~This story first appeared in Western Humanities
Review (1999)
(1982)
Rose is worried about how to answer Mr. Fly-By-Knight
Productions’ question (why did she leave her last job?) in a way that won’t
make Ray look bad. She cannot say the why of the truth—Oh, we pitched a
T.V. movie about a hoax to our bosses, the former quiz-show scandalers—so,
she’s going to say the general truth (Fly-By-Knight may already know)—Ray lost
his development deal there—euphemistically, it “expired”—but, before she can
get it out, Fly-By’s next question is, “Are you wearing a bra?”
Rose is
thinking, this is some kind of a joke, right? A test to see if she has a sense
of humor, or if she’s too young, too immature, flusterable, impressionable,
malleable, too serious for the position, anything to comprehend this bald guy
older than her dad asking her what lies between her nips and the shirt she just
ironed so damn carefully for this interview. It makes her think of wasted dates
she worked so hard dressing for, only to find whomever is most impressed when
her clothes are crumpled on the floor.
So, she
wants to be sophisticated. She answers, yeah, she’s wearing a bra. She doesn’t
want to make a big deal. And he says—“Why don’t you go in the john and change
out of it? Then we’ll continue more comfortably.”
“What?”
He laughs.
He shakes his head like Rose has got him wrong. “With your blouse on.
Unless you think it’s appropriate without.”
He is
putting “appropriate” on her? She just sits there.
He says,
“Say I’ve got Beatty coming in, I’ve got Hamilton, I’ve got Scott—guys I want
to be comfortable, you know, relaxed, when they walk through our doors, relaxed
when they walk out. Doesn’t make sense to have some smart, beautiful, uptight
girl, you know, first-thing-to-last in here. We need them coming back, wanting
to work with us. A beautiful girl just inside our doors, outside my door,
relaxed about who she is, makes a man feel all right in his skin, keeps his,
you know, creative juices flowing—makes for an all-around more comfortable
office experience.”
“I just want
to make sure,” Rose says. “Jess says you’re looking for a
development-slash-production assistant?”
“Am. Can
see, though, Erik and me, we’ve got room for only one more in these offices—
receptionist, D-Girl, secretary, P.A., dependin’ on what’s doin’. Let’s talk
more about specs when you’re more yourself. That’s who I want to be talkin’
to.”
Rose is too
smart for why-don’t-you-slip-into-something-more-comfortable. But, there’s no
one else to play this thing off of—the associate producer, Erik, and the woman
who’s leaving (why exactly?)—they are both out to lunch. Is he kidding?
She finds
herself in this guy’s bungalow john, thinking, Jess, Ray’s wife (and agent),
who set this thing up, goes way back with Fly-By, before Jess knew Ray, back to
her Paramount days, and she is like an aunt to Rose, so Fly-By, Rose figures,
is kind of like an uncle, or should be. Rose realizes how stupid it is to
pretend she can think like that, when at twenty-three she knows better.
Especially after Jess asked her to fill in as Ray’s “date” to the
Western-themed S.H.A.R.E. benefit and when Jess got back into town, so-called
friends told her they hated to report it but Ray was out with some young filly.
He seemed pretty tight with her. Rose figures Uncle Fly-By knows he
shouldn’t pull anything he doesn’t want Jess, or anyone else, to know about.
Unless Rose passing this test would mean that what goes on in his office is
what goes on in his office and Who-knows-who ain’t supposed to count for
Who-knows-what. And that’s not okay with her, not about doing business. She
knows that.
So, why does
she watch herself in the man’s bathroom mirror, tucking her blouse back into
her skirt and stuffing her bra—of all things on this interview—into her purse,
wondering, if this is what she has to do to qualify for this job, what would
she have to do to hold on to it? She knows something about setting precedents.
So,
why—instead of heading back out to her car on the strip, or to his office with
her bra still on (how would he know?)—does she return to his office, complicit
with him now in her bralessness?
Her blouse
does not show her bralessness—it is not see-through or clingy—a sturdy
rayon-cotton blend, short-sleeved, covered with an earth-tone jungle—but still,
Fly-By says: “That’s better. I feel more comfortable with you already.”
Now she’s as
creepy as he is.
