It was the last thing he wanted to do. Going down to the newspaper, begging his dad to give him that junior reporter job he'd been offering off and on for the last eight years sounded like pure torture. What choice did Blaine have? He was washed up now, his dreams ruined and the life he'd planned for himself over. He had no money, no prospects, and no hope, truth be told. So, what did he have left? Zilch. Nada. A whole lot of nothing.
Blaine stared into the mirror on the back of his bedroom door, the one he'd waved goodbye to nearly a decade ago, hoping he'd never come back. Now, everything was the same as it had been when he'd left, his clothes sticking haphazardly out of drawers and his band posters of Queen and Roxy basically falling off his walls, the corners bent and drooping where the foam tack he'd used to put them up had become useless.
I'm not supposed to be here, he reminded himself as he straightened his tie. This wasn't supposed to happen. Everywhere he looked, he saw despair and hopelessness. Why is romance and a career so hard to find?
He double-checked his appearance, making sure he looked like "the man who wants the job" as his father was fond of telling him. He shouldn't have to interview, but his dad was a man of principles. Maybe he'd think it was unfair to just give his son a job without a screening.
Blaine sighed, fiddling with his tie once more. It's time, Blaine, he told himself. Just bite the bullet and go down there.