lugging around large quantities of gold. Gold, after all, is a heavy substance that cares nothing for social status but doggedly obeys the law of gravity, which could be the cause of the aforementioned burden. The book had stressed the idea that judging wealthy people was counterproductive and that the intelligent job applicant should bite their tongue and be prepared to kiss some backside if they wanted to be "appreciated" by their economic betters.

Though he hated to kiss butt, Scott thought of Jill and prepared himself to be fawning and humble. He screwed up his sympathy for Mister Walsh; poor fellow, who could expect him to be pleasant when he had so much on his mind. Yes, he would approach Mister Walsh with deference and sympathy and be polite and obliging. It was the only way to look at this thing logically, after all, it was the approach stressed as most successful in the book and hadn't the book been correct so far?

Besides, from experience he knew that he would never be invited to one of these luncheons ever again. The director schmoozed the board, usually because the board didn't want to deal with anyone lower in status than a department head and also because the department heads did not want to be upstaged in anyway by one of their staff members. Either way, unless he was being promoted or blamed, there was little likelihood of his ever being invited to lunch with a member of the board again.

Still, if he were placed in charge of major donors, there would be plenty of lunches punctuated by enormous amounts of pleading. He didn't mind asking for money, it was his job after all, but the lunches could be difficult. He once had a donor who had the diet of a three year old so he would have to meet him in a fast food restaurant or in a diner. The stress of asking for large amounts of money plus the less than healthy food always left him with raging heartburn. Hopefully that would not happen with Mister Walsh. Today hopefully would be a good day.

Scott reached the corner of the park and looking to his right could see the building that housed the club. It was a beautiful building and it had excellent views of the park. Checking his watch, he moved casually down the street on the park side, watching the people going in and out of the building. He was again a bit early, which was fine with him, better early than late. NEVER, stressed the book, be late!

Horse drawn carriages lined the sidewalk opposite the club and Scott watched the men in top hats lined up near their cabs, stepping out into the middle of the sidewalk as they accosted young couples who happened by and offering them a romantic ride through the park. He had always wanted to take Jill on a one of them, but she felt carriage rides were cruel to the horses and would never consent to go.

Suddenly an elderly woman with the air of a dowager empress crossed the street from the area of the club. At the smell of money, the cab drivers swarmed around her, offering the opportunity of a ride through the park. Nose in the air, she refused to acknowledge such rabble and continued down the sidewalk, walking in the opposite direction from Scott. Pulling even with one another, she glared at Scott for no apparent reason, sniffed and then lurched forward. For some reason he could not fathom, one of her high heels had decided to disconnect itself from her shoe. Scott watched as she wobbled in a prolonged stumble down the block, hitching up and down like a motor that had thrown a ball bearing. It took her until almost the corner to catch herself and stop her forward momentum. By that point, she had caught the attention of the horse carriage drivers she had spurned, who stood beside their vehicles, laughing hysterically at the spectacle.

Peering back at the group, she snapped at them loudly, "Revolting!"

Her anger only drove the men to greater heights of hysteria.

"Men; men who make a living from horses," she countered, still seeking to have the last word. "Revolting!"

Her anger only made the men laugh harder and as she staggered towards a waiting limousine, Scott heard one of the drivers suggest that the woman attempt a physical impossibility utilizing not only his horse, but his carriage as well. As the woman lowered herself into the car, the drivers formed little groups and began socializing amongst themselves. Reaching the crosswalk, Scott watched as the limousine pulled slowly from the curb.

Chapter 6 - The Lunch

Scott stood by the Athletic Club's reception desk feeling like a groupie, watching the important people walk past him with an air of superiority. He had been there scarcely two minutes and had been asked by at least four security guards whom was he waiting for, a fact that made him feel less than welcome. Men in expensive suits murmured greetings to men in expensive work out gear as they walked through the lobby's plush carpeting. A woman, exquisitely dressed air kissed a man who might have been her husband before retreating towards a door that Scott believed led to the dining area. The security guard he initially had spoken too finally waved him over.

"Mister Walsh will be out momentarily," he stated, slightly awed by the revelation.

"Thank you," replied Scott, working to keep his nerves in check. Remember what Ms Sandler said, just relax and enjoy lunch.

From a hallway to his left, Scott watched a group of distinguished looking men in suits that must have cost more than he made in a year emerge into the main hallway. Might one of them be Mister Walsh? He tried not to stare, but glanced casually in their direction. Each man looked as if he had been poured into his clothing; gray hair perfectly cut and styled, nails manicured. Scott was sure that he could smell money wafting over from the group as they walked past him and out of the main doors.

Another man in a perfectly tailored gray suit wandered toward the desk. His gray/black hair was slicked back and his lower face covered in the most exquisitely manicured beard that Scott had ever witnessed. Dark eyes peered out from hooded lids as he addressed the receptionist.

"Russell?" snapped a harsh voice behind Scott.

Scott turned and looked down up on a short man with unruly gray hair wearing eyeglasses too small for his round face. A scraggily beard covered the lower part of the man's face, doggedly attempting to cover the several chins that hovered above an open necked collared shirt. Glancing down, Scott noted that the man was almost perfectly round, as if he had swallowed an enormous balloon and had assumed its shape. His corduroy jacket and pants were of the same pale beige color and Scott was certain that it had been ages since he had enjoyed a view of his feet, which were clothed in a pair of ratty looking brown loafers. It dawned on Scott that he had no idea of who this person was or how they knew him.

"Yes," replied Scott tentatively.

"Robert Walsh," barked the fat man unhappily, offering Scott a flipper like hand.

Taking it, Scott found the appendage to be rather large and squishy. He forced himself to smile as the book instructed.

"A pleasure to meet you Mister Walsh..."

"They told me I'm supposed to take you to lunch," interrupted the older man. "Can't have lunch here because I refuse to wear a tie; what the hell is the sense of wearing a tie when you're trying to eat? Doesn't make the food taste any better..."

"True..."

"There's a place up the block," continued Walsh with a frown. "I hate walking, but I guess we'll have to walk to it. Stupid rules, pay out the ass to be a member and then they bother you with stupid rules... Come on, let's go..."

Scott fell into step with the waddling figure, slowly negotiating the lobby and then emerging on the street. He found himself taking smaller and smaller steps in order not to outpace his rotund companion. Reaching the sidewalk outside the door Mister Walsh stopped a moment and looked up the block in disgust. Shaking his head, Walsh wandered another step forward, wheezing with the effort.

"Who is this for again?" asked Walsh, suddenly wheeling on Scott.

"I'm sorry, sir," replied Scott, unsure of what he meant.

"What organization is this for?" snapped Walsh annoyed. "I'm on the board of so many damn non-profits I have no idea who wants me to do what anymore. Which group is this?"

"SocioPath," replied Scott. "They are the homeless..."

"I know what they do," interrupted Walsh. "I give them enough money; I should know what the hell they do. What is it you want to do for SocioPath?"

"I'm applying for the job of the Development Manager," replied Scott.

"Why would you want that job?" asked Walsh with a frown. "Begging people for money, don't you find that degrading?"

"Well, no," replied Scott, struggling not to sound defensive, "asking for money for a good cause..."

"Bothering people," mumbled Walsh, his features descending into an imitation of someone's mother who smells something bad, "never mind..."

Struggling forward he went on another twenty feet or so, saying nothing. Scott listened to the whistling of Walsh's corduroy pants, fearing they might burst into flame because of the strain and friction at any moment. He could see that Mister Walsh was working up a pretty good sweat as he toddled along, ignoring the people who rushed around them eyeing them with annoyed glances.

"It's in the middle of the block," he pointed suddenly, taking the opportunity to pause and catch his breath. "Some foreigner owns it, but the food isn't bad. It's called, "La Merde" or something..."

Scott stared down the block, hoping Walsh was wrong about the name.

"I believe it's "Ma Mere"..." he stated, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Most of the food is French, which I detest, but they make some good seafood platters as well. My doctor says I should eat more seafood, don't know why. Barbara will meet us there, she should be there already," continued Walsh. "She's usually early..."

"Barbara?" asked Scott.

Walsh glared at him as if he had struck him.

"Yes Barbara," he snarled. "It's not what you think, she's an old friend. If you must know, she isn't my wife, my wife and I live apart but it's not because of Barbara. We just meet for lunch sometimes. She loves meeting people and getting involved, God knows why..."

"Oh," replied Scott, in no way wanting to know any of this.

"I live at the Athletic Club," stated Walsh, gesturing carelessly behind them. "My wife lives at our old apartment. I pay for it..."

Scott said nothing; the book had given no clues as to how to handle the matrimonial discords of members of the board of directors. The two walked together in silence, both listening to Walsh wheeze as they lumbered in step down the block. Finally the restaurant door appeared on their left and a man in a suit threw open the door and greeted Walsh with a great deal of deference. Obviously the man was a great admirer of Mister Walsh and his money.

The praise annoyed Walsh, as apparently did everything else. Entering the restaurant, Scott noted that it was wrapped in gold, gold wallpaper, gold chairs, gold draperies, gold tablecloths; everything except the dark wood work seemed to be shimmering in gold. Somehow the choice of color seemed appropriate given the cliental that the place must attract. The maitre'd seemed intent on ingratiating himself to Mister Walsh, hoping, it would seem, that he would be remembered in the latter's will if he continued to snivel. As for Walsh, he seemed on the verge of swatting his supplicant as they were led to a table at which sat an elderly woman. She had most likely been an attractive woman in her youth and she seemed to be about Walsh's age. Her hair was neatly manicured and she was wearing a light green pants suit and a cream colored blouse. Her bright blue eyes were enormous and stared unblinkingly at the pair as they gained the table. It was as if a Precious Moments figurine had come to life, grown old and had decided to have lunch with them.

"Barbara," snapped Walsh as he fell into his chair with a thud, "this is Todd Russell, Todd, this is Barbara Enders."

"Scott," corrected Scott, extending his hand, "Scott Russell, very nice to meet you."

"Mister Russell, a pleasure to meet you," replied the woman a bit too sweetly. "We've been looking forward to meeting you. I understand you want to work at SocioPath, such a fine organization..."

"Housing for deadbeats," crabbed Walsh as he snapped the menu from the waiter's hand and shushed him away.

Barbara giggled girlishly, an attempt at being coy that failed completely.

"Yes, I'm hoping to assist SocioPath on their mission," replied Scott.

"A noble cause," stated Barbara with a pointless giggle. "When I was younger, I assisted the homeless before joining the ranks of academia..."

"You're an educator," stated Russell.

"Yes," she smiled, enchanted by his use of the word. "I work as the department head for one of the larger universities here in New York. I don't like to say which one..."

"She likes secrets," stated Walsh, glaring at the menu as if it had denounced him publicly. "You should get the fish."

Scott said nothing, unsure of to whom Mister Walsh was speaking. He looked up expectantly, but the older man just buried his head further into the menu and said nothing.

"My current position is assisting graduate students," continued Barbara. "I have worked at my present position for over twenty years."

"That must be very rewarding," replied Scott.

"I feel that it is a vocation," replied Barbara. "I feel education must be a vocation; it's the life I've chosen."

"That is a unique perspective," stated Scott.

"It is," she replied, pleased that he understood the uniqueness of her perspective. "Many people feel no obligation to do good which I think is dreadful. I think we should always strive to do our best for others."

"How nice," replied Scott, smiling and having no idea of who this woman was or what her connection to his future might be...

"We'll all have the seafood platter," stated Walsh to the waiter, who bowed so low that he might have been looking for gum under the table. "Bring us a bottle of wine, Californian white, something good, not that French stuff you tried to give me last time and bring some bread for the table."

"Very well sir," snapped the waiter, supremely delighted with Mister Walsh's choices and the possibility of overcharging his bank account.

Scott said nothing as the waiter took his menu and disappeared. He hadn't had someone order his food for him since he was seven and he was unsure if he should have objected. He thought of Jill and calmed down, who cared, it was probably delicious and he loved seafood anyway...

"You watch wrestling?" asked Walsh, shifting in his seat and staring at Scott as if he were ready to get down to business.

"Professional wresting?" asked Scott, completely taken off guard.

"Yes" replied Walsh, "do you?"

"No," replied Scott. "I did when I was a kid, but I haven't followed it in years..."

"Good, good," snapped Walsh, looking at Barbara as if he had said something clever. "Only lowlifes and inbred morons watch wrestling. It's all fake, they only act like it is real and some people actually believe them! Can you imagine? We don't need any yahoos who believe that wrestling is real working for SocioStock..."

"SocioPATH," corrected Barbara sweetly.

"Whatever," replied Walsh, waving her off in an annoyed fashion. "Who the hell came up with that name anyway?"

"Doctor Gillio," replied Barbara, hiding her embarrassment behind a sip of water.

"Have you met her?" asked Walsh.

"No sir, I'm supposed to meet her this afternoon," replied Scott.

Walsh frowned as if considering something and then deciding to say nothing, engaged in a battle of wits with his napkin, finally forcing it to rest on his ample chest.

"Do you know many people of color?" asked Barbara, trying to fill the conversational void.

"I have some friends of color," replied Scott, trying to remain optimistic that there was some point to the question.

"Aren't they wonderful?" asked Barbara, smiling enthusiastically. "Some of them have such novel ideas; I for one think they should be encouraged."

"Within reason," stated Walsh. "I'm not giving my money to a bunch of people who think they know everything. They need to be taught, they need education and a proper sense of gratitude. You can't just give people freedom and let them start acting out on their own; they need to know how to behave around their social betters."

"We have a woman of color who works in my office," stated Barbara, obviously proud of the association. "She gave up her vacation to build houses for earthquake victims on some horrible island. I made her give a talk to the rest of the staff when she returned, it was very moving, some people even gave her donations for the people on the horrible island. People can be so nice."

"She's always supporting causes," rumbled Walsh, carelessly gesturing towards Barbara. "What was the name of that woman we saw who spoke about slavery that time?"

Harriett Beecher Stowe, thought Scott before reminding himself to focus.

"I don't remember her name, but she was most fascinating," stated Barbara, eyes still unblinking.

"Woman started her own organization to help women who had been forced into prostitution," explained Walsh gravely. "She said that many of the women who had been kidnapped and tortured in foreign lands didn't even WANT to be prostitutes..."

"Can you imagine?" asked Barbara. "A lot of those girls are like the ones you'll meet at SocioPath, people of color, I mean."

"Yes, in my research of the organization I found that most of the people whom the agency assisted were people of color," replied Scott, trying to find something to say.

"Why don't they help white people?" asked Walsh suddenly. "Seems unfair to me..."

"White people usually seem to be able to avoid getting kidnapped and tortured," stated Barbara. "I don't know how, but it seems to be something most of them are able to avoid..."

Walsh considered it, "Well it doesn't seem to happen to them too often. She did say it happened a lot in the Russian countries, Russia, Ukraine, Something-or-other-estan...I mean I don't count those people of course, they're really not white, they're Slavic..."

"Most everyone else she spoke about was either black people of color or Latino people of color," agreed Barbara. "Oh and there were also Orientals, it seems very popular there... Of course it wasn't their fault; they really didn't want to do it..."

"Then they shouldn't have done it," erupted Walsh. "Let me tell you something Todd, I don't do what I don't want to do. That's the problem with all this psycho babble they talk now a days. I say no and I mean no, that's all there is to it. If someone came to me and said do you want to be tortured and forced into prostitution, I would say no and by God, I'd make it stick! No willpower, that's the problem. Half this nonsense wouldn't exist if these people had some backbone."

Walsh took a moment and sized up Scott as if he had finally actually looked at him.

"You know anything about politics, Todd?"

"Scott. I'm Scott and I'm afraid I'm really not one for politics myself," replied Scott. "I know that Doctor Gillio was part of the State Department of Mental Health, so I'm sure she has a political point of view..."

"You have to be involved," lectured Walsh as the waiter descended upon them with a small army of servants who scraped and bowed and placed and fussed. "You can't go on forever asking people for money to help the poor. Not everyone responds to appeals for the poor. I've worked hard for my money, but I have a soft spot for the underprivileged, God knows why... Most people don't, you know and frankly, I don't blame them. If someone won't take advantage of the opportunities they're offered in this life, why should I dig them out of the well they placed themselves in? The difference is that I was raised differently, my parents taught me to be generous, damn them, but I can't say that I disagree with the majority..."

As Walsh continued his tirade, Scott looked down at his lunch. He immediately assessed the situation and drew two conclusions; first, there wasn't enough food on his plate to save a mouse from starvation and secondly, either a prominent modern artist or Dylan had painted all over his plate with some sort of orange colored sauce. Since it seemed the most substantial part of the meal, he dipped the tip of his fork tine into the sauce and touched it to his tongue.

For a moment, he was too stunned by the violence of the effect to think and then he realized that somehow, he had just ingested lava. He could not believe the level of heat that was radiating through his tongue. Trying to remain in control, he politely nodded as Walsh continued his tirade and, dabbing at his tearing eyes with his napkin, he sought out his glass of water. Taking the glass of water, he calmly brought it to his lips, a slight scent of lemon offered him a moment to conceive that the beverage he held in his hand might allow some relief from the inferno now raging within. With a smile, he took a mouthful of water.

Apparently, there are some types of fires that do not respond to water and the one in his mouth was certainly one of them. The water did nothing at all to alleviate the pain and Scott forced himself to think. Milk would help, he remembered, or possibly bread. There was no milk on the table, but the waiters had deposited a covered basket in the center of the table and to Scott's relief, it contained three tiny dinner rolls. Scott pleasantly took one of the rolls, placed six pads of butter on it and popped it into his mouth. Barbara registered some surprise at the amount of butter, but was too enthralled by Walsh's subtle nuances to long ponder it. Chewing thoughtfully, he removed the butter with his tongue and placed it upon the lava, the fire of which slowly began to recede.

"You're not eating," crabbed Walsh suddenly, pointing to Scott's untouched plate.

"Oh, I'm sorry," replied Scott. "Just listening and enjoying the bread..."

"Whatever you do, don't eat the orange sauce," barked Walsh, stabbing a morsel of food as if it were the White Whale and he were Ahab. "It's some pepper concoction, I ate it once and had violent diarrhea for a week."

"I'll avoid it," replied Scott, wishing that Mister Walsh had come up with this tidbit of information prior to his scalding.

"I love it," replied Barbara, scooping a tiny portion of her small meal into her mouth and chewing it with an enthusiasm usually reserved for use by television pitchman.

Scott's eyes had stopped watering enough to allow him to see that what looked like a piece of fish was unblemished by the orange hellfire, so he stuck a fork in that and placed it in his mouth, swallowing it quickly along with a mouthful of wine. No sense taking chances; that orange crap might have leaked onto anything on the plate, he thought. He decided to accompany each mouthful with either some heavily buttered bread or some beverage. Thankfully, there had not been much food in the first place, so he finished his meal within four bites and covered the plate with his napkin.

By this point Walsh was expounding upon how if the people of color would just abort their children and get a Harvard education, they would be much happier and productive people. Barbara hung on every word he said, nodding her approval and occasionally pointing out something that Walsh had said as being so brilliant that it should be repeated or carved into a monument.

For his part, Scott nodded a lot, smiled where appropriate and prayed that he would not suffer a weeks worth of violent diarrhea. At the end of the meal, the waiter presented Walsh with a small, elaborately engraved book which apparently contained the dessert menu. Scott soon found himself staring at a piece of pie so small that the chocolate sauce had been dribbled around it was threatening to drown it. Next to the plate sat coffee served in what appeared to be a thimble and despite a dislike for coffee, Scott swallowed it, unable to find enough of it to even taste.

By this point Walsh had punched himself out rhetorically speaking and now it was Barbara's turn to enthrall him with the story of how she and Robert had first met. The story lasted for over an hour during which Walsh fell asleep. Scott was angered, not so much by the rudeness of the nap but by the fact that he wanted to join him so badly and couldn't.

One could say in all truthfulness that Barbara was not shy of details when telling a story. Of course if the details had any point or had added anything to the story, they might have been more welcome. She remembered everything, napkin colors, dishware, rug placement, the sound of housefly's wings beating and she included it all. Despite what she must have considered a richly nuanced subtext, Scott felt that he could safely sum up her hour long narrative pretty comfortably within the statement, "They met at school when they were kids."

After his snoring had become so loud that it woke him up, Walsh was handed the check by the ever present maitre d. Eyeing it, he reached for his wallet and brought forth a card Scott had never seen before; it was some sort of super platinum I-make-more-money-in-a-day-than-you'll- make-in-a-lifetime card. The waiter returned with a receipt and a mint for each of them. The mint was the largest thing that Scott had gotten in the way of food and he savored it, hoping he would have enough time between leaving this enchanted gathering and joining Doctor Gillio to grab a dirty water dog from a hotdog cart on the way downtown.

Finally Walsh rose to leave and was immediately congratulated by the maitre d for his athletic ability. They were followed to the door, accompanied with extreme deference by the waiters and most of the staff. It got so bad that Scott was expecting one of them to take off his coat and lay it upon the sidewalk lest Walsh's feet touched the pavement, but someone equally wealthy was walking in at the same time that they were walking out. Obviously torn, the staff suddenly excused themselves and began simpering to the new arrival.

Out on the street, Walsh suddenly thrust his hand forward, grabbing Scott's and giving it a half hearted shake.

"They'll call you," he grumbled. "First they'll call me and then they'll call you."

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mister Russell," stated Barbara, taking his hand warmly.

"It was a pleasure to meet you both," replied Scott, "and thank you again for lunch, Mister Walsh."

Walsh looked at him with total disinterest and then without a word turned and began to lumber back up the block towards his club.

"I really must be going," stated Barbara. "A pleasure..."

With that, she scampered off after Walsh.

Scott heard Walsh thunder over his shoulder as Barbara grew nearer, "I'm ordering pizza, to hell with the damn doctors..."

Walking to the corner, Scott took a right and began to look for the subway station.

Chapter 7 – The Trip Downtown

Scott waited until he was two blocks away before looking at his watch to check the time. He had an hour before his meeting with Doctor Gillio; with luck he could catch a subway train and get there in time to eat a hotdog and still make it to her office with a few minutes to spare. Within a block he saw the sign for the downtown train and descended the steps into the New York City Subway.

For the uninitiated, the New York City subway system can be a frightening place, filled with horrible smells, thoughtless, careless and even dangerous people and on a summer's day, more heat than most ovens can contain. For Scott and the millions of New Yorkers like him, it was just another day in the subway. New Yorkers understood that the first thing you must do in the subway is avoid eye contact, the second is to avoid physical contact if at all possible and the third is to hold your breath from the moment you leave the open air until you return to it.

Scott, like most people in a hurry, missed the train that he needed to connect with, so he stood on the sweltering platform and eyed with the appropriate level of hatred the little sign informing him that the next train would be along in twelve minutes. As people began to fill the platform, the air grew more still and the already excessive temperature began to soar. If it had been one hundred degrees when he had gotten down the stairs, it had to be at least two hundred now. Scott felt the sweat beginning to pour down his body and puddle at the small of his back. His legs felt heavy and wet, his clothes sticking to him like a wet paper towel.

Next to him, a man who had never been shown the beneficial uses of soap peered out towards the track, looking in the wrong direction for the train. On his other side, an attractive woman in a summer dress and flowing locks slowly began melting.

Suddenly there were three sharp cymbal bangs and then a band hidden behind a pillar broke out into some sort of music. A singer who either was recovering from throat surgery or was in desperate need of some began to sing something. The unexpected total emersion into sound would have normally brought a reaction of surprise from those on the platform, but their ability to do more than stand still had been robbed from them by the heat.

Scott's mind, however, was still attempting to work and try as he might, he could not understand the language the singer was speaking. It might have been Spanish, it might have been English, it might have been Martian, who could say. He was now so hot, he was praying that he might pass out and fall onto the tracks. With a glance at the flashing board, he could tell he had at least seven more minutes in hell.

For some reason, perhaps it was her native music; perhaps she was having a fit, a girl with short cut purple hair, a shapeless tie-dyed dress, dark glasses, army boots and a total disregard for rhythm began to dance to the music that the band was playing. Dancing, Scott decided, as he watched in abject horror, was much too generous a term.

To her mind, her motions were meant to mimic the historical dance of the ancient Mayan people as shown in some stone cuttings she had seen in Mexico on her last vacation. If those around her had known this, they would have assumed that the stone cuttings had, at some point, been dropped on her head. By process of elimination, the others in the crowd could only conjecture that she was suffering from a bad case of the dry heaves. Despite the reluctance towards any effort, the group on the platform backed up forming a semi-circle around the girl and the band. As they stared at the girl, the mutual prayer was that the band would stop playing and/or the girl would not vomit.

Scott glanced at where the attractive girl in the summer dress had stood a moment before. The woman's image had transformed along the lines of the Portrait of Dorian Grey, sweat forming large stains beneath the armholes of her pretty dress, her hair matted to her head by sweat and a desperate look overtaking her eyes. Oddly, the man who had no idea of the uses of soap seemed completely dry, as if his body was satisfied with keeping his water and just dispelling unpleasant odors.

A sudden gust of supercharged hot air suddenly swept the platform and a cloud of papers scampered before the oncoming rush of a light, signaling that the train was indeed almost in the station. With a sound like thunder, the train rammed its way into the station, shuddering to an unsteady halt besides the platform. The people on the platform surrounded the doors, forcing their way onto the train as soon as the doors opened. The people on the train trying to disembark stumbled out onto the platform, each desperately seeking the stairs to the world of air and light.

Scott had not been quick enough to procure a seat, so he stood by the doors as they slammed shut behind him and the lights flickered. The train lurched forward and then slowly gained speed as it swept into a dark tunnel. The sound of a fan whining above was heard at one end of the supposedly air conditioned car. While not as sweltering as the platform, the car was not anyone's idea of cool. Indeed, if one had not been either on the platform or the seventh level of hell prior to stepping onto the car, the idea that this was cooler would not have occurred to them, but to Scott and the others, it was definitely a step in the right direction. As the train thundered along, Scott leaned back carefully and tried to clear his head. It looked like he would not have time for that hotdog after all, but if he could get somewhere cool and just stop sweating he might not look too bad for the interview with Doctor Gillio.

His thoughts went back to lunch; had the interview with Walsh gone well? He had no idea and at this point really didn't care. The man plainly could not care less about the outcome of the lunch and what was the whole thing with Barbara? On second thought, he really didn't want to know.

One more interview to go, he counseled himself. Don't give up now, now is the time to knuckle down. This is what separates the men from the boys; crunch time, it's now or never, I want you to eat lighting and crap thunder, nothing gets between me and my Calvins... Scott suppressed a giggle, focus, his mind screamed, FOCUS! You're so close; you could nail this if you handle Gillio correctly. Remember what the book said, you can do this, you can get them to hire you and then you'll ask Jill to marry you and the world will take on the meaning it was supposed to have since the beginning of time.

The train sputtered into the station and Scott heard the voice overhead announce that this was his stop. Stepping out onto the platform, he felt the heat attack him, but he fought back, pushing his way towards the stairs and up and out into the light!

Doctor Gillio's office was downtown in what everyone he had met kept referring to as the "new" building for SocioPath's offices. Scott staggered out of the subway a mere three blocks from the building and checking the time, began a desperate search to find a place to recover from his subway ride.

A block from the building he spotted what he was looking for, a discount store, two levels tall, its front windows filled with advertisements. Forcing his dehydrated body forward, he stumbled into the store, past the two large glass doors and into its brightly lit interior. Five feet in, he felt it; air conditioning! To his relief, the air conditioning was on high and enormous fans were blowing hard enough to force his tie behind him like a ship's rudder.

Maneuvering through the crowd of people on the first floor, he jumped on the escalator and rode to the second floor where the crowds thinned and the merchandise became increasingly more eccentric. Cell phones by such well known names as Yapposhi and Zipzop fought for shelf space with baseball cards and "Star Wars" Pez dispensers. People of questionable mental stability eyed the merchandise, occasionally picking up a piece and standing as if preparing to give a lecture on its use and worth.

Scott made it to the furniture department and sought out the back corner. A large fan blew cool air and he stood near it, feeling his body reviving. After a few minutes, he walked over to a large mirror that stood above a leopard skin couch and eyed his remains. He didn't look half bad, his hair was askew due to the fan, but otherwise, the enormous amount of sweat he had produced had not affected his clothing too much. Straightening himself out, he checked his watch again. He would have to go, it was time to meet the most important person he would meet today, Doctor Gillio!

Chapter 8 - The CEO

As Scott stepped off the elevator, he made his way to enormous glass doors that held the legend, "SOCIOPATH OFFICE SUITE". Gaining the doors, he pulled slightly and then realized it was a push door and forcing it open, walked into a cool, ultramodern office space. To his left, a wall dribbled water that cascaded down into a small reflecting pool where it lapped quietly against a black marble floor. An enormous steel and glass desk stood to his right and behind it sat a very attractive young woman with dark hair and smoldering, dark eyes.

The woman wore a tight fitting animal print dress and her hands featured enormous red nails. Approaching the desk, Scott smiled and introduced himself.

"Yes, Mister Russell," she purred, checking a computer screen leisurely. "Doctor Gillio is on the phone right now, but as soon as she is off, I will let her know that you are here. Might I get you a cup of coffee while you wait?"

"No, no thank you," replied Scott. "I just had lunch."

The young woman smiled, a brilliant display of ultra-white teeth, "Why not have a seat in our waiting area, I'm sure she will not be long."

With a graceful gesture, she brought his attention to a doorway that stood opposite the enormous glass doors and he made his way towards it with a thank you. Entering the room, he saw that it contained several enormous, overstuffed chairs made of leather. Lowering himself into one of the chairs, he opened his briefcase and began reviewing his notes on Doctor Gillio.

After rereading his notes, he tried to sit patiently, but as time slipped away, he began to wonder if he had been forgotten. Who could she be on the phone with? It was almost an hour before the receptionist poked her head around the door frame and smiled at him. He began to rise.

"She won't be much longer," she called out softly. "Can I get you anything?"

Scott lowered himself back into the chair, "No, no thank you."

"Just a few more minutes, I'm sure," she stated, disappearing beyond the door frame and out of view.

Scott wish he had brought something to read, like a Tolstoy novel or the Encyclopedia. Still he sat and waited and then when he thought he was done, he waited some more. Finally the attractive receptionist returned.

"Please, come with me, Mister Russell."

Scott rose and tried to remember what the book had said, "Powerful people do not work on the same time schedule as the rest of us. There must be allowances for tardy behavior..." still, it was hard not to show his annoyance at having waited so long.

Following the receptionist, he walked down a long hallway surrounded on either side by glass walls. As they sauntered down the hall, he watched the occupants of the offices stop to take appreciative glances at the receptionist before looking back to their computer terminals. Most of those in the cubicles appeared to be about his age, it would not be so difficult to fit in here. Finally they arrived at a pair of massive wood doors. The receptionist knocked and then opened the door, motioning Scott to follow her inside.

Scott had been in large offices before but was unprepared for the size of this one. A massive conference table stood in the middle of the room, capable of seating twenty five people. It's dark, metallic surface was almost completely covered with papers and boxes. To his left, enormous floor to ceiling closets in stainless steel lined the wall. Directly in front of him, behind the conference table stood a wall of glass with views of Manhattan. To his right, the wall was half glass, the lower half covered with filing cabinets. Along the wall upon which stood the door from which they had entered was the largest single desk he had ever seen. Four oversized computer monitors vied for attention across its heavily lacquered finish. Behind one of the screens he could just make out the top of someone's head covered in reddish colored hair.

"Doctor Gillio," stated the receptionist, "Mister Russell is here."

"Gooood," drawled the figure. "Berry goood."

The receptionist smiled at Scott one last time and left him staring at the reddish hair.

"Sooo, jew are Cot," stated the female voice behind the screen.

Smile, screamed his mind, smile. You need to make a good impression on this woman; she will make the ultimate decision.

"Yes, I am Scott Russell," he confirmed, glancing about to see if there was anyone else in the room.

With a light thump, he saw feet appear beneath the desk in small white heels. The hair, having gained no height, began moving around the desk towards the door and finally, Doctor Gillio appeared from behind the monitors.

DON'T STARE screamed Scott's mind, but it was hard not to do so. Doctor Gillio was not a midget, but she was right on the cusp, four feet nine inches at most, thought Scott. Remembering the photo on the website he almost burst out laughing. He had thought something had seemed wrong with it and now he realized it had been heavily Photoshopped. From the eyes up, it was all the same, the eyes, the eyebrows, the hair, but as the image went south, so did the truth.

Doctor Gillio wore a much more cumbersome nose in person and had one of the worst turkey necks that Scott had ever seen. In the picture, her neck was normal, no wrinkles, no lines, shapely even, but in person there was no end to her chin, it just descended into her chest. Following the large neck down he could not have stopped smiling if he had been paid to do so.

The doctor was clad in a dark blue and white polka dot pant suit that sported an enormous collar making her look like every picture of "Pagliacci" he had ever seen. If she had begun to sing "Vesti la guibba" he would not have been surprised. She waddled towards him, arm outstretched, like one of the "Lollipop Guild".

Leaning down, he took her hand, "A pleasure to meet you."

"Jays, Jays it is," she replied, obviously pleased that he knew it was a pleasure to meet her.

Leading the way, she waddled to the conference table and hopped up onto the chair at the head of the table, gesturing Scott to take his place in the chair to her left. "Ignore any outstanding physical traits possessed by your interviewer and focus on the discussion at hand" cautioned the book. Besides, this is for Jill, Scott reminded himself and he forced himself to regroup and prepare to do his best.

"So jew wanna work for Sogiopat," she stated, shaking her head, causing her neck to wobble uncontrollably.

"Yes," smiled Scott, working hard to maintain brain focus. "Yes, I think I would be an asset to your company, doctor."

She frowned in thought, "Do jew know 'bout da mission?"

"Yes," he nodded, "I have done research and feel that I have learned a great deal regarding SocioPath's mission."

"It aaaaaaahhh, it is an importan' mission," she replied, placing her hands upon the table and staring at him seriously. "We jelp aw type of peoples, black peoples, jello peoples, 'panish peoples, ebrebody..."

"Yes, it is a most impressive legacy," he countered.

"When I 'tart aaaaaahhhh, 'tart de ayyency tawny years ago, no one was halpin, no one, it was me and my mentor, Doctor Hernandez. He come to me and say, "Rita, jew got to halp des peoples," and dats what I do."

"So you began twenty years ago," stated Scott. He was trying not to look as if he were listening as hard as he was listening. The accent was bad enough, but the "aaaaaahhhh" during each pause was murder.

"I was born in Sout' America," she replied, "and came here aaaaaaaahhhh, here as a lil' girl, jew understan?"

"Yes," he replied outwardly. Hell no, he replied inwardly. You're almost seventy, you've been here for over fifty years and you still sound like Ricky Ricardo on a bad day? How the hell is that even possible?

"Aaaaaaahh," she stated, "so I start de program and den peoples come and den more peoples come and soon, I got so many peoples that I say, I need halp. I go to da local peoples and dey say, "We no halp, we got no money," so I go to da city and I get lil' money and den I go to da state and get mo' money. Soon, I have some places, an office here, a building dere..."

"Wonderful," replied Scott.

"Den I meet da paltishows, I meet da governor, da mayor..."

"Politicians," Scott nodded, feeling like he had just successfully solved the puzzle on "Wheel of Fortune".

"Jays," she replied with a frown. "Den day say, "Rita, you come into da government and halp da peoples, so I GO." She gestured, waving her little hand like she was pushing something way. "I go and do dat and den dey say, "Doctor Hernandez, he sick, you come back here" so I come back."

"Doctor Hernandez ran SocioPath while you were working for the government?" asked Scott.

"Jays," she nodded with a disgusted look, "but he no do a goo' job. Firs' all he do is halp da homeless, which is fi', but jew got to branch ow, do new tings, which is why I say, we do new tings now!"

"So you're looking to expand your programs," replied Scott.

"Jays!" she said emphatically, bringing her hand down on the table for emphasis. "Jew make us da monies and we create da programs, jew understan'?"

"Je.." Scott caught himself and coughed politely, "yes, yes I understand."

"Sometime, I speak low," she stated, glancing over her shoulders and leaning in closer in a conspiratorial manner. "Sometime, I don't even know I do it and peoples say, "I don understan' jew, so now I ask, do jew understan'? Do jew?"

"Yes, I understand, you want increased funding to increase SocioPath's programs"

"Do jew, aaaaaaaaaahhhhh, do jew eva do a fun' razor?"

"Yes," replied Scott, "I've done many fundraising events."

"We had a lunch," she stated, shaking her head, her neck wobbling out of control, "jew wouldn't believe... We had tree hunred guess and we pay for ebryting, food, akahole, programs... I even get up and mack a spitch, I tell dem, "Jew gotta give or dey peoples will have nothing". It was a good spitch, my seceratary, she cry when she hear da spitch..."

"Did you do well?" asked Scott.

"I do great," she replied.

"So you raised a lot of money," he smiled. "Always compliment them either in words or by your attitude for their achievements" the book said.

"We make close to four hundred dollar," she replied.

Scott frowned internally; four hundred dollars? From three hundred people?

She continued, ignoring him, "Jew see all the peoples, dey give, it was goo', but we need mo' if we are going to grow large."

"Yes, I understand."

"Do jew?" she stated, eyeing him suspiciously. "We wanna start a program dat help girls get makeup."

Scott frowned, unsure if he understood her.

"I'm sorry, a program to give girls makeup?"

"Jays," she replied solemnly. "De girls, dey no know how to put on da makeup and den dey feel like dey are no special. If we give dem da makeup and teach dem to put it on, dey suffer more from self esteem which make dem better 'tudents, sister, daughter..."

"So it is to help them with self esteem," replied Scott. "So we are taking the girls who were homeless..."

"Noooo," she drawled, "no, der are no girls in de homeless program. We no, aaaaaahhhh, we no take dem, jew must be an adult to be in de homeless program."

"Oh, I see," replied Scott.

"If dey come to us, a girl, we send dem to social service," stated Doctor Gillio. "If family come, we send dem to social service, aaaaaahhhhh, we jus' take adult, man or female."

"So this would be a completely separate program aimed at a new demographic," stated Scott.

"Jays, dis is a whole new 'nitiative. It will star' up in de Bronx, Cot, in our cenner up der and den we will move it to udder places."

"But aren't the homeless outreach programs and outpatient services handled at the centers?" asked Scott.

"Jays, of course," she replied.

"Oh," he said. "I just thought it would be a bit of a hard sell to get parents to bring their children there..."

"Why?" she asked.

"Well, it's just that some parents might think it isn't the environment that they want to send their daughters into," he stated pleasantly, unhappy he had voiced the thought.

"If dey wan' dey daughters to learn 'bout makeup, dey aaaaaaahhhh, dey have to go there."

"Certainly..."

"If jew walk down da street in Manhattan, aaaaaaahhhhh, Manhattan ebry dey, dey have homeless ebery place..."

"Yes, of course."

"Jew can't aaaaaaaaahhhhhh, jew can't protect yo' daughter forever. If she need to understan' makeup....jew see, as a man, jew don't understan' makeup, but a woman understan', but that's okay, jew don't have to understan', jew are not a social worker..."

"Oh," replied Scott.

"Jew see Cot, the Sogiopat mission mus' be fo' ebrybody. What are jew?"

Scott had no idea of how to answer, but happily, the question was rhetorical.

"Jew are like me and I like jew, we are peoples," she stated. Her demeanor changed, she now took on the personality and tone of a teacher who was tutoring a student. "Peoples need peoples, like da song say, "peoples who need peoples is da happy peoples" and dis is true. If jew, aaaaaahhhh, if jew were alone, jew no wanna be alone, jew wanna be wit peoples, jew wanna be a member, aaaaaaahhhhh, a member of society, jew understan'?"

"Yes."

"So der jew are, a member of society, but how do jew become a member? Jew don' go to de box office and jew say, "Give me a ticket," no, no, jew don' do dat. Jew act like udder peoples, jew choose a, aaaaaaaahhhhh, a pat toooo society, jew understan'."

"You join the social contract," responded Scott, hoping he was using the term correctly.

From the way her face lit up, he could see that he had hit the bull's-eye.

"JAYS, jays indeed," she beamed. "Jew see, homeless is a problem, no makeup is a problem. Jew need to have a home, jew need to have makeup, if jew ain't got a home, jew is homeless. If jew ain't got makeup, everyone make fun of jew, jew have no frien's, jew are alone you are no part of society. So a girl with no makeup is like a homeless and jew have to trea' each person, aaaaaaahhhhh, each person for da problem dey have, jew see? Jew are a boy, jew don' need no makeup, but if jew a girl, jew would need a lot of makeup, jew see?"

"Yes, it all makes sense," replied Scott. "It's one large social problem."

"Jays, jays, exactly..."

They sat in silence, Doctor Gillio pleased with herself for having imparted wisdom and Scott thinking that he must be crossing the border into crazy land where lack of makeup and homelessness were somehow equivalent problems

"Dis is how," she said rising to her full height in the chair, "dis is how I create Sogiopat. Dis is where da name come from, because jew need to fine jew pat to society. If jew step off da pat, we are der to help jew find da pat again."

Scott nodded his understanding, thinking of the text of the book, "It must be completely obvious to the interviewer that you understand and agree with whatever they are saying and trying to accomplish. This understanding will mold you in their mind to be the person that they are looking to hire. The secret of a successful interview is to always remember that every interviewer is looking for a mirror image of themselves."

"How soon do jew think jew coul' get us da funding for da makeup?" she asked, eyeing him with her back-to-business face.

"We might not need to explore monetary funding for that," he replied. "We might be able to create an in-kind donation opportunity for a manufacturer who might be persuaded to aid us by giving us makeup."

"Jays," she replied, "but who would den pay for da teacher?"

Scott blinked a moment, teacher? They really needed to put someone on salary for this?

"Perhaps we could save the cost of a full time teacher, especially in the beginning, when the program is just starting out, by asking people in the field to volunteer their time, you know, professional beauticians or stylists... Another option would be to contact a beauty school and see if they might allow their students to participate..."

"Intership," she stated, slapping the table like a happy three year old. "If we get da student, we could begin a intership program."

"Well it would really be an internship program for the school," replied Scott.

"Jew can get money for an intership program," she stated. "Did jew ever do dat?"

"Yes, many times," he replied. "I'm sure with your staff we could set up an internship program..."

"We got one," she replied before he could finish. "We got homeless peoples and dey go and inter' at different stores and places like aaaaaahhhhhhh, like Burka King and MatDonalds."

"Well, I'm sure we could branch out into other areas..."

"Jays, as we grow we need to branch out 'cause we are getting too congest."

"I can certainly see SocioPath growing in a multitude of directions," responded Scott. "Not only new programs, but certainly with increased funding to older programs..."

"Jays, der is a need for increase in odar program," she replied, "but firs' we need mo' maney. Da curren' aaaaaahhhh, da curren' program underfinance. We need mo' maney jus' to pull even, jew understan'?"

"Are there other programs that you have near the launch stage?" asked Scott.

"Oh jayssss," she replied, nodding with a frown. "We hab manny, manny program to do. We hab a program for fishes..."

Scott smiled, "Fishes?"

"Jays, we cho da fishes to da public to increase serenity," she replied. "Manny peoples no serene, but da fishes, dey see, dey become..." she made an expansive gesture, it might have signified a fishpond or a tank or a lot of people, he had no idea. "We put up all over da city, hun'reds of tank of fishes, serenity."

"Wouldn't we need to have rather a large group of people to care for and maintain that many fish tanks?" asked Scott.

"Jays, but jew get us da money," she replied, pointing to him as if she had just given him the easy part.

"Of course," he replied, smile broadening. He thought of the book, "Allow their dreams to become your dreams," it had said. Sure, why not? He was sharing the dream of hundreds of serenity fish tanks set up around Manhattan by a midget; suddenly it began to dawn on him that he might need to doubt some of the wisdom of the book...

"If I might suggest something, Doctor," he began.

"Jays, jays..."

"I have looked over the company website and its decent, but we might bring more donors in if we had a more easily recognizable symbol," he began. "The name SocioPath is excellent, but perhaps, in order to increase our visibility with the public, we could come up with a "face" for the organization."

"Jays, jew are on top of dis," she nodded, neck wobbling. "I tell dem, we need a face for dis company, but dey say who. I say I know!"

"You have a symbol for SocioPath?" he asked.

"Jays," she replied, smiling happily. "ME!"

"Jew?" he asked, forgetting himself completely.

"Jays," she smiled. "I found da company, I should be da face..."

"Certainly," he agreed, "I would think that you would make an excellent spokesperson..."

"Dew jew tink I'm gonna spen' money on pictures?" she asked pointedly. "No, no artist needed. We jess need for me to be out more, jew understan'? We jess need me to be on television, on raadio, in da newpaper, peoples need to know about Sogiopat and dey need to know it from me."

"Yes," he replied, "but perhaps we could also feature other supporting players. Doctor Reynolds, the head of the homeless division recently did a wonderful story..."

"But he is not da face," she stated calmly.

"No," he replied, quickly backtracking. He had touched a nerve, "No, I'm not suggesting that at all, Doctor, not at all. What I mean is that we do what is called a set up, you know, like at your event. You didn't just get up and speak, someone introduced you..." hopefully in English, he thought. "You spoke but they gave your background..."

"I can give mah back'round," replied the Doctor. "Reporters, Cot, reporters lub me. When I spic to a reporter, dey always smile, always..."

Scott smiled and let it go immediately.

"It's your personality," he confessed, leaning slightly closer as if confessing a well known secret. "The face needs no introduction..."

"Esactly," she replied, obviously pleased with him. "Jew understan' people, Cot. Jew understan' dem and dats what we need..."

Rising, she gestured for him to follow.

"Jew know, Cot," she stated as she waddled towards the office door, "jew seem to understan' Sogiopat..."

"Well, Doctor Gillio, I would love to work here and continue growing with the company," replied Scott, feeling as though they were discussing a real possibility.

"Jays, I see dat and I tink jew will be on da shore list of contenters for da position," she nodded, neck flopping with each movement. "Mine jew, I done make da decision alone..."

"No, I understand that Doctor Gillio," he replied seriously, "but I can't think of a more eloquent spokeswoman for my cause..."

She looked at him, impressed with his ability to be properly awed by her.

"Jew got dat right mah fren," she chuckled warmly. "But jew have to understan', I am only wan vote. Der are udder votes an I gotta see what dey tink. If Misser Wallch if he say, "Doctor, we need to have dis girl an not Cot." I have to lissen and try to say jays or no, jew understan'?"

"Of course, Doctor Gillio, of course," replied Scott. "I'm sure that many fine applicants have applied for the position. SocioPath is known as a great place to work..."

"Jays, because I make it so!" she replied proudly. "Mah secretary, she been wit me fo, aaaaaaaahhhh, wit me fo tweny ni jeers, tweny NI! Did jew ever hear of someting like dat?"

"You must have a wonderful relationship," replied Scott. "How fortunate for her to have all that time to learn from you..."

"Jaaays," replied the doctor, realizing the great gift she had imparted, "whan she come here, she know almost notting, almost notting, but now, she could almoss be a doctor herself..."

"What a wonderful tribute to you," replied Scott, smiling at his ability to slip into full blown butt kisser mode without any outward signs of his disgust.

"Jays, Cot," she replied as she opened the door. "Jays, I do a lot for manny, manny peoples..." She nodded at the good fortune of the others who had met her. "Well, Cot, tank jew for topping by..."

Scott took her hand warmly, "Thank you, Doctor, for taking the time out from your important work to see me..."

"Da committee will meet tonight," she stated. "Ebrybody will jeer from us by Wansdey da latest, jew understan'?"

"Then I look forward to Wednesday," he replied. "BIG SMILE," yelled the book, "IT IS NOW THAT YOU WILL MAKE THE MOST INDELIBLE IMPRESSION. DON'T BE AFRAID TO SHINE!" Scott smiled so widely his cheeks hurt.

Doctor Gillio looked up at him and gave him a smile that just kept getting wider. It reminded Scott of the Grinch when he had gotten a truly awful idea.

"Jew will be hearing from us," she stated. "Probably jew will be hearing from us eben sooner!"

She pointed her child like hand at him and then slipped behind the door, closing it softly behind her.

Scott hesitated for a moment, feeling as though the weight of the world had lifted from his shoulders and took a deep breath. Turning, he sauntered down the hallway, peeking into the offices via side glances, wondering which one would be his if he got the job. It had gone better than he could hope for, it was practically over!

Chapter 9 - The Recap

"THE SHOTGUN" was a little bar-pub-restaurant about three blocks from Scott's apartment that would always be his favorite place in the whole world because it was here that he had his first date with the love of his life, Jill. He could remember how nervous he had been when he had screwed up his courage and asked her out that first time and how surprised he had been when she had accepted. He remembered everything about that date, what she wore, what he wore and most of all that it was on that night that he had kissed her for the first time. From that point onwards there had been no turning back, just a constant quest to get through the morning/afternoon/evening/day/week so that he could see Jill again.

As he entered the pub he scanned the single large room, the dark oak paneling scraped and pitted, the floor worn and battered, the bar, long and swarming with activity. Glancing to his right, he spotted her along the wall at a table for two, watching him with an amused expression. He dodged his way to her side and bending over kissed her lips, feeling the smile of her expression. Pulling back he stared into her eyes and smiled.

"Hey beautiful..."

"Hey beautiful you," she laughed. "Look at you all dressed up. Is that a new suit?"

"Same old piece of crap," he laughed, lowering himself onto the chair opposite her.

"It looks different," she replied coyly. "Maybe its how you're wearing it, you been working out?"

"Every day," he purred, "can't keep all this going without putting in the time..."

The two of them laughed and she leaned forward excitedly.

"So how did it go?"

He leaned back a bit and thought about it.

"You know, I usually don't think I've done too well on these things..."

"Oh not again," she said, shaking her head. "You probably did fine..."

"No, I'm not saying that," he interrupted. "I honestly think I did well on this one, I really do!"

She looked up and broke into the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

"Really?"

"Yeah," he laughed. "I mean it. There were some rough patches to be sure, like when my perspective new boss was screaming at her kid..."

"So you told me," she giggled. "Was it really that bad?"

"I swear to you, she was yelling so loud at the kid I'm surprised the Child Welfare Office didn't take part in the interview. Who the hell brings their kid to an interview?"

"Do you want to work for someone who screams?" she asked. "If you get the job, you can't say you weren't warned..."

"From what the receptionist said, she's okay to work for, it's just the kid drives her nuts," he replied. "I discussed salary with her and frankly, she can scream all she wants as long as the numbers she gave me were correct."

"My boy is turning mercenary," she smiled. "Did you have any trouble getting around the city?"

"It really wasn't bad time wise, but you can't even imagine what the subways are like during the heat of the day. I'm not sure what was worse though, the cab ride to the interview or the subway ride to see Doctor Gillio..."

"She's the CEO right? What was she like?"

The waitress approached and they ordered their drinks and began to scan their menus in earnest.

"She's a midget."

"Who?"

"Doctor Gillio," he replied, "she's like a midget."

"Cut it out," laughed Jill. "I never know when to believe you..."

"I swear, she's like four and a half feet tall," he replied.

"I thought you had to be less than four feet to be a midget," she stated.

"Then she's just on the border..."

"And you're not supposed to call them midgets," she stated, "you're supposed to call them "little people"."

"Fine, she's a little person with a horrible accent and a badly Photoshopped photo on the internet."

"You're kidding," she replied. Jill couldn't help it, things like that always peaked her interest.

"Let me see," he said, looking through his binder and finding the copy of the webpage bio he had for her. "See here, from here up, completely accurate, from here down, nothing matches, nothing!"

"Oh you're kidding me," replied Jill.

"I swear, if I get the job, you'll meet her at some point and you'll see," he said. "She honestly doesn't look bad for her age, but she looks nothing like this; first off her nose isn't so dainty and then her chin is the beginning of a long tube that ends at the beginning of her clown costume..."

"You're an idiot," stated Jill, shaking her head ruefully. "How about the other guy, what was his name?"

"Walsh?"

"Yeah, what was he like?"

"He slept through most of lunch," stated Scott, "except when he was introducing me to people as Todd."

"Todd?" she yelped. "Oh God, that's too funny. You do NOT look like a Todd..."

"Well, apparently he thought I did. I met his girlfriend who isn't his girlfriend, very weird..."

"Oh, I thought it was going to just be you two..."

"No, there was a woman there, her name was Barbara and she was one of those aggressively happy people..."

"You mean like Kathy Lee Gifford?"

"Personality wise, yeah, but she was much older and she had those big, happy eyes..." Scott opened his eyes wide and smiled in a point on imitation.

"Oh, that's scary," shuddered Jill. "Yeah, that's bad... do you think she's over medicated?"

"I can't be sure, but I don't really care," he replied happily. "I won't be seeing them again. I don't know if they'll even report the lunch to the proper organization and we had some extremely meaningful exchanges."

"About what?"

"Professional wrestling mostly," explained Scott, holding up his hand to stifle her objection. "It's a fact; they don't want some yahoo who believes in professional wrestling to ask people to donate money to their makeup fund."

Jill stared at him a moment and then shook her head looking at the menu as the waitress returned for their order. After the waitress had left, she leaned in closer, a perplexed expression on her face.

"Scott, is something the matter?"

The question took him off-guard.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well," she drawled, "you always seemed so happy where you are with Barry and Tony and the guys and all of a sudden, you're out looking for work. I know you used to look casually, just to keep your options open, I guess we all do to a degree, but suddenly, you're so driven about it. Did something happen at work? Are they talking about cutbacks..."

Scott's features softened, it was so like Jill; she was always concerned about him, always worried about his happiness. It was part of the reason that he wanted to spend every moment of his life making her happy.

"No, sweetheart, not at all," he stated, reaching out and taking her hand. "I'm happy with the guys and no, there has been nothing about cutbacks or anything like that..."

"Then why the sudden push?" she asked, unsure if he was being brave for her sake.

"I've done pretty much everything I'm going to do where I am," he said, looking at her hand in his own. "If I'm going to get better at what I do, if I'm going to grow, I need to go to a larger place, that's all."

She frowned and shrugged, "I just don't want you turning into one of those career obsessed morons who spend all their time thinking about work and never being happy."

He leaned over and kissed her, "How could I ever become obsessed about anything but you?"

She looked at him and gave him a small smile.

"You're sure you're not just being brave or putting on a front for my sake."

"I'm a huge coward, if there was a chance I was losing my job, I'd be complaining nonstop, honestly, you'd hate to be around me."

She squeezed his hand, "I find that hard to believe..."

Chapter 10 - The Decision

Wednesday morning broke upon New York clear and sunny, the skies bright and surprisingly blue. Wisps of clouds floated over the city like white winged birds, headed out towards Long Island and the ocean beyond. Despite the noisy beginning of another work day with its accompanying hustle and bustle, Scott found himself amazingly stress free. Today would be an important day in his life; he just knew it, felt it in his bones. Yes, today would be a day he remembered as the day his future began.

Usually Scott was a fast walker, but today he sauntered down the street on the way to his office, taking time to notice everything on his route. He had never noticed the little flower shop not three blocks from the office, or the newsstand in the opening that led to the subway two blocks away across the street. Somehow, the people seemed different today, as if all the familiar people he saw walking and rushing about were magically replaced with an entirely different set of people.

Pretty women and flirty girls, sour businessmen and blue collar guys all flooded past him on the street, everyone on the way to do whatever it was they needed to do with no thought of any of the thousands of people surrounding them. He noticed encounters and confrontations; little dances where people could not get out of each other's ways; everything that took place every other morning without his notice or care. Somehow, in his heart, he knew today was different. Somehow he wanted to remember everything today, everything.

***

The selection committee sat around the table in Doctor Gillio's office, no one particularly pleased or surprised by the last minute nature of the meeting. Doctor Gillio was always running late, it was as much her trademark as her turkey neck and clownish pant suits.

At the appropriate moment, when everyone had been seated and it seemed like starting the meeting could not be avoided any longer, the doctor called the meeting to order. Looking about the table, she imagined this was how it was like for John F. Kennedy during the Cuban Missile Crisis, his cabinet awaiting his firm, unerring decisions, focused on the holder of so much hope. Yes, she too was a great leader, all of her plans coming together.

Seated around the table, Mister Walsh, Ms Sandler, Miss Martha Manson and Heather all looked down at her with varying degrees of smiles. They too were thinking of great leaders like Kennedy, but instead of seeing themselves as the minions of a person of destiny, they found themselves imagining that they were Oswald and this was Dallas.

"Soooo," she drawled, "I tink it best we begin wit' Hedder, we give her some chains to give us her feedback an waa she tinks."

Heather smiled at the group, hoping that the interview she had gone on a week before would make it possible for her to avoid these meetings in the future.

"I think all of the candidates showed promise," she stated politely, "but for me two were real stand outs. First was Craig Edwards, the young man who had graduated from Princeton and the second was Scott Russell. I think Mister Russell has the best overall experience and that Mister Edwards perhaps the best education out of the candidates."

"Perhaps," stated Doctor Gillio, with a smile, "jew jus' like dem because dey are men."

No one at the table reacted. Heather sat, not sure if she should continue, feeling completely undercut by the statement.

"So Hedder is done," stated the doctor, almost completely unaware of what she had done. "Now jew, aaaaaaahhhhhh, jew, Marcha, jew met dem too, waa you tink?"

Martha smiled, especially at Mister Walsh and then opened the folder that sat in front of her, extracting two sheets of paper. Straightening them in front of her, she looked up as though pleasantly surprised by the company.

"I think that we were very fortunate in the range of abilities and competencies that we found amongst the candidates who interviewed for the position. Like Heather, I think there were two candidates, however, who were miles above the rest. The first was Scott Russell; he has the education and the experience to fill the position and with his background I truly believe he would make an immediate favorable impact on the department. The other is Chester Limon; he hasn't been in the business as long, but he comes across as a real go-getter and he has finance experience that I think will be useful later down the line. I think that either one would be an excellent fit for the organization."

"Jays," nodded Doctor Gillio, head down as if considering Martha's words. "Jays, I see." Suddenly, she jerked her head up and looked at Heather, "Do jew see, Hedder? She say someone differen' dan jew. Dat is importan', because she say Chester and jew say Craig and dey are not da same. Jew see dat?"

Heather nodded, still unsure of what she was being asked to acknowledge.

"Tank jew Marcha," said Doctor Gillio, again ignoring Heather. "I tink I wanna hear from jew, Director Sannnler befo' we 'peak to Misser Walch."

Ms Sandler looked at the papers in her hands, her expression expressionless. She was hoping the meeting would end early because she had to pick up Dylan from school early and take him to the doctor.

"I think all three, Mister Evans, Mister Russell and Mister Limon showed promise. It is difficult, given their qualifications to pick which one is a better fit, they all have a lot going for them. Still, since I have to choose, I would say that I would perhaps be happiest with Mister Russell, then Mister Limon, then Mister Evans, in that order. I understand that you, Doctor, make the final determination, but that is the order that I place them in."

Doctor Gillio nodded, her face descending into a frown.

"Jew see, Hedder," she stated abruptly, "she don' like Misser Evans either. He came in third and we don' wan no peoples who finish thir' working here, we wan people who finish firs'."

She looked about the table nodding vigorously and receiving vigorous, affirming nods in return. Why she had taken such a dislike to Heather, no one could seem to fathom but as long as she wasn't bothering them, everyone was in agreement.

Pointing to Mister Walsh, the Doctor hopped down from her chair and waddled over to him, taking his hand and laughing for no apparent reason. For his part, Mister Walsh took her hand and frowned as if detecting some annoying odor.

"It is our gray pleasure for jew to be here," she stated, not letting go of his hand. "Jew hab bin a gray help in dis process. So Misser Walch, what jew tink about da peoples dat jew met?"

Mister Walsh cleared his throat and looked at the ceiling for moment before speaking.

"Well, there were three that stood out in my mind as eminently qualified for the position. I'm surprised that none of you mentioned Maryjo Werner, the first applicant, I think she would be a great addition to the agency."

Ms Sandler, Martha and Heather exchanged glances but said nothing. Maryjo Werner had just graduated college. She had been very pleasant during her interview, incredibly thoughtful but mostly they remembered that her outfit had offered generous views of her large breasts. While she might become a first class employee, none of the three doubted that Mister Walsh's interest were more in her present superstructure than in her possible later development. The fact that he had remembered her name spoke more of her assets than of her accomplishments.

"She would offer a fresh perspective," stated Walsh thoughtfully. "I could see the donors approving of her."

"The male donors anyway," mumbled Ms Sandler, too quietly to be heard.

"Do jew seeee?" snapped Doctor Gillio, wheeling on Heather suddenly. "Jew don' even say Mayjo! Jew didn' even say her!"

Heather glanced at Martha and then looked back at Doctor Gillio, unsure of what she should say or do. Turning back to Walsh, the Doctor smiled, an endearing gesture similar to a flying monkey grinning at the Wicked Witch of the West.

Walsh shook his shaggy head and looked down at the table.

"The other two who impressed me were Todd and the one with the green tie."

Doctor Gillio looked at Martha for an explanation.

"I don't know who Todd is," she said, looked into her file and finding no one with that name. "Are you sure his name was Todd?"

"Something like Todd," grumbled Walsh. "Do you think I have everyone's names memorized?"

"Jays," agreed Doctor Gillio, "Misser Walch is bery busy, do jew tink he know eberyone's name?"

"Could you describe him?" asked Martha, looking to Ms Sandler for affirmation and receiving none.

Walsh considered it.

"He was a man," he stated, "about thirty with brownish hair, if I remember correctly..."

"Do you think it might have been Scott Russell?" asked Martha, thumbing through sheets of paper, attempting to look as if she were examining the various candidates files.

"It might have been..."

"Okay, we'll say it was Scott," replied Martha. "The other man, the one with the green tie..."

"Jays," interrupted Doctor Gillio, "who do jew tink dat was?"

"Could you describe him?" asked Martha.

"Green tie," belched Walsh. "Don't remember his face, after a while they all look alike, don't they?"

"Do jew mean he was black?" asked Doctor Gillio, inadvertently being racist while trying to be helpful.

Walsh considered it.

"Might have been..."

"Well, both Mister Limon and Mister Evans are black," stated Martha proudly. "I don't recall either wearing a green tie however..."

"Did jew see a green tie, Director Sannnler?" asked Doctor Gillio.

"I don't recall their ties, Doctor Gillio," she replied primly. "Was there anything else about them that would distinguish them?"

Walsh considered it.

"Nah..."

"Well tank jew, Misser Walch," said Doctor Gillio. "Why don' we all go to lunch and den we can come back and make a dechison."

Martha stood and smiled, "Begging your pardon, Doctor, we had said we inform the candidates of who we decided upon by noon and it's already after one..."

Doctor Gillio considered it for a moment and then looked at Mister Walsh, her features drawn in an uncomprehending frown.

"So dey wait," she shrugged. "If we call today or tomorrow, do jew tink it matter?"

"They're lucky to get a call at all," grumbled Walsh.

"Less go to lunch," she replied. "Hedder, you stay here in case anyone call jor departmen'. Jew ladies, come wit us..."

Heather watched them sashay out the door, Doctor Gillio grasping Mister Walsh's arm, hanging from it like a hurdy-gurdy monkey. God, she hoped she got that other job. No wonder they needed a full time human resources staff. Only a psycho would stay here...

***

It had been a long weekend and the walk to work had been stifling as only a hot day in New York City could make it. The sidewalk thrust heat up towards you while the sun beat down on you, the air around you still and sticky and barely breathable. Cars rumbled short distances and then stopped, letting off fumes and even more heat and the noise seemed to physically strike you. Walking to the office had been hard and depressing, another Monday morning, here. He hadn't heard a word from SocioPath and he thought he had done so well...

As he gained his office he heard the phone already ringing, who the hell needed him ten minutes before he started his day? Leaning over the phone, he looked at the display and something about the number looked familiar. For whatever reason, he picked it up as he pulled his coat from his overheated torso and flung it on his chair.

"Good morning..."

"Hi, this Heather Simmons from SocioPath."

He froze, "Hi, how are you?"

"Great, great... I'm sorry that I'm calling you so early, it's just that the decision regarding who would get the Development Manager's position was delayed until later Friday and I wanted to call you first thing this morning."

He felt his heart racing, "No problem, I always try to get to the office a bit early, sort of ease into my day..."

"Well, I'd like to say that it was a difficult decision, but on behalf of Doctor Gillio and the selection committee, I'd like to offer you the position of Development Manager here at SocioPath."

Thrusting a fist into the air, he struggled to keep his tone even and professional.

"Thank you, thank you very much..."

"We were hoping that you might be able to come in tomorrow to fill out some paperwork, say about nine o'clock..."

"That would be fine," he sighed, "that would be perfect."

"We ask that you bring your driver's license and your social security card. You'll come to my office and we'll fill out the paperwork and then once we've done the processing, I'll bring you to Ms Sandler and then the two of you will go to Doctor Gillio's office, is that all right with you?"

"Yes," he smiled, "perfect..."

"Well then," said Heather, and he could hear the smile in her voice on the other side of the phone, "I will see you tomorrow and welcome aboard Mister Evans..."

***

It was the third Wednesday since the Wednesday that they had promised to call him regarding the position and Scott officially gave up hope. He stared at his phone and swore softly under his breath, what had he done wrong? He had been charming, informative; he had done every damn thing that book had suggested, had smiled until his cheeks had hurt and nothing, absolutely NOTHING.

They had promised to call, they had said they would call either way and he hadn't had a message or a hang up or anything. Why did they always do that? Why did they promise to call and then never called? He suddenly felt sympathy with every girl in every chick flick he had ever been forced to watch.

For Pete's sake, they were a multimillion dollar company, they had hundreds of employees; none of them could call him and tell him, "No, we don't want you"? Meanwhile, if you did not call them back right away when they contact you, they gave your chance to someone else. It was so unfair and frustrating and...

The phone rang. Peering down at the display, Scott grimaced and picked it up.

"Hey Barry..."

"You hear anything, man?"

"Nothing, they still didn't call."

There was a long pause.

"I hate to say it buddy, but you need to let it go. They're not going to call, assholes. It's their loss Scott, they're the ones losing out."

"Thanks Barry..."

"And there are plenty of other companies out there..."

Scott put his hand to his head, covering his eyes, "Oh God, Barry, I can't stand doing this crap. I HATE interviews, honest to God, if I go on another one I think I'll scream..."

"Maybe you need to step back a bit," replied Barry. "I mean, you're working, it doesn't pay much I know, but at least you don't HAVE to get another job."

Scott nodded. He hadn't told Barry about why he wanted the new job, about his plans for the future, about his dreams of marrying Jill.

"You're right," he replied. "It's not a must have, but I just wish it would happen. There's so much more I could do if I had another job."

"I hear you, brother. Contrary to popular belief, I'd like to blow this place too, make some real money, but for the moment it's a living. Don't get discouraged man, you've got your resume out there, someone's bound to wake up..."

"You're right, you're right..."

Scott's other line began to flash.

"Hey, Barry, I'm getting a call..."

"Okay man, talk to you later."

"Later..."

Scott hung up and pressed the second line, "Scott Russell's office..."

"Boy, you sound happy..."

"Hey baby, it's so nice to hear your voice."

"Still haven't heard anything?"

Scott felt a knot in his throat; he hated to tell her he'd failed, that he hadn't gotten the job that would have opened up their future. He thought of the ring sitting in his dresser draw and he clenched his teeth.

"No, baby, no calls..."

"Scott," she said softly, "you've got to let it go my love. It's okay, so you didn't get it; it's not the end of the world..."

Or the beginning of our lives, he thought.

"You've been obsessing about this thing for two weeks now," she said sympathetically. "I've never seen you this keyed up about a job before, I mean, was it really that fantastic?"

Scott sighed, "No, I suppose not..."

"Then let it go," she said softly, reasonably. "Look, I know you want to switch jobs, but it'll happen. If not this year, then next year..."

"A year?" he snapped. "Oh, Jill, I couldn't wait a year, I couldn't do this for another year..."

"Relax," she replied. "Are things that bad at work?"

"Bad?" he asked. "No, there's nothing bad..."

"Then relax," she said, her smile coming through the phone. "So what you didn't get this job, so what it takes a year, it's all cool. You've got to let this stuff go, Scott. I told you before, I don't need you all ambitious and career driven."

"Oh, I don't care about that..."

"Then why the huge disappointment? It's not like you're out of work..."

He was so close to telling her, to just yelling out, "I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you and I have a ring but I don't make enough money to support us and all I want to do is work somewhere where I can make enough money to marry you and live happily ever after!" but he restrained himself.

"You know, you're right," he said, exhaling. "You're always right. There'll be other opportunities..."

"Of course there will..."

"I'll let it go," he said softly.

"Good. I'm proud of you. Now remember, I'm coming over for dinner tonight and you're cooking, I want you to concentrate on that, I don't need you poisoning me because you didn't get a call from PsychoPath..."

"SocioPath," he corrected.

"Well, I don't need you being a psychopath, so let it go," she giggled. "So what are you making me?"

"I might make my world famous horribly bland meatloaf and watery instant mashed potatoes," he replied.

"As long as you have ketchup, it's a totally acceptable dish," she said. "I'll be there around six thirty, okay?"

He smiled, thinking of her at his front door, her shy smile, her voice, "Fine. I can't wait..."

"Neither can I. Have a good day, love you."

"I love you too," he replied, waiting to hear her put the receiver down before he placed his phone back into its holder.

He wouldn't go online looking today, he decided. He'd do what Jill had said, he would back off and wait until next week, wait until Monday and then he'd start looking again. More looking, more research...still, he'd take the rest of the week off. He felt the disappointment wash over him and then with a deep sigh, let it go. Barry had said it was their loss, perhaps he was right, either way, he'd never know.

He thought of the book. It had suggested that he call; try to find out why they hadn't hired him. He followed the other advice but he would never be able to bring himself to do that, call them after he'd been rejected. It was like calling up a girl after a first date you thought had gone great only to find out she had no interest in seeing you again and then asking her why. In the long term it really didn't matter why, it was just something that was; there was nothing to be done about it.

He had known a guy who had made that call and he had gotten about what Scott had figured anyone who made that call would get. It wasn't him, he was wonderful, it was that the other applicant was just a smidge closer to matching their wish list, blah, blah, blah. What else could they say? "You sir are a horrible human being and we would never have allowed you to interview with us if we had known that prior to receiving your highly suspicious resume?" The best you could hope for was to speak to the person in human resources who had met with you and what would they be able to tell you? Mister Walsh didn't like you because secretly he adores professional wrestling? Doctor Gillio was angered by your tone in discussing makeup products? Who are you to favor Maybelline? Scott shrugged, it didn't matter, it was finished.

Scott rose and left his office, crossing to the small kitchen that the office shared to get a cup of coffee. Per usual, the coffee pot was almost empty, so he cleaned it and the filter and set up another pot. As he waited for the coffee to drip, he looked up at the small television set in the room and noticed a familiar face. At first he couldn't place it and then it struck him, it was the cabdriver who had taken him to the third interview. Grabbing the remote, he increased the volume as a news reporter's voice grew to a discernible level.

"...Akbar a hero. It started here on Twenty Ninth Street and Seventh Avenue, where witnesses say a man identified as Roland Peterson pulled a gun on a street vendor, Malcolm Trumain, who works the corner selling homemade beef patties. From the vantage point of his cab, Akbar saw the robbery taking place and jumped into action..."

A young woman in glasses appeared on screen, a subtitle, Florence Higgins, Witness, appearing beneath her image.

"Suddenly this cab cut across traffic and went up on the sidewalk and hit this guy. It wasn't until I saw the cab hit the guy and I saw the gun go flying that I realized that he was robbing the Jamaican guy... it all happened so fast and people were screaming."

The image cut back to the reporter. She was standing in front of the cabdriver who had his arm wrapped around the shoulders of a large Jamaican man wearing a multicolored hat on his head, the two laughing and smiling at one another.

"When the police arrived, they quickly took the suspect into custody. People are calling Akbar a hero..."

The picture cut to previously cut footage of a close-up of the cabdriver, who was speaking loudly.

"I SEEN THIS GUY WITH A GUN POINTED AT MALCOLM AND I SAID, HELL NO, NOT MY FRIEND YOU'RE GOING TO ROB, SO I DROVE MY CAR INTO HIM. THE POLICE SAY HE WILL BE OKAY, WHICH IS NO GOOD, BUT WHAT CAN YOU DO?"

"Were you afraid that you might get shot?" asked the reporter.

"NO, NO, I DON'T THINK SO. ALL I KNOW IS THAT I SAW MY FRIEND IN TROUBLE AND I COME WITH MY CAB AND HELP HIM. THAT'S WHAT NEW YORK IS ALL ABOUT, YOU KNOW? WE'RE ALL BROTHERS!"

The picture cut back to the reporter, the cabdriver and Malcolm laughing in the background, both eating beef patties.

"The mayor has stated that Akbar acted in the selfless way in which all New Yorkers act when they see an injustice. He stated that he will be nominating him for a Civilian Service Medal, the city's highest civilian honor. I'm Lauren Spalo, Fox Five News..."

Scott turned down the volume and poured himself a cup of coffee. Glancing back at the screen, he shook his head... only in New York.

Returning to his office, he sat in silence for a time. After a few minutes, he got down to work, studying his spreadsheets and finishing his monthly report. Everything was neat and tidy, all of the I's dotted and T's crossed. SocioPath had dissolved to a dull throb in his memory when his phone rang, the first line flashing in time to the noise.

"Scott Russell's office..."

"Mister Russell?"

"Yes."

"Mister Russell, this is Megan Winters from The Twinkle Foundation, how are you today sir?"

"I'm fine Megan," he replied. He had sent a resume to The Twinkle Foundation three months ago and had heard nothing.

"Mister Russell, do you have a moment to speak?"

"Yes, certainly..."

"We received your resume and are now starting to call candidates for the Director's position. Are you still available for the position?"

"Yes, I am..."

"Well, I was hoping to schedule an interview with you for this Friday, would that be possible?"

Scott's mind flashed to the idea of another interview, to the research and waiting, to the pointless questions, to the various indignities and almost screamed. Then a picture of Jill flashed through his mind, Jill as she was now and how she'd look when she was forty and then seventy, Jill holding a baby, Jill pulling into their driveway, Jill holding his hand in his old age, Jill, Jill, Jill...

With tremendous effort, Scott willed himself to smile. They can hear a smile through the phone, he reminded himself.

"That would be wonderful," he lied, "perhaps you have a time available in the afternoon..."

###

I would like to thank you for reading "The Interview". I hope that you have enjoyed this story and I invite you to let me know what you thought of it. Please feel free to drop me an email at maczazski@hotmail.com . If you enjoyed "The Interview", I invite you to take a look at my other work, available at Smashwords, Kindle and many fine ebook stores, just search Mac Zazski and see what you find!

Thanks again for choosing "The Interview", I look forward to hearing from you!

