All morning I questioned the amount of eyeliner I should wear. My mom told me once that I look like a “lady of the night” after putting on makeup while nervous.
“Please, Lord, don’t let them think I look like a tramp,” I said aloud to myself. “I can do this.” The last thing I needed was for my new co-workers to get the wrong impression of me on my first day.
As I got out of the car, I started replaying my interview over again for the 3,016th time. Mrs. Peoples seemed to like me and to believe I would be a good fit. I sure hope so.
iPhone, check. iPad, check. Favorite Pilot G2 blue ink pen, check. Alright, here goes nothing.
The Administrative Assistant greeted me warmly and took me upstairs. “Pat is with a client right now, but she asked me to have you wait in here until she is finished. She would like to meet with you briefly before your new employee training starts.”
As she walked away, I took advantage of the alone time to canvas my surroundings. The carpet was probably 15 years old and stains littered the areas not covered by various pieces of mismatched and outdated furniture. A desktop computer sat abandoned on a corner desk, displaying an “out of order” sign as well as an impressive amount of dust. I was about to walk closer to inspect a painting that appeared to be of a three legged horse, when I heard “You must be Grace” come from behind me.
Turning, I saw a woman grinning from ear to ear standing in the doorway; late twenties, strikingly pretty, and not married. Come on, I’m 26 and single. I do ring checks on everyone.
I returned her enthusiastic grin, “Yes, I am. And you must be Pat.”
“Oh no,” she laughed. “My name is Charity. I am in the office next to yours and heard that you had arrived. I knew Pat was with someone, so I wanted to stop in to welcome you to Non-Profit.”
“Got it. And thank you, that is very kind,” I said. “What is it that you do here?” As Charity started describing her role as Client Satisfaction Coordinator, a tall, foreboding figure entered the room.
“Charity, give Grace and me some privacy.”
She spoke so quickly that she had entered the room, taken a seat and was looking expectedly at me before I could say goodbye to Charity.
I joined the woman, whom I assumed to be Pat, at the table and began to introduce myself.
“Yes, yes,” she interrupted. “I know who you are, where you came from, and what you think you have to offer Non-Profit. What you need to know is that I have been the Director of Public Image for nine years and I am not going anywhere. We have an established and reputable name in this city that I refuse to allow any new employee to tarnish. Do you understand?”
Before I could open my mouth to respond, she resumed speaking: “Your position is new, so there is no one to be your safety net while you train. I expect you to hit the ground running. And mind you, Grace, running in the right direction.”
The door opened and Charity stepped in. I was grateful for the momentary distraction. Pat was staring at me so intensely that I felt confident she knew what color underwear I had on.
Without a word, Pat rose from the table and exited the room.
Dumbfounded, I stood up from my seat and looked at Charity with a pleading look on my face, “Can you please point me in the direction of a very strong cup of coffee?”
A timid smile formed on her face, almost as if she had been asked that question a time or two. “I’m sorry, Grace,” Charity said. “We don’t have a coffee machine here at Non-Profit, but if you sneak over to the bank next door they have usually have a fresh pot.”
Blerg.
*Written by Allison Gibson
Edited by Sarah Warren
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