2.
Eleven years ago.
The recruiter was a non-entity: middle-aged, average height, no particular accent. The
sort of guy you couldn’t pick out of a line-up if he’d backed over your dog with his SUV
the week before.
“You stopped skating at age 16?”
“What? I thought this was a clerical job.”
“Junior Analyst I,” he said.
“Why do you care?” I frowned. “I never mentioned anything about skating on my
application.”
“We looked it up.” He didn’t look away from his comp screen.
One of my high school counselors used to tell me I should include skating on my resumes
and college applications. People assume high-performance athletes are very self-
motivated people and hard workers, although in my experience “neurotic people with
very intense parents” is closer to the mark.
“You quit after 2/22,” he said. “Why?”
I lied. It’s just something I do. I’m good at it, because I am usually careful to make my
lies out of as much truth as possible.
“They changed the scoring system,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“In the old scoring system, you started with a perfect score and then all you could do was
fail. It was like life. But there was a scandal and they brought in the Code of Points
system, where you score for doing jumps and turns and so forth. Like merit badges.”
“Merit badges?”
“Girl Scout merit badges.”
“I see.” He looked back at his computer and I had the funny feeling he was reading an
entry about the time I got thrown out of the Girl Scouts. And that he knew the Code of
Points system had become mandatory three years before 2/22.
“And that’s why you quit?”
I looked at him. “Mostly. Plus, when you get boobs it throws off your rotations and you
have to relearn everything. Most of the girls are on drugs to keep them from hitting
puberty, but …”
“Really?” he said. As if for the first time I’d said something that clicked with him.
“Interesting.”
*
—Interrupt:
Four days ago.
I am in a toilet stall in the bathroom of a nice French restaurant. I slip the top off a
disposable syringe, kick off one shoe, and stick the needle through my pantyhose, into the
webbing between the big toe on my left foot and the toe next to it. The stuff in the
syringe is redder than my blood.
By the time I throw away the needle in the special garbage for Feminine Products my
salivary glands are starting to clench.
Needles, swabs, pills, pain, abuse, sweat, tears.
Loneliness.
You always pay a price to perform.
*
—Resume:
Eleven years ago…
I figured the recruiter knew I was lying and I was screwed because not only would I not
get the job, but even if I caught all my buses perfectly I was going to be late for my shift
in the Produce Section. I hated Produce, but it was still better than working the registers.
“Are we almost done, here?” I said. “I just want a chance to help my country.” (And get
on the government health care plan because my Mom’s a drunk and lost her coverage and
I wouldn’t be covered in another three months anyway. But why mention that?) “This is
my fifth interview in the last three days, not counting the entrance exams and the
supplementary exam and two personality inventories, and to be honest I’m losing a ton of
hours at SuperStockit.”
“Have you ever handled a gun?”
And for once the recruiter looked away from his computer screen, right at me. That
forgettable face. I can’t even remember the color of his eyes.
I said, “What job is this again?”
“Junior Analyst I,” he said.
Turns out there are people in the world a lot better at lying than me.
Not that this is any surprise to you.
3 -> “what you really want to be remembered for”
2.
Eleven years ago.
The recruiter was a non-entity: middle-aged, average height, no particular accent. The
sort of guy you couldn’t pick out of a line-up if he’d backed over your dog with his SUV
the week before.
“You stopped skating at age 16?”
“What? I thought this was a clerical job.”
“Junior Analyst I,” he said.
“Why do you care?” I frowned. “I never mentioned anything about skating on my
application.”
“We looked it up.” He didn’t look away from his computer screen.
One of my high school counselors used to tell me I should include skating on my resumes
and college applications. People assume high-performance athletes are very self-
motivated people and hard workers, although in my experience “neurotic people with
very intense parents” is closer to the mark.
“You quit after 2/22,” he said. “Why?”
I lied. It’s just something I do. I’m good at it, because I am usually careful to make my
lies out of as much truth as possible.
“They changed the scoring system,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“In the old scoring system, you started with a perfect score and then all you could do was
fail. It was like life. But there was a scandal and they brought in the Code of Points
system, where you score for doing jumps and turns and so forth. Like merit badges.”
“Merit badges?”
“Girl Scout merit badges.”
“I see.” He looked back at his computer and I had the funny feeling he was reading an
entry about the time I got thrown out of the Girl Scouts. And that he knew the Code of
Points system had become mandatory three years before 2/22.
“And that’s why you quit?”
I looked at him. “Mostly. Plus, when you get boobs it throws off your rotations and you
have to relearn everything. Most of the girls are on drugs to keep them from hitting
puberty, but …”
“Really?” he said. As if for the first time I’d said something that clicked with him.
“Interesting.”
*
—Interrupt:
Four days ago.
I am in a toilet stall in the bathroom of a nice French restaurant. I slip the top off a
disposable syringe, kick off one shoe, and stick the needle through my pantyhose, into the
webbing between the big toe on my left foot and the toe next to it. The stuff in the
syringe is redder than my blood.
By the time I throw away the needle in the special garbage for Feminine Products my
salivary glands are starting to clench.
Needles, swabs, pills, pain, abuse, sweat, tears.
Loneliness.
You always pay a price to perform.
*
—Resume:
Eleven years ago…
I figured the recruiter knew I was lying and I was screwed because not only would I not
get the job, but even if I caught all my buses perfectly I was going to be late for my shift
in the Produce Section. I hated Produce, but it was still better than working the registers.
“Are we almost done, here?” I said. “I just want a chance to help my country.” (And get
on the government health care plan because my Mom’s a drunk and lost her coverage and
I wouldn’t be covered in another three months anyway. But why mention that?) “This is
my fifth interview in the last three days, not counting the entrance exams and the
supplementary exam and two personality inventories, and to be honest I’m losing a ton of
hours at SuperStockit.”
“Have you ever handled a gun?”
And for once the recruiter looked away from his computer screen, right at me. That
forgettable face. I can’t even remember the color of his eyes.
I said, “What job is this again?”
“Junior Analyst I,” he said.
Turns out there are people in the world a lot better at lying than me.
Not that this is any surprise to you.
3 -> “what you really want to be remembered for”