Saving Face
I lifted the paperweight from my desk and threw it in the trashcan across the room. Got up, took it out, and put it back. It wasn’t a paperweight so much as a rock my daughter drew on and gave to me for Christmas. But it kept me occupied. That, and drinking enough water to kill my kidneys so that I could hit the men’s room to break up the endless hours of document review and on better days, (the ones where I didn’t pray for a stroke or a death in the family so I could leave the office) brief writing.
Christina, the ebullient legal recruiter knocked on my door. I slammed my head on the desk, loudly enough that the law student outside the fogged glass door could hear it, and think twice. After a few seconds Christina knocked again. Goddamnit.
“Come on in!” I bellowed in my best cheerful voice.
“Sean, this is Tricia Goodman,” advertised Christina. Her voice always sounded like the “tell them what they won” person on a gameshow. I pictured her in a skimpy dress turning students around like letters on the “Wheel of Fortune.” Her legs were a little firmer, sleeker in my head though. And her arms didn’t do that weird wobbly thing they were doing right now that reminded me of my obese second grade teacher erasing the blackboard. She was saying something else that ended in “just like you!”
Shit. I had something in common with this Tricia invasion and I was supposed to know what it was. I had lit her resume on fire earlier in the day to see if it would set the smoke alarm off. It didn’t. But it was entertaining to look confused and tell people I didn’t smell anything when they stopped by my office to see what was burning.
“Tricia, I’ll be back in a little bit to take you to your next office,” said Christina, leaving the room and shutting the door behind her.
Maybe if I could keep Tricia uncomfortable enough she wouldn’t notice that I had no idea about anything on her resume, including whatever it was we had in common.
I grinned, bigger and bigger trying to make my face expand and pop like a balloon. “Take a seat, Tricia,” I said, gesturing to the kindergarten-sized chair I had for when my daughter visited the office.
She laughed, taking one of the client seats, commenting how cute it was that I had a chair for my daughter, and what a cute girl she was. The pictures on bookshelves. Help clients relate to you. Well, that didn’t work. She was poised.
I sat behind my desk, my chair a few inches higher than hers. Start with vague questions.
“You enjoying yourself here so far”
“—”
“Great. And you like law school?”
“—”
Well we didn’t go to the same law school. I hadn’t blinked since she’d sat down, and I wasn’t going to. My eyes were starting to water. Ignore the sting. Ignore it.
“How was your experience last summer.”
“—”
Nope, I hadn’t worked there. I started holding my breath too.
“You’re acting totally normal.” I observed.
“Um, sorry?”
Clearing my throat, “Normal? Nevermind.”
She fidgeted. Good. Remember: Don’t blink, don’t breathe.
“So tell me about what you do outside of class.”
“—”
“normal, normal, normal…” I whispered as she talked.
“… —I’m sorry, were you saying something?” she asked, cutting herself off.
“No, nothing. This is totally normal.” I said, though I barely had enough air to get it out.
“Um, ok.” She was rattled now. My eyes were tearing like crazy. I was starting to get a little dizzy from holding by breath. I lifted my chin to gesture her to keep talking.
“—”
I had to blink. Don’t. Gah, blinked. Still holding my breath, starting to lose some of my field of vision.
She had stopped talking. Or, no, she hadn’t. Her tone of voice had changed. It sounded less authoritative. More maternal. I was fading out. I felt around for my paperweight and threw it in the direction of the trash can. I’m not sure if the following ‘thud’ was it or me.
