Disclaimer: I own neither Phoebe nor Monica, nor New York City. I made up the evil interviewer myself, though. So what if she's a stereotype?
A/N: This is simply an entry for the Perfection fanfiction challenge at friends-boards dot com. This is my hosting place for it, so I'm not after reviews. But if you'd like to give them… just ignored the gaping plot holes, and think of it as something that was "meant to be"… Or, you know, whatever. "All I'm looking for is the money." I'm trying to remember where that quote is from…
And I'm not going to promise anything about my other fics, because, well, that'd be giving people false hope and I don't really want to do that.
Way Of The World
Phoebe looked up at the dull white walls of the miniscule corridor, unable to get her mind off the idea that this was some kind of prison, that they'd caught her, even though that was years ago and in the past, she told herself. She brushed her fingers lightly against the cracks in the wall, seeing a small shaft of light from a tiny window at the end of the corridor, where the path turned.
Slowly, she turned around the corner, and saw three other smartly suited people sat on the hard wooden bench. Spotting her, the man at the end, who to her eye could be no older than nineteen, shuffled towards the two women besides him, who looked up with dull eyes and sullenly moved away. One had bright blonde hair which reached to her elbows, almost; the other, black hair that bobbed at her shoulders, and a look that seemed to suggest she might faint any second.
She sat down next to the man, nodding silently in appreciation, and smoothed down her creased skirt as best she could. The dull grey skirt and jacket had been loaned to her from an old street friend, though she was slightly concerned when she couldn't tell her from where she'd got them. Nevertheless, they were necessary for her to even enter the building. She'd barely have got through the door with her usual get-up.
Phoebe sighed, folding her hands over nervously in her lap, and her eyes moved to the man next to her. He had his eyes closed, and was murmured incomprehensibly under his breath.
She managed a small smile. At least she wasn't the only frightened one there.
The four looked up in tandem as the door to the left opened with a creak, and a sharp pointed face stuck around it. "Geraldine Bilson?" she asked in a high pitch.
The woman at the very end could be heard taking a deep breath before standing and striding purposefully through the door after the woman. Ever so slowly, the door squeaked close, shutting off the voices from within.
It was fifteen minutes before Geraldine emerged, and the woman's face looked the other three up and down before saying "James Kingsley" and disappearing again. James stood up abruptly and walked to the door, looking quickly back at the two sat on the bench still.
Phoebe risked a glance at the woman next to her, who was staring a bare patch of the worn blue carpet, and wringing her hands. Tentatively, Phoebe spoke.
"Nervous?" she asked quietly, but the woman's head shot up like she'd heard a gunshot.
Her black bob of hair framed her face remarkably well, with perfectly formed cheekbones and light red lips. Looking at her eyes now, they looked not dull, but alive with fear, mirrored by the thin hands that appeared stuck together in her lap.
"Wh-what?" she stuttered.
Phoebe smiled slightly, though her stomach too was almost doing back flips of nervousness. "It's okay," she said, as calmly as she should. "Me too," she said, and, as the woman managed a small smile, her eyes twinkled a little, and Phoebe's smile widened.
"I… I just have never been to a job that's this important to me before," the woman said in a rush.
Phoebe smiled again. "Well, I hope you get it," she whispered, frowning at herself.
The woman cocked her head, a bemused smile appearing. "So you don't want it, then?" she teased, turning slightly to face Phoebe.
Phoebe looked down. "Well, I'm not likely to get it, so I want you to," she said.
The woman frowned. "Oh come on, you're just as likely to get it as any of us," she smiled.
"No, I'm not," Phoebe sighed.
"Why no-" began the woman, but both looked around as the door of the office opened, and James came out, looked only marginally less white than he had before. He walked quickly around the corner, and Phoebe heard his footsteps gaining speed as he raced away.
"Monica Geller?" asked the woman, vanishing even before she'd finished.
The black haired woman stood.
"Good luck," whispered Phoebe, almost too quietly for anyone to hear- but Monica did, and smiled briefly before slipping through the door.
Phoebe closed her eyes and sighed. She had started regretted even the thought of coming to this interview about a minute after it came into her mind; but, like minds so often do, it just wouldn't let go until she'd seen it through, so she picked herself up from the alley, asked the friend for the suit she'd always boasted she had, and carefully watched the clock in the entrance hall of the Empire State Building until half an hour before the interview.
As she'd walked down the streets of Manhattan, passing the other citizens of the metropolis in their suits- black, grey, blue, even an orange one once- she'd felt so out of place, so un-belonging, but not one of them had thrown her a second glance. So she'd walked. She'd walked and walked and walked to this building, trying to ignore the fact that she had nothing but the clothes she walked in, and stepped up the stairs of the back of the restaurant, "Iridium".
With a jolt, she heard the door open again; her eyes flickered open and she heard Monica's voice as she backed out.
"Yes, thank you, Ms. Hobart," Phoebe heard, and the pointed face of the woman, smiling, could be seen behind her.
"Phoebe Buffay?" she said, smile fading as she looked at Phoebe. With a bracing smile, Phoebe stood and walked towards the door; Monica gave a whispered "good luck" as she passed her and perched on the bench, looking considerably happier.
Phoebe closed the dark mahogany-coloured door behind her and turned towards the desk. The room was much more lavishly decorated than anything Phoebe had seen so far; the walls were painted in a light yellow colour, which just added to the light of the room, with dull sunlight flooding through the giant windows behind the woman, now sat down at her desk.
Putting her glasses on the bridge of her nose, the woman's beady eyes looked up at Phoebe. "Sit down," she said, more an order than a request. Phoebe did so, almost falling over in her haste not to displease.
The woman looked down at her desk, then up at Phoebe with a piercing stare. "Miss Buffay," she said, pausing. Phoebe held her breath; but the woman said nothing more.
"Yes?" Phoebe finally said, frowning.
The woman gave a sickly sweet smile, and held up a piece of paper. Phoebe could see it was mostly blank apart from some small text at the very top. "This," said the woman, waving the paper, "is your resume?"
Phoebe sighed. "Ms Houghton," she said quickly, "I-"
Ms. Houghton held up a hand. "Ms. Buffay, how exactly do you expect to get a job with no experience?"
Phoebe shuffled. "You have to start somewhere," she replied.
Ms. Houghton gave her an icy glare. "Yes, Ms. Buffay. But this is a job that requires at least some experience in the field of food prep-"
"I came here for an interview," interrupted Phoebe dangerously. "Am I going to get one at all?"
"Ms. Buffay, you haven't even been to school!" exclaimed Ms. Houghton, with a deep crease across her forehead and a cold glint in her eyes.
Phoebe spluttered. "Well- I- so?" she finally said, defiantly.
Ms. Houghton stood up. "Ms. Buffay, I'm sorry, but with your qualifications- or lack of them- there is no chance that you'll get this job. Now, please leave. I have to get back to deciding between qualified candidates." She strode to the door and held it open. On the bench, Monica looked up curiously as Phoebe came angrily out and had the door slammed hard behind her.
Monica stood up as Phoebe walked quickly around the corner.
Fuming, and with a sinking feeling of dread in her stomach, Phoebe sped up as she walked towards the stairwell, trying to banish the image of Ms. Houghton's ice cold stare from her mind. She wondered what had ever possessed her to even try for this job. She hadn't considered needing qualifications, or training. She'd just gone. And evidently the screening process for applicants was non-existent, as she'd actually been granted an interview, scared by the public phone she slept near ringing as she settled down to eat a McDonalds.
Still walking, she stopped dead as she felt a hand on her shoulder, and turned.
"Phoebe," said Monica in a soft voice. Worried, she sounded. Phoebe hadn't heard that tone of voice in years. "Phoebe, what happened in there?"
Phoebe avoided her eyes. "Why do you care?" she asked, a sly hint of bitterness entering her voice.
Monica sighed. "Look, I know I barely know you, but you seem really upset and I… I just wondered if there was anything I could do."
"Well, there isn't," said Phoebe abruptly, turning away again. She had made just a few steps when Monica's voice rang out again.
"Wait!"
Phoebe turned.
"Could I at least have your address, or number? Just in case," Monica pleaded, hands clasped tightly together.
Phoebe wavered. "I don't… have an address. Not exactly."
Monica frowned. "Please, Phoebe, just give me somewhere that I can get in touch with you, see how you are from time to time… you look like you could do with someone to talk to."
"Look, Monica, I appreciate, I really do, but I'm fine. I'll be fine," said Phoebe, not believing the words as they exited her mouth.
Monica cocked her head. "It doesn't sound like it. Please, Phoeb-"
Phoebe took a deep breath. "Look, you want the truth, okay?" she said cuttingly. Monica nodded. "Okay. I don't have an address because I don't live anywhere. You want a phone number, I'd have to give you the same one I gave these people- the public phone outside of McDonalds on fifteenth."
Monica stared at her. "You… you live on the streets?" Phoebe nodded sullenly, suddenly again unable to meet Monica's eyes. "But you… the suit," she said cautiously, not really knowing what to say.
"I borrowed it from a friend. And yes, she probably stole it," Phoebe replied plaintively. "And… I really don't know why I came to this interview… but you know, you get an idea and it just won't go away unless you try it. So I did. And look where it got me."
Monica stepped closer. "Oh, Phoebe, I… I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't," said Phoebe flatly. "And now you can go back to your happy little city life, start your job here and ignore me like all the other 'citizens' of this place," she finished, turning away again. She reached the stairs and fled down them before Monica could say another word. As she neared the bottom, she felt something warm and wet on her cheeks. Soft, salty tears were streaming down her face.
She heard footsteps coming after her and ran out of the door before Monica could catch up, running out across the road and into the metropolis of New York City.
Still running as she left Seventeenth Avenue, she clutched at a stitch in her side and slumped against the dirty grey wall behind her, looking down at the shoes of the passing crowd. Rush hour.
Cars on the street before her jerked and stopped, the traffic lights constantly flickering from red to amber to green, people crossing on red, horns honking at regular intervals, people yelling at other people. Noise. The noise Phoebe lived with every day, the noise she had learnt to live with. The noise that had swallowed her up just like everyone else and gotten her lost in the darkness of the back alleys. The noise that had given her the dirty looks of suited businessmen, the ones who didn't even see their own children come Christmas Day.
So amidst all this noise Phoebe didn't notice when one yellow cab drew up on the street directly before her, and a woman, ankles surrounded by tights, and gleaming black shoes on her feet. It was only when the woman knelt down right before Phoebe's face that Phoebe looked up, and saw the smiling face of the woman she'd been running so quickly from.
"Phoebe," said Monica simply, a sad and warm smile on her face, seeing the tears still streaming so freely down Phoebe's face. "I want to help you."
Phoebe looked away. "There's nothing for you to do," she whispered.
Monica put a hand on Phoebe's cheek and turned her face upwards. "Yes, there is," she said, smile widening. "I want you to come and live with me."
Phoebe's eyes bulged, letting yet more tears leak down her cheeks. "What?" she said incredulously.
"I'm serious," said Monica softly. "It's really quite lonely there anyway, the only person to talk to is the joker whose toe I cut off across the hall," she laughed. "And we'll get you clothes, possessions… a job. Money. A life," she said. "You can't live like this forever."
Phoebe tried to turn away again. "Yes, I can. It's what I was meant to do. Some people are just meant to live like this," she replied sadly.
Monica gripped Phoebe's face hard. "Phoebe, please. I'm giving you a chance to LIVE here; please, please, take it. I'm just a young woman trying to make her way in the city; I could kinda use some company," she smiled.
Phoebe's mouth bobbed like a goldfish. Monica laughed.
"I'm going to take that as a yes," she grinned. She stood up, one arm under Phoebe's, and helped her up. "Come on, let's get you home," she said, walking Phoebe to the side of the road.
Phoebe looked at her, and, seeing the happiness in Monica's rounded face, the excitement in her eyes, she smiled.
Monica grinned at her. "Taxi!"