Welcome to Envy Park (6 page)

I went into a random building, the closest one, and
stood in front of the building directory listing for a few minutes.
They were companies I had never heard of, and didn’t seem to have
existed six years ago, when I first looked for a job on my own. I
had no idea what to do.

My phone rang. "Roxie," I
said.

"Weekend plans?"

"Nothing. I’m going to try and
avoid my mother for now."

"Oh come on. You can’t be mad at
her for the Megan thing."

"She does this to me. She forces
my hand. She knows I hate it when she forces my hand."

"You were planning to leave
anyway."

"Of course."

"Unless you really
weren’t."

"I sent nine job applications just
now. I so am going to leave."

"Whatever, Moi. I just need to go
see my grandma today but after I can pass by for dinner. Do you
need anything?"

"I need a job."

"No, you need money. Nobody needs
a job."

"Fine, I need money. Can you give
me money?"

Roxie laughed. "You need to get a
job. I’ll see you later."

The security guard asked me what I wanted, because
why was I standing in front of the directory for that long. I said
no thanks and headed out, striking that building off my list.

Then I went into the next one, and did the same
thing.

-/\/\/\-

The guy who was always hanging out
at the driveway to smoke—his name was JM. I met him when I got back
from my tour of the business park.

JM looked crazy hot. I was still reeling from my
elevator ride with Lucille and made a mental note to check if my
judgment had become severely impaired since coming home, because
why was everyone so good looking all of a sudden? Was it an NV Park
thing? So JM was cute from a distance, but even better up close. He
was definitely some sort of actor or model, because no one looked
like that naturally. Even though I saw Ethan at the gym, this guy
was bulkier than him just about everywhere I dared look. There was
something about JM that was as composed, as artificially
constructed, as Matilda, but it didn’t have anything to do with
surgery.

He was also really nice.

"Do you live here?" he asked, as I
walked in.

"Yeah," I said.

"Do you know how to get the
mail?"

"You mean the combination
lock?"

Just behind the receptionist in the Tower 3 lobby
was a small room that was lined with mailboxes. Each unit had a
corresponding one, and when I first moved in I was also given a
combination to the mailbox lock.

I didn't get it right the first time. Or the second,
or third. It probably took three days and hitting the mailbox
several times before I figured it out.

JM and I walked to the mailroom together but I stood
a polite distance away when he started fiddling with the lock.

"Does your combination have the
number seventeen?" I said.

"Yeah."

"Don't turn it exactly to
seventeen. Make it a little off to the... Yeah, like that, almost
eighteen."

He paused, felt it click, and then
pulled the little door open. "I thought it was me. I was too stupid
to figure it out."

"I felt that way too."

"Thanks. Sorry, am I keeping you
from something?"

"It's not a problem."

"I'm on the eighth floor, in case
you want to hang out sometime."

And then he went back to his spot on the driveway
and started another cigarette.

Chapter 8

I was (am) a self-starter. A doer. I had initiative.
I was self-motivated. Back in the early days of our friendship, it
was Roxie giving me a panicked phone call at random times of the
day, asking for the answer to number 3 or cab money or a sanitary
pad. I was never caught unprepared for these major life moments. I
ran straight for the major life moments before they even thought of
getting to me.

So Roxie, surely wanting to show
off, didn't just say "Sure, I'll find you a job." I talked to her
on Saturday. A person from her company's HR called me on Sunday.
And by Monday afternoon, I was in a fancy waiting room in her
building, wearing a blazer, a smart-looking dress, and
heels.

"Do people work on Sundays now?" I
told her.

"They do for me," she
said.

Point taken, Roxie.

But I did know that she was a big
shot by now. We were in touch the whole time I was away, and in
between telling each other about guys we dated, we talked about
work. Her work stories became more and more, well, mature over
time. Some people she used to call "sir" or "ma'am" she began
addressing by their first names. Eventually her daily annoyances
weren't about arrogant bosses, but disappointing
assistants.

She became the (arrogant) boss, I realized, at some
point.

What was I expecting? That my people and my hometown
would be frozen in time? It felt that way on my annual visits, but
it was silly to think that nothing had changed.

My own stories stayed the same, for the most part. I
worked on short-term contracts that didn't allow for promotion or
growth. It was like they knew I was just there to make rent and
save up. No one really asked me if I wanted to be more and do
more.

Good thing I was wearing a blazer. This waiting room
was cold. I'd been in Roxie's office building before. Was it always
this cold?

My phone lit up with a message. My
mother:
You might want to meet my friend
Yoly who has that events company—

There was more, but I was allergic to messages from
her of this type. I didn’t even read the entire thing.

Roxie got me an interview with a guy named Jonas. He
was apparently two years younger than both of us. Already, not a
good sign, but I was playing along. I did need a job.

"What does a project consultant do
exactly?" was his first question, right after shaking my hand. I
hadn't even gotten comfortable in the black shaky swivel chair
across the table from him yet.

"Well, um," and as soon as the
syllables left my mouth I knew it was a weak opening. "You mean my
most recent job? I moved to a company that had just undergone a
restructuring, and was part of the new CEO's transition
team."

He was very well-dressed. Bright
tie, sort of psychedelic print, could swear it moved when I turned
my head. "And that included clerical stuff like filing?"

I cleared my throat. "Data
organization, yes."

"You weren't there a long
time."

"I decided not to extend my
contract and come home instead, yes."

"And previous to that, you were
also a consultant."

"Yes, I explain there the projects
I managed..."

"Moira. Am I pronouncing that
correctly?"

"Yes, that's right."

"
Moira
." Jonas said that right, but
it felt foreign the way he just pounded it out of his mouth and
into the room. "Your Roxanne's friend, right? So I guess I can be
frank with you and tell you exactly what I need."

"Of course."

"Based on your resumé, I really
think you're the most qualified for this position. I've been
rushing to fill this job and I've been looking for months. I like
that you can file things, that you can organize, that you were in a
transition team, that you worked for international firms. I need
someone who can quickly set up product teams for me, and then have
them go on their way when they're ready. You seem a little too
qualified, actually."

"Thank you."

"I'm just concerned that you're
Roxanne's contemporary."

"I'm sorry?"

Jonas touched the knot on his tie
and then slid his fingers down the length of it. "How do I explain
this. You're the contemporary of Roxanne, who is manager level, and
you will be reporting to me, assistant manager level."

"I work with the people I work
with. I don't care about ranks and positions."

"Are you sure about
that?"

Was this going well? It didn't
feel like it was going well. "If there's anything I learned when I
worked away from here, it was just to do the work. People come and
go."

"Why, Moira? Were you planning to
'come and go'?"

Did Roxie not tell him that I
intended to leave by June? "I may be leaving Manila again in a few
months, yes."

Jonas was surprised. "A few
months? You weren't intending to stay even if you got this
job?"

"I'd consider staying longer if
the job was worth it, of course."

He leaned back against his chair.
"Well that's the issue then, isn't it, Moira? Should I even offer
you the job knowing you're half out the door already?"

His demeanor had changed, and I knew that the
interview was over.

I forgot what I said next, and what he said next. I
kept it pleasant, and shook his hand when I left, but didn't feel
like finding Roxie to chat about it, even though she was just two
floors down.

I went home instead.

Chapter 9

Yes, I moved back home because I'm so enthusiastic
about the economy and my career options here.

Should have said that.

It wasn't a lie. I just didn't think of it at the
time.

I thought an energetic swim would get my mind off
this, but I was still me, so I kept reliving that conversation with
Jonas and rewriting it in my head.

Matilda waved at me from the shade. I waved back but
didn't feel like talking, so I gestured about having to go.

Back in my apartment, I cleaned again. Took out the
trash. Made pineapple jam and set it out to cool in the little jars
I was using as glasses. I scrubbed my bathroom tiles.

I don't mind working from the ground up again.

I napped at five pm and had a dream about the
interview. So annoying. Roxie had called and sent messages during
that time, but I didn't return them. I woke up four hours later and
headed to the gym for my run, still annoyed.

A downside of my stint abroad is my career has
plateaued but I don't mind paying my dues and earning my spot on
the corporate ladder again.

I set my treadmill program to include a sprint, and
I was running my rage out within minutes. So many things I could
have said! I was usually so much better at job interviews than
that. I should have practiced. Roxie scheduled this too soon; I
wasn't ready.

When the thirty-minute program ended I started it up
again, but it wasn’t enough. I needed to beat myself up some more.
And I sprinted.

Eventually I became aware of him, of course Ethan,
sitting on the bench usually used by the people lifting weights.
Except he was still in his standard office outfit and was just
looking straight ahead, at his reflection on the huge mirrored wall
I was facing.

"Oh my god," I said. "How long
have you been there?"

"Middle of your
sprint."

"My first or my
second?"

"I didn’t see your first. Why are
you angry?"

"Oh my god. You should have said
something."

"You were obviously deep in
thought. Do you want to go out and get something?"

"But you haven’t started
yet."

Ethan shifted his legs, bringing
his feet and his leather shoes closer to the bench. "I don’t work
out every day. Just so you know. What do you want to
eat?"

"Meat," I said, pouting. "And
onions. Something really obnoxious and smelly."

We ended up at the kebab place, right in the
business park. They served crazy large sticks of grilled meat with
onions, tomatoes and cucumbers. I told him about the interview as
we worked on dividing the meat from the single skewer we
ordered.

"So. I screwed up, didn’t I?" I
said.

He shrugged. "You didn’t want the
job to begin with."

"But I needed it."

"You say you do."

"I just really have a problem with
saying things the right way, you know. It’s like there’s a version
in my head, and maybe it’s not the right thing to say."

"But it’s the truth, isn’t it? Why
would it not be the right thing? I mean, ultimately."

"Because it doesn’t get me what I
want. If I just told people what they wanted, I’d get what I
needed, arggg."

"Are you regretting screwing up
because there’s a possibility you would have stayed? If the job had
been worth it?"

"I don’t want to think about
it."

"You’ll feel better. Scenario A.
You get the job and you hate it. What happens after two and a half
months?"

"I leave."

"So you would have
pretended—lied—about being in this for the long-term, accept their
offer, and then leave anyway."

"I have a plan."

"Scenario B. You get the job and
you like it. Then?"

"I leave."

"Wait—what? Even if you like
it?"

"I said I have a plan." I was
starting to act all sulky, but I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t done
beating myself up over it yet. "
Scenario
C
, FYI, is this one, right now, wherein I
don’t get the job and I’m eating grilled onion to punish myself.
Welcome to Scenario C."