She looks down at a sheet of paper for a moment. “Um…there’s a custodial position…” she offers tentatively.
“Oh,” I say again. She smiles up at me, and then, as if uncomfortable with the entire situation, walks to the other end of the long counter to answer a ringing phone. I guess it’s really the first time in my life that I’ve flat out been told I can’t have something because of who I am. I mean, it’s been implied all the time, I guess, but never really said out loud. It sucks. I guess wanting something is risky. I slide the paper away and turn to go when an older woman whose smile reminds me a little bit of my mother’s speaks up.
“Bonnie?”
“Yes?” She’s read my name off of my application. Her nametag says ‘Tamme.’
“I’m really sorry about that, sweetie,” she says. “I’ve never really agreed with that rule. But you know, if you’re interested, we do sometimes have unpaid internships where school enrollment is not a prerequisite. It might be a good way to get your foot in the door. Quite frankly, they prefer you to be in school as an intern as well, but I could pull a few strings…”
“Oh.” I look at my feet; she’s being so nice. “That’s really kind of you, but I need the extra money, and my free time is kind of…spoken for,” I say, thinking of my crime-fighting nights that don’t pay anything but certainly take up a lot of time.
“I understand,” she says politely, then adds, “You might want to try a bookstore then.”
“Thanks, that’s a really good idea,” I say, feeling slightly better.
“Hold on a second,” she says, raising a finger and then typing into her computer. After a minute the printer behind her whirs and buzzes. She picks up the print out and hands it to me. It lists over a dozen bookstores in the city. She takes out a pen and writes her name, phone number and address on the edge of the sheet. I look up at her, questions in my eyes. “Use my name if you need a reference,” she adds.
“But…you don’t even know me…” I say. She nods beatifically.
“I can tell you’re a good one. Besides, everyone in this city needs help once in a while.”
It’s funny when she says it because I suddenly see how true it is and wonder if this is a karmic reward for the little good I’ve done. It’s probably not a good thing to think about, getting rewarded for doing good, it’s probably the opposite of how a superhero should think, but I’m so grateful for the help I’m not going to question it.
I go to seven bookstores before someone will even consider giving me an application. It’s all stony faces and dusty books until the seventh shop. Finally, I get a smile and an application, but still no openings. It’s only on shop number nine, a big store downtown full of row after row of new and used books, that I get both an application and a nod from the girl at the register that they’re actually looking for someone. I take the application and fill it out at a packed coffee shop around the corner. When I come back twenty minutes later a young guy is on the register and gestures me over to a customer service window when I show him the application.
“Hi,” I say tentatively to the guy standing at the window.
“Jamie?” he asks, somewhat annoyed. I’m glad I’m not Jamie.
“Um, No. Bonnie,” I say and hold the application out warily. He glances across it, eyes darting from line to line.
“It’s your lucky day Bonnie, this Jamie is forty minutes late. You want to have your interview now?”
“Uh, sure,” I say, glancing at my jeans and t-shirt.
“I’m Tim,” he says, extending his hand. I shake it, trying to apply just the right amount of pressure, worried I’m failing, worrying about everything. But when his first question tumbles out, I know something is finally going right.
“What’s your favorite book, Bonnie?” He asks. My mind suddenly clears; this is a question I can answer.
“The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Runner,” I say.
“That’s an interesting choice…” he says, looking at me as if he’s sizing me up.
“Um, thanks?” I half-ask, not sure if he’s complimenting me or deciding to send me packing.
“Come on into the office and let’s do this right,” he says smiling. I follow him back and we talk for nearly half an hour – mostly about books, which is the only thing I’m sure I could talk about for thirty minutes – and when we’re done – I have the job. I start on Tuesday. My smile is enormous and probably ridiculous, but it feels good to know maybe I’m not some incompetent teenager that’s going to get thrown out of her rundown motel room or, you know, starve to death or something insane.