Working at Mayflower Center for Challenged children was a challenge in itself. I remember filling out the job application, chewing on the end of the black papermate pen the receptionist handed me. She watched me from behind her desk, peering over her tiny, thin rimmed bifocals. She regarded me with an air of disgust—making me so nervous, I ruined the M in my first name. I had to cross it out, grimacing at how unprofessional it looked and hastily completed the application. I avoided her eyes when I handed it back to her.
“Well,” I said, breathing a sigh, “I certainly hope to hear back.”
“Mm hmm,” she muttered, uninterested. She flipped through some pages on her desk, took my application and shoved it beneath a pile of papers.
“I also have a bit of experience working at a day camp a few years ago… so I know all about children,” I said confidently. I had tried to adopt tips from the interview survival tip guides I had read; they always said to remain confident—even if that meant faking it.
“My little brother had a learning disability, so I’m used to being around disabled people.” She glanced up at me briefly, creating a faint ray of hope for me. I pressed on. “My dad worked with a disabled boy when I was younger, so I spent time around him, and know what it’s like to be around those… you know… you – who are less fortunate.
“And, I once broke my own leg… so I know what it’s like to have a disability as—”
“Look, miss,” she interrupted, “all of your words and measly experience ain’t gonna help you get this job. What you put on the application will. Anything else is just extra fluff.”
I nodded at her, not being able to say anything. I felt a ridiculous lump rise in my throat that was impossible to swallow back down.
“Thank you,” I whispered, unable to find anything else to say. I nodded at her again, turned and left the building.
That week, I reviewed the massive pile of torn-out classified pages, looking over the help wanted section at least ten thousand times. All of the ads I highlighted and circled had either already found a worker, didn’t need a girl, or I wasn’t qualified. A few of them called for interviews, but I had too little experience, wasn’t cut out for the job, or made a complete fool of myself. It was that simple.
“If all else fails,” I said to my friend Cassandra after another exhausting day of job searching, “I can always resort to a fast food restaurant… won’t look so catchy on my résumé, but it’s always an option, no?”
“Keep searching,” she had said, “you never know when one place might call you back. Besides, all of those airborne grease particles in those places can make you so sick, you want to die.”
I knew she was exaggerating, but I tried to sound as if I believed her. In reality, I could tell that she just wanted me to get a higher paying job so that I could repay my debts to her in less time.
I did keep searching, however, with no other luck than “Oh, sorry, we’re not hiring,” or “Sorry honey, you don’t have enough experience.” I was getting tired of it all—the searching, the waiting—everything.
- - -
The phone rang one afternoon and I reluctantly lifted the receiver off the cradle, expecting it to be my mom with a worrisome “You need to get a job,” lecture, followed by an interrogation of “are-you-okay, have-you-been-eating, have-you-been-sleeping, where-have-you-been and why-haven’t-you-called.” If I avoided her calls, she would show up in her shiny black Cadillac, talk for hours about what she’s been doing and leave some money on the kitchen counter. Answering the phone was the only way to keep her at bay. I dried the tears of self-pity that I had been crying and cleared my throat before speaking.
“Hello?” my hoarse voice was evidence of exhaustion.
“Hello, may I speak to Amanda Thurman?”
“Speaking.” I perked up at the mention of my name and cleared my throat again.
“This is Mayflower Center for Challenged Children. You applied for a job here two weeks ago, yes?”
“Yes… that’s correct… I did.”
“We’re sure you’ll be happy to know that you got the job.”
The shock of the words silenced me, almost making me forget to breathe. I wasn’t quite sure what to feel, if I felt anything at the time. All of those long weeks of job searching finally brought to an end?
“Hello?” The voice on the other line asked, bringing me back to reality.
“Oh, sorry,” my voice was soft—possibly too faint for the phone to pick up, “I’m here.”
“How soon will you be willing to start?”
“Oh, um, as soon as possible,” I mumbled, hoping that this wouldn’t affect my reputation, if I even had one back then.
“How does tomorrow morning sound?”
“So soon?” I asked bluntly, but upon receiving no response, I corrected myself. “Tomorrow morning would be great. What time?” I tried desperately to maintain my composure although my stomach had nearly melted away.
“Seven-thirty A.M. on the nose,” the voice on the other line said sharply. “Work begins at eight o’clock, but you’ll need that extra time to prep and setup.”
Seven thirty is so early, I thought. I didn’t even wake until nine on a regular day. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It glared 5:43 PM at me in big, red digits.
“That sounds great,” I lied to the receiver. “Thank you. Thank you very, very much. I’ll be there. And I won’t be late.”
“You’re welcome,” the sharp tone had dissolved into a softer voice. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
All I could do was nod and gently place the receiver back in its cradle.
- - -
It took a good half-hour for the realization to sink in. When it finally did, I ran over to the windows of my cheap apartment. Flinging the curtains aside, I slid it open and stuck my head out. A breeze blew, inviting and refreshing, like a pool of relief after a long hot day in the sun of job searching. It made me feel giddy; I laughed loudly and screamed joyfully into the evening.
A woman below me walking with a small child looked up at me as if I were crazed. She grabbed the child’s hand and hurried on. I didn’t care; the fact that someone was willing to hire me, a poor twenty-one year old college dropout was exhilarating. I screamed again.
There was a knock on my door. I turned away from the window and went to answer it, peeking through the tiny hole in the middle. It was my neighbor from across the hall; I unlatched the door and opened it.
“Miss, are you alright?”
“I’m fine—no, actually, I’m great! Why do you ask?”
“We heard you scream, twice.” He was obviously annoyed. “Everything in here alright?”
“Everything’s perfect, sir,” I said, trying to hold back the smile that was splitting my face in half." Everything’s wonderful. Sorry for disturbing you.”
He nodded and walked back across the hall, mumbling. After I shut the door, I ran around the apartment, dancing and jumping on the furniture until I was out of breath. Then, plopping myself down on the shabby couch, I reached for the phone and dialed Cassandra’s number.
Not surprisingly, she didn't answer. I considered leaving a message, and quickly decided against it; I wanted to hear her reaction.
-
I woke early the next morning in a panic. It was only six fifty-two, but it was late enough to send me into a frenzied rush. Panicking, I ran around the house, trying to dress and find breakfast at the same time.
Not being able to find my keys put me on the verge of tears, only to laugh at myself when I discovered them hanging in their place on the key-hook. Finally clad in a black blazer over a white shirt and pin-striped miniskirt, I dashed from the house, trying to do my hair up in a presentable bun as I hurried.
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