- Margot -
I couldn’t believe Landon managed to get me an interview. I mean, I didn’t doubt his persuasiveness. I just didn’t expect him to stick his neck out for me like that.
As planned, I arrived forty-five minutes early, leaving myself plenty of time to relax and prepare but not enough time to go wandering too far.
Sitting in the waiting room for that long seemed a bit overeager, though, especially for an unpaid internship. So I crossed the street and went into Starbucks, pretending that I, too, was a working professional in the big city.
I’d normally go for a coffee, but I didn’t want to be jittering all over the place—or worse, desperately in need of a pee during my interview. So I got myself a green tea and took a seat by the window so I could keep an eye on the building, as if it might walk away in an attempt to sabotage me.
While I waited for my drink to cool down, I went over some common interview questions in my head, reminding myself that if I were asked where I saw myself in five years, I should not say, “running my own ad agency and pregnant with Landon Bishop’s baby,” though I admit the thought did make me smile.
At one point, my silent study was interrupted by the sight of a pretty blonde. I assumed she was an actress or a model because she was in head to toe black and had that glow about her that only really confident spotlight lovers have. That being said, I was glad I saw her before my interview.
She was the perfect reminder to keep my body language in check. I rolled my shoulders back and straightened in my chair as I watched her, noticing how easy and wide her smile was and how charmed the otherwise robotic staff were by her presence.
When the barista shouted “Izzy,” she picked up her drink, raised a piece of paper in the air, and asked if she could hang it on the corkboard at the front of the store. Not surprisingly, she got a quick and enthusiastic yes and pinned it up before exiting through the double doors.
A few minutes later, I finished my tea and went to see what she was advertising, convinced it would be a show of some kind. But it wasn’t. It was an ad for a room vacancy.
“Single room with shared bathroom available in Lower East Side. Great location. Good access to public transportation and other amenities. Civilized, hygienically conscious but unabashedly eccentric roommate included. Must be employed. Actors, artists, and street performers need not apply.”
I tore along the top of one of the perforated tabs and stuffed it in my pocket before I could talk myself out of it. Then I hurried over to the building across the street and caught the elevator up to Acacia Ads Group on the 36th floor. Much to my pleasant surprise, the friendly woman manning the reception desk looked like she could moonlight as a Disney princess in the Magic Kingdom parade.
Was everyone in New York City this fabulous, or was this just a chichi part of town?
Ten minutes later, at exactly eleven o’clock (which made my punctual little heart skip a beat) a woman named Deedee invited me into her office. She had her hair pulled back in a bun and a warm smile that reached her green eyes. She looked early forties, though it might be more accurate to say she looked like a Botoxed fifty-something.
Of course, I didn’t care about that. All I cared about was nailing my firm handshake, which I think I did. But hers was firm, too, which is always awkward because I never know if I should consider that a prompt to squeeze even harder.
“Nice to meet you, Margot.” She gestured to a chair in front of her glass desk. “Please, have a seat.”
She started by asking me how I was doing, whether I could make coffee, and whether I knew how to use a copy machine. “Sorry to begin with such uninspiring questions,” she said. “But I don’t want to ask all about your career aspirations and then have you show up on day one surprised to find yourself tasked with such menial—albeit important and urgent—responsibilities.”
“I understand,” I said. “I’m not afraid of working my way up and putting in the time like everyone else. I expect that any experience I get would only be an asset going forward.”
“That’s an excellent attitude to have,” she said. “And finding someone who’s not afraid to get stuck in is exactly what we’re looking for.”
There was a warm flutter in my chest as visions of packing my shit and moving out of my parents’ house pranced through my head.
“Would you mind telling me a bit more about yourself?”
“Sure,” I said, delighted that my focused preparation might actually come in handy. “I was in the most reputable business fraternity at my school. And I did all the advertising for the International Studies department, bringing their enrollment up five percent in two years.”
“I meant something I can’t learn about you from your résumé.”
I swallowed, flattened my hands on my black pencil skirt, and fought the urge to dig my fingers into my thighs.
“Why are you interested in advertising, for example?”
I relaxed my shoulders, thought of the Starbucks girl, and let a smile take over my face. “I’m interested in advertising because of the powerful influence it has over our culture, from the products people consume to the things they dream about to their perceived quality of life.”
She leaned back in her chair without shifting her gaze from me.
“I’m fascinated by what makes people tick and what triggers them to make certain choices, and I think marketers have an incredible opportunity to impact people’s thoughts and behaviors on a daily basis.”
Her expression gave nothing away. I couldn’t tell if she thought I was making sense or if she was drafting a grocery list in her head.
“I’m also really interested in the creative process, the brainstorming that happens behind closed doors, and the synergy that occurs when groups of people search for solutions.” I stopped for a breath. “Sorry if I’m rambling. I’ve just been interested in advertising ever since I saw my first billboard and realized someone I’d never met had the power to instantly interrupt and hijack my train of thought.”
“Not at all,” she said. “Do you remember what the billboard was for?”
“Cracker Barrel. The restaurant.”
She nodded. “Have you ever tried one of their big jawbreakers?”
“Only once, but I was so desperate to get to the center that I licked it until my tongue bled.”
She squinted at me. “I admire your intensity.”
“I wish I could say my mom felt the same way.”
“Do you have any other weaknesses I should know about?” she asked. “Not that intensity, enthusiasm, or belligerence are considered anything short of assets here.”
“I’m overly punctual,” I said. “For everything. Deadlines, meetings. I was even early for my own birth.”
“Well, our agents are often strapped for time, so I’m sure that would only endear you to them.”
I exhaled and tried to figure out how long ago I should’ve stopped talking.
“However, I’m obligated to inform you that even if you’re granted the internship, there’s no guarantee we’ll take you on full time at the end of your contract.”
“I understand,” I said. “Though if you do decide to give me the opportunity, I assure you I won’t waste it.”
“I believe you,” she said, pushing her chair back and standing up. “And I appreciate you coming in. We’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks for your time, Deedee,” I said, shaking her hand again. “I hope to see you again soon.”
And then I left, taking my stomach full of butterflies with me and realizing, perhaps for the very first time, exactly how much I wanted the job.