8…Water Themes…
Wednesday morning, Marco opens the town car door a half block down from the Falk Atlantic Investments building with a brisk "Good luck!" and an appreciative glance at my interview outfit. We are down by the South Street Seaport on a block with old cobbled streets. It's still a bit too early to go in yet, which is why I requested to be dropped off out of sight of the front of the building. Well, that and the fact that I don't particularly want to be seen by a potential employer swanning out of a chauffeured car like I'm some rich girl. I'll walk around for—I check my grandmother's watch—precisely seven minutes so I can arrive fifteen minutes before my interview time.
I am dressed in a lightweight black wool suit jacket cut slim and ultra-chic with a fancy rounded collar and three-quarter sleeves. Underneath the jacket is a cream and black nautically-striped silk stretch turtleneck and a black calf-length pencil skirt that Em had informed me, is a "window pane plaid," which is far enough away from "schoolgirl" to be okay. She'd said that this ensemble, along with the loose bun we practiced last night, "perfectly minimizes your youth while still being cool and modern and fresh."
I think Em's picked up a new sort of language during her short time at Vogue—she bandied about the word "fresh" a hundred times while I was trying all this on in my room.
I'd protested when she showed up Sunday afternoon laden with shopping bags; I was planning on her helping me pull together something from my own closet. The shopping bags were mostly from the Jeffrey New York store, which she tried to pass off as shopping she'd done for herself that she was going to "lend" me. Emory won't out and out lie to me, but she might misdirect a little when it comes to dressing me. But she couldn't pass off the John Fluevog heels she'd also bought as meant for her because they were in my size and I wear a full size and a half larger than she does.
She has also "lent" me a black bag with white trim that probably cost more than my plane ticket to China—a lot more—but it has room for the folder carrying hard copies of my resume, school transcripts, and letters of recommendation, plus my social security card, passport and birth certificate, just in case. More importantly, it has room to carry the flats I will walk back home in to change clothes first before heading to Henry's, rather than the lovely modern black pumps with a subtle design stamped on the leather and a little strap around the ankle that I am currently wearing for the interview. I can walk in any kind of shoes, even these high heels on this cobbled street. I am sure-footed, but not stupid; it will be flats on the way home.
The bag, Emory has explained, will be the "hero piece." I have no idea what that means. More new fashion terminology, I guess.
Yes, I accepted her gifts with the caveat that I will give the expensive black and white bag back to her and also that, after the ride to this interview, I would no longer be squired all over town by Marco and his town car.
It worked.
Em didn't even seem to notice that the deal I proposed was essentially, I will concede to this gift of these clothes, if you stop giving me the other gift of having a town car drive me everywhere. Such is the munificence of my best friend.
The fact that she accepted my deal is especially good because I do love this outfit and it would've pained me to turn it down, and, yes—I admit to myself as I gaze up at the old brick warehouse-looking building that houses the corporate office of Falk Atlantic—I do indeed feel fresh!
Show time!
I've now been here for hours and am in sitting in a chair in the office of Julie Thomas, the head of personnel. She is explaining to me that the position they're looking to fill will be a new one and its duties are not quite delineated yet. They expect it to involve translation, primarily of Chinese, Japanese, and Spanish. It will also likely include teaching some rudimentary language and culture classes for some of the employees as well. This is almost like the job I had teaching English while in China. It's to be part-time for now, on an as-needed trial basis with at least fifteen hours per week to start, and it pays what, to me, is a huge hourly rate.
Holy….!
When Ms. Thomas says this magic figure, I hope I keep my face blank, but inside I'm jumping for joy. I've never made anything close to that before in any job. But even better, I quickly calculate, it might almost cover Henry's insurance deficit at the Rehab! If I get this job, I will immediately hunt down the Rehab billing office and set up a payment plan.
Both of us look up as a smiling Captain Gray walks in to her office, leaving the door open behind him. He is dressed in khakis, top siders, and a navy polo shirt with "Cpt" emblazoned on a gold colored patch on his chest. He has the same old mariner's cap on his head that he wore on Saturday.
Ms. Thomas says, "You've already met Captain Gray. He runs the…uh… mailroom here on the basement level."
He leans against the wall of her office. "Miss Ellis, good to see you again."
I smile widely at him, "You, too, Captain Gray."
Not a minute behind the Captain comes a short, stocky, dark-haired man in his twenties, wheeling a cart whose handle is a kind of anchor. He leaves it in the hall. I've already noticed that everything in this building—the art on the walls, the furniture, the insignia on the Falk Atlantic logo, everything—is nautically themed, kitschy even. I saw another mail cart earlier with a handle like a carved dolphin figurehead from an old boat. The chairs and sofas in the lobby were made of some kind of maritime-looking rope. The colors everywhere are mostly various hues of blue and battleship gray with some shots of gold and red.
The young man takes a small stack of mail from his cart and walks in the door, placing it on Ms. Thomas' desk.
Captain Gray says to him, "I want you to meet Miss Ellis here."
The young man turns toward me. He's dressed similarly to the Captain. The patch on his shirt reads, "Roddy."
"Roddy here speaks Spanish, like you do, Miss Ellis," the Captain continues.
"Nice to meet you," he says in Spanish, extending his hand, which I take.
"Nice to meet you, too," I reply.
The captain says, "Roddy, why don't you tell Miss Ellis what you do here."
"I've been in the mailroom for about two months now, sorting and delivering the mail." he says in rapid Spanish with a Mexican accent. "Which I guess is kind of obvious."
"Do all of the mailroom workers wear the same uniform?" I ask in Spanish also.
"Unfortunately, yes," he replies ruefully. "Hopefully, you will get to bypass this particular indignity if you come to work here."
"I rather like the uniform. Very…uh…oceanic," I say, judiciously.
"If I ever need a job at a water theme park, I should be set." He laughs sardonically. "Your accent comes from Spain, right?"
"Yes, that's mostly where I learned the language. I spent time there when I was a kid." And in Costa Rica, I think, but I don't say that.
"Thought so."
"What about you?" I ask. "Where did you learn Spanish?"
"I was born in Santa Fe, but my parents emigrated from Chihuahua. I learned from them. It was actually my first language." He smiles at me, then glances at Ms. Thomas. He switches back to English. "Well, it was nice meeting you. I better get back to it." He nods subtly to the Captain, and I know his coming here was by design to check my Spanish skills. I've already had three conference calls with native French, Japanese, and Mandarin speakers from heaven knows where, to test my spoken skills in those languages, as well as translated some documents, which were then faxed to points unknown.
"Thank you, Roddy," the Captain says as Roddy leaves, then he turns back to me. "Something's been niggling at my memory. As I mentioned before, I had met your late grandmother, but I also think I might've heard of Henry Ellis, too. Is he, by chance, your grandfather?" I know he's thinking of that envelope with Henry's name on it.
"Yes. Rosamunde's husband."
"He's sort of famous, if you will, in translating circles, isn't he?"
"He worked in the State Department for a long time." I can't help the swell of pride I feel in Grandfather.
"I think we used him once a couple years ago for an emergency translation at the Seamen's Church Institute for an injured Urdu-speaking sailor who was in port in New Jersey."
"I don't know of that instance, but he does speak Urdu as well as many other languages." I make a mental note to tell Henry later.
"Hmm…" the Captain ruminates before turning toward Ms. Thomas, a look passing between them. "I'll let you two finish up. Good to see you again, Miss Ellis." He shuts the door behind him.
