Female Intern , AKA “Fi”, the delightfully grinning, straight-spined office kitten to my own wily office cat, has a job interview, one that will take her from the double-cubicle we currently occupy on the 48th floor to the rarefied air of the 49th.
Naturally, I object.
Look at her over there. Who wouldn’t love her? The glossy brown hair of a young ocelot and the clear, unblemished skin of a summer camp counselor, she is all that is right with her generation.
And who wouldn’t hire her? I defy you not to! Bright, amiable, hardworking and just a tad goofy, she is the cube-mate that so many of us want and so few of us have.
But what can we do? We raise them only to watch them leave…
“Maybe I’ll get the job but they’ll let me stay here.”
I grin at her. “That’ll happen.”
“I’m thinking there will be plenty of people ready to laugh at your shoe-sniffing ways. And as for gas– “ and here I shrug,” gas is universal.”
She laughs, a chimes-in-the-wind sound. “Gas brings us together.”
“And drives us apart.”
I turn back to my computer screen. “You’ll probably get the job,” I say.
She doesn’t say anything.
“When’s your interview?”
“Four,” she says.
“It’s already 3:30.”
She sighs, ever so softly. “You want to give me advice, don’t you?”
We stare at each other.
She sighs again. “OK,” she says. “Go ahead.”
I rub my hands together. “First, you’re going to want to have a couple shots before you go to the interview. Something to loosen you up, give you some confidence.”
She smiles. “I have tequila in my locker.”
“Perfect,” I say. “But don’t belch. That’s tacky.”
She bites the end of her pen, leans over a small pad of paper. “Belching during interview is tacky,” she says, writing. “Check.”
“And nothing says “I don’t need to work, but I’m still willing to come in every day” like lighting up a cigarette. Lets ‘em know you’re a multi-dimensional character that will bring excitement to the work place.”
“Gotcha.” She leans over the pad, writing. “Take up smoking for interview.”
“Also, I’m thinking that you should update your FaceBook status at some point. Lets them know you’re hip to the whole online scene.”
Fi grins. “And I do want to appear to be hip to the scene.”
“Right,” I say. “But don’t text. That’s just rude.”
“Gotcha.” She scribbles a brief note to herself. “What about a gift for the interviewer?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Nothing says “give me a job” like a gift. What’re you thinking?”
“Hmm,” she says, the end of the pen in her mouth. “I’m thinking a pack of smokes?”
“Or a pack of beef jerky?”
“Maybe a Victoria Secret giftcard?”
I tap the side of my nose, nod. “That’s my girl,” I say.
Man but I’m going to miss her.