The Chase

The vortex grinds to a halt to reveal the short, stocky figure of Kamal Jain, and it takes serious effort to keep my jaw hinged because it turns out he’s not wearing gray and black.

It’s slate and charcoal, as Summer would say.

And it’s the same fucking outfit I tried on last night. The first one, which Summer advised me to forsake in favor of what I’m wearing now: dark-blue Ralph Lauren jeans, a Marc Jacobs dress shirt with no tie, and brown Gucci loafers. Summer would be proud that I remembered each designer’s name and can link it to his corresponding clothing item.

Thank God I didn’t go with the first outfit, or this interview would’ve started off a touch awkward.

“Colin!” Kamal greets me with enthusiasm, pumping my hand in a shake that lasts the entire time he speaks. “So good to meet you! Look at you—you’re huge! You look way smaller in the picture I have of you. In person you’re a giant!”

“Picture?” I say blankly.

“My assistant grabbed your hockey mug shot off the net. Is it called a mug shot? I don’t know. How tall are you? Six-one? Six-two?”

“Six-two—”

“Six-two, I bet. I’m five-eight, just a little fella with a big bank account, right?” He guffaws at his own joke. “Let’s grab a seat?”

“Sure,” I say, although I doubt he hears me. It seems like Kamal Jain mostly talks to himself, and you’re just along for the ride.

The Ritz bar resembles one of those gentlemen’s cigar clubs you see in the movies. A few round booths span one wall, but for the most part it’s padded leather armchairs tucked throughout the room to provide the illusion of privacy for patrons. There’s even a roaring fire in the fireplace, a real one, which crackles as the server leads us past it.

We settle in a pair of chairs in the corner of the room. Kamal orders a vodka tonic. It’s ten thirty in the morning, but I don’t comment on it. No way am I criticizing my potential employer’s morning beverage selection. Also, I’m a bit starstruck, so speaking might be a challenge in general. I’ve seen this man’s face on the cover of magazines. I’ve followed his career for years. It’s surreal to be sitting across from someone I’ve admired from afar for so long.

“Thank you for coming all this way to see me, Mr. Jain,” I start.

“Mr. Jain! We already discussed this, man—call me Kamal or KJ. ‘Mister’ gives me the heebie-jeebies. Too authoritarian for my liking.”

“Sorry. Kamal.” I decide to be upfront with the guy. I suspect he might appreciate it. “I’m sorry. I’m almost embarrassed by how hard I’m fan-boying right now.”

He gives a loud laugh. “Oh, trust me, I can relate. One time I met Stan Lee at a comic book convention, and I almost came in my pants. Swear to God, I felt a tingle in the dingle.”

I stifle a snicker. “Well, luckily you were able to control yourself,” I say helpfully.

“Barely! That man’s a legend. I’m divorcing my parents and hoping he’ll adopt me.”

The snicker slips out. I already knew from the interviews I’ve seen with him that Kamal has no brain-to-mouth filter. But experiencing it in person is a whole other spectacle.

“Is that a Marc Jacobs?” He gestures to my shirt. “Great fit, bomb cuffs—pricey. Hope you didn’t clean out your savings account for li’l ol’ me. You’re in college, you can’t afford frivolous purchases yet, Colin. I’ll get my assistant to send you a check of reimbursement.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary—”

“All right,” he interrupts, “I’ve got four more minutes. Let’s do this fast.”

Four minutes? He literally just sat down.

I wonder what it’s like to be SO IMPORTANT that you fly to Boston for a five-minute meeting before having to board the old company jet again.

For the next three minutes, Kamal launches questions at me as if he’s firing an interview rifle. They seem to have no rhyme or reason. Jumping from one topic to another before I can blink and only allowing me about ten seconds to answer before firing again.

Who are your artistic influences?

What’s your favorite movie?

Do you eat meat?

Would you be willing to work weekends if needed?

What do you think of No Man’s Sky?

Would you consider yourself a jock?

In fact, the jock issue comes up in at least three questions. I get the distinct sense that Kamal is anti-athlete. Bullied by a jock or two in high school, I suspect.

I can’t tell if I answered a single question correctly, or to his liking. Whereas Kamal moves and talks like a tornado, the interview itself is a tsunami, slamming into me without warning and retreating just as fast.

Before I can blink, he’s shooting to his feet and pumping my hand again. “Can you be in Manhattan in a few weeks?”

“Um, I’m not sure. It depends on my game schedule—”

“It’s a Thursday night—you play on Thursdays?” He frowns. It’s evident that the biggest strike against me right now is hockey.

“No, but…” I wrinkle my forehead. “What’s in Manhattan?” Have I gotten the job? Am I supposed to start working that day? My cover letter clearly stated I couldn’t start until after graduation.

“I’m hosting a fundraiser at the Heyward Plaza Hotel. It’s to raise awareness for autism. No, it’s a kids-with-leukemia event. Autism is in April,” he babbles. “April Autism Awareness—my fucking team loves their alliteration. I’ve invited the other candidates I’m considering. Only three others now. Two didn’t impress me in the face-to-face.”

And I did? I’m legit baffled. I can’t fathom how he was able to judge me one way or the other, given the length of the interview and the absurdity of his questions.

“It’s between the four of you now. The leukemia event will let me gauge how you network.”

Aw crap. I’m not good at networking. At all.

“Plus, it’ll be fun as fuck. Open bar, lots of ladies. You have a plus one if you’ve got a girl at home, but I recommend leaving her at said home…” He winks, and I hide my distaste.

It’s no secret that Kamal is a womanizer. According to an article I read, he almost married his college sweetheart about ten years ago but didn’t go through with it because she refused to sign a prenup. Since then, he’s been photographed “canoodling” with a Leonardo DiCaprio-amount of supermodels, along with several actresses and heiresses.

“My assistant will email you the invitation. If you don’t RSVP, I’ll assume you’re removing yourself from the running.” He slaps my shoulder. “But nobody is that stupid, so…” He grins widely. “I’ll see you next month.”

He tornadoes out of the bar in another blur of motion, leaving me standing there alone. Two seconds later, the server returns with a tray holding Kamal’s vodka and my coffee.

She stares at me in confusion. “Oh. Your party had to leave? Do you still…?” She lifts the tray slightly. “The tab’s already been paid.”

I look at the coffee cup, then at the glass tumbler. Screw it. Who cares if it’s early.

I reach for the vodka tonic and down it in one long swig.

“Five minutes,” I tell my friends later that night. We’re all jammed in a booth at Malone’s. Directly under a speaker too, which means I have to raise my voice to be heard over the Drake track blasting in the bar. “It lasted five minutes. I checked my watch.”

“Time is money,” says Hollis.

“I don’t even know how the interview went,” I say with a loud groan. “Seriously. I got no indication one way or the other if he even liked me.”

“Of course he did,” Summer says firmly. She’s on the other side of the booth, sandwiched between Hunter and Matt Anderson. “He wouldn’t have invited you to the fundraiser if the interview had gone poorly.”

“Time is money,” Hollis says again.

Nate knocks him on the back of the head. “Cut it out with that nonsense. Just ’cause Fitzy met a billionaire today doesn’t make you a billionaire by association.”

“If he wasn’t serious about hiring you, he wouldn’t have flown all that way to meet you in person,” Matt points out. “He woulda sent an underling.”

“Not necessarily,” I counter. “He was a poor kid from Detroit when he designed his first game—he actually stole a lot of the parts he needed to build his own computer. The company is his baby. I think he takes a hands-on role as often as he can.”

“Either way, we’re here tonight to celebrate that you caught the eye of a major game designer and that’s amazing,” Summer declares. “Even if you don’t get the job, it’s an honor that you were even considered.”

“Let’s toast!” Hollis pipes up, raising his pint glass. “Time is money!”

Nobody participates in his toast, but I take pity on the guy and tap my Sam Adams bottle against his glass. It was Hollis’ idea to go out and celebrate, and as much as I don’t like being the center of attention, I’m touched that he’s so supportive of me. I think he’s more thrilled than I am at the possibility that I might snag a position at Orcus Games.