Serissa
Serissa
The grating, repetitive blare of the alarm made my eye twitch even while my brain stubbornly tried to ignore the summons and stay asleep- more or less. Blindly, I flailed my arm, searching to either hit the snooze button or fling my phone into another dimension. At that point, I didn’t care, I just needed the noise to stop.
My hand connected with the smooth surface of my phone screen, and luckily, blessed silence ensued. I groaned as I rolled onto my back, knowing it was futile- I had to get up. Why did I agree to do an interview at nine o’clock in the morning? What madness had possessed me to think that I would be able to not only be upright, but functional enough to make a good impression after roughly three hours of sleep?
The only job I’d been able to land after moving to the city had been as a bartender at a fairly sleezy joint. The tips were good- better if I wore a low-cut shirt- and the pay was decent enough that I could at least cover rent and utilities in my crappy apartment in the crime-riddled neighborhood. Most months I could even afford to buy food that somewhat resembled healthy choices. Not organic, of course, but at least I wasn’t existing solely on instant noodles and baked beans.
Usually.
Still, I wanted a job I could pretend would offer me some step up in my career. I was paying a mountain of student loan bills for a degree in computer science that was going to waste while boozed regulars made the same inappropriate jokes about wishing it was a topless bar so they could “get a better look at the girls.” Ew. So, when the opportunity at Crescent, Inc. popped up in my job search, I jumped at the chance. True, the position was as a personal assistant, but they were one of the nation’s leading cybersecurity firms. If I played my cards right, maybe I would get a chance to show what I was capable of and get my dream job.
Or, you know, end up in another dead-end job working for a man who thought he was a god. But at least I would be in an office with decent hours and not come home at three in the morning with my shoes soaked in liquor and my hair plastered to my neck with sweat.
I yawned, wondering briefly how long I had until my second alarm, my fail safe for when I inevitably slept through the first alarm, would start blaring in my ear.
Sudden realization is painful first thing in the morning.
I jumped out of bed and snatched my phone from the nightstand. “S.hit!” It wasn’t quite a yell since the walls of my apartment were paper thin and I learned very quickly that my neighbors hated any noise, especially when they were sleeping off the effects of whatever they took the night before, but I couldn’t help it.
I always make the first alarm some sort of peaceful music in an attempt to fool myself that I’m the type of person that can be gently lulled out of sleep. The second alarm, the one that means I’m already late, is the annoying blast that yanks me physically from dreamland and smacks me awake. You know, the one that I’d just shut off. I had twenty minutes to shower, dress, do my make-up, and powerwalk without getting sweaty to the bus stop if I had any chance of making my interview on time.
Call me Miss Impossible, because yeah. That wasn’t ever going to happen.
I did, however, manage to find a pair of pantyhose without a run in them, tug on my dress and a sweater, run some gel through my hair, and throw the essential cosmetics in my bag to apply on the bus. I sniffed at my pits, and though I could really use a shower to wake up, at least I didn’t smell too bad. A bit of deodorant just to be sure, and I was out the door in fifteen minutes. It had to be some sort of record.
Still, my heart was racing as I climbed onto the bus. Early morning on a weekday heading into the business district, I should have realized there was no way I was going to get a seat. We were packed in like sardines, but this wasn’t the first time I’d applied make-up on public transport. I could see a woman a bit further down the bus eating cereal from a bowl. These were my people.
By the time we reached my stop, I’d managed to apply my eyeshadow and mascara, a bit of blush, and even swiped on some lipstick, all while bouncing through potholes and being jostled every time we stopped. Which was a lot. It was a relief to escape the claustrophobic press of bodies and breathe in the relatively fresh air on the street that smelled vaguely like donuts and burnt coffee.
There was a light yet steady trickle of misty rain falling, and I quickly scurried under an overhang. Not that it mattered. The dampness would already have done its damage. I didn’t need to see my reflection in a café window to know that my shoulder-length, wavy brown hair was already beginning to stick out in odd directions like I’d stuck my finger in a socket. I dug through my purse, looking for a clip or hair tie, anything that would help tame my frizzy mane so I didn’t look like a disco reject walking into my meeting, but came up empty-handed.
That’s ok, I thought desperately to myself. It’s not like they won’t know that it’s humid out here. Probably everyone has frizzy hair today. Looking around at all the people around me who looked perfectly polished had my spirits sagging a little, but I shook my head, deciding not to let it bother me. Confidence was the most important part of a job interview, right? And I could at least fake it.
Knowing time was not on my side, I headed in the direction of the Crescent, Inc. building, an enormous skyrise in the heart of downtown, a few blocks away from the bus stop. The sidewalk was crammed with men in suits chatting in serious tones about lunch meetings and golf times on their ear pieces that always made me wonder if there was actually anyone on the other side of the call, or if they were just putting on a show, women in high heels with their steely gaze focused ahead- not allowing anyone or anything to detract them from their goal, and me, just trying desperately not to get trampled in the stampede. You would think I’d be used to navigating around people after working in the bar and waitressing, but this was different. In the bar, people meandered. Here they were on a mission and I fully believed they would happily push me into traffic if I got in the way.
I tried to match the fast pace of the swarming herd, dodging and weaving around people headed the opposite direction while trying to avoid bumping into those walking next to me. Suddenly, the crowd seemed to part to allow space for two of the biggest men I’d ever seen in my life walking with purpose towards me. They were dressed in expensive business suits, but the grim looks on their faces made them seem almost menacing. I stepped to the side quickly, but I miscalculated. The world slowed down and it was like I was watching myself, peering through my fingers in horror like I used to watch scary movies as a kid. My foot hit the edge of the sidewalk, my ankle twisted painfully, and I landed on my knee hard enough to rip my pantyhose and cut my skin.
Not one person stopped to help. Typical.
I managed to stand back up, wincing at the sharp pain that shot up from my ankle, and frowning at the trickle of blood making its way down my shin.
“This is fan-f*****g-tastic,” I grumbled to myself as I tried to brush loose bits of gravel off my knee without making an even bigger mess. I was walking into an interview with my hair looking like I’d never heard of a brush, half-assed make-up, a busted knee, and a limp. What else could possibly happen?
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than a car hit a pothole right next to me, splashing me with muddy water and grime. I froze on the spot, mostly in disbelief at how much had gone so wrong in such a short amount of time, but also wondering if there was any point in me showing up to an interview in the state I was in. There was honestly no way I was getting the job now. It was bad enough that I had lost any grip on looking professional, but with the pain in my leg, I was certainly going to be late. I stood in the gutter, muddy water dripping from my dress to mix with the blood running down my leg, trying to come to grips with my current situation and decide on what I should do next, when a deep voice pulled me out of my stupor.
