impolite fiction

“…So that is pretty much what we do here, Kate. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself?”

I barely heard her, so distracted by the view behind her that I was more focused on identifying which suburbs I was looking at than impressing her with my bullshitting skills.

“Well… most of it is on my resume. I really like politics. I’m not sure what you want to know?” As soon as I finished speaking, I knew that my halfhearted attempt to conceal my disinterest was not even close to successful.

The interviewer – Julie was her name — just smiled, looking vaguely alien-like in her facial contortion. I told her it was great to meet her, she told me she had a few more candidates to interview and would get back to me. The kiss of death.

Walking out of the building, I felt as though I’d be lucky to work there. It had these majestic marble floors and modern art sculptures in the lobby in a mildly irritating display of ostentation, but a visually pleasing one nonetheless.

Whilst taking the elevator, a few people engaged in a rather impassioned discussion about minors and vehicles and criminality, but despite the various floor exits and accompanying crusades of my elevator comrades, it was clear that everyone shared one commonality: each was going to do something fucking important. Or at least they seemed to think so.

I remain concerned about the interview. I know that if Julie – the type of person who, in my opinion, clearly takes her job far too seriously – gives an accurate summary of the interview (which she almost certainly will), I am going to be summoned to my father’s office.

I will walk there gloomily, humming ominous tunes. Eventually arriving for the type of lecture that he can only conduct in his office – where I am not his daughter, but instead the daughter of an entire political brand, or however the hell he puts it when he rationalizes his never-ending diatribes on my roles in his campaigns.

Not that I would expect him to be pleased with a colleague reporting his daughter’s decidedly lackluster impression. The weird thing is that I genuinely thought I were well-prepared.

But maybe not so much. Until now, the most difficult thing I’ve encountered was initiation to my secret society – which was no easy feat. It involved tasks that in retrospect seem truly insane… and I thought, while suffering through things like wearing coke cans in my hair (before the days of Lady Gaga), “Well, at least this will prepare me for life.”

Not so.

And in consideration of my fancy education and my ridiculous knowledge on the subtleties of Shakespeare’s work and religious movements in the United States and government heath initiatives in Nigeria, I can’t help but wonder what the fuck it is that I know? About anything relevant? I sure as hell don’t feel like I know enough to have satisfied Ms. Julie during the alien encounter. (She truly did resemble an extraterrestrial.)

I wonder if perhaps I spent too much time deciding which bag to bring, instead of deciding what I would say – not a Birkin, because I didn’t want her to think I am some type of spoiled brat – but not a thrifted bag, because I didn’t want her to think I am some type of unprofessional hippie, either. I ended up stealing an old Chanel from my mom’s closet. Is it completely absurd to consider the impact one’s purse may have on an interview’s outcome?

My GBF (aka, best friend who happens to be homosexual) Robert insisted the interviewer had a bad attitude because she is ugly and poorly dressed. He hypothesized that she may be from Jersey. Even though these comments were inaccurate, they made me feel better, like Robert always does.

Robert grew up in Tokyo before moving to the US to attend Exeter – and he is just as colorful as his background suggests. Though always quick with a bitchy comment, he is actually the sweetest person I know underneath his whole bitchy gay guy shtick. Really fighting stereotypes, that one.

Callum, my unboyfriend (read: sort of but kind of not boyfriend) keeps reminding me that I should not worry about it because I am obviously going to get the job anyway. Or someone is going to be sorry.

Although I believe his comments to be true, I cannot decide if they are good or bad.

Truth is always kind of like that, though – not always the black and white we want to believe it to be – or that we were told it was when we were kids. Nope, truth is the big fucking mess of sleeping with someone you don’t love, of getting jobs you don’t deserve, of never quite being able to give up the occasional coke habit. Some might argue with that notion, but isn’t truth that which opposes lies? Isn’t truth the opposite of the lies we tell ourselves – and the world?

The polite fiction.
That is not truth.
(If it weren’t evident, I much prefer the impolite kind.)

I’ve never quite had a way with words. I like the way Maya Angelou put it when she said, “There’s a world of difference between truth and facts. Facts can obscure the truth.” (I know – cliché – but if there’s one thing the Ivy League has taught me, it is: “When in doubt, defer to the experts.”)

…and that is another thing about me. ADHD. Allegedly. The staring out of windows during important meetings? The random ponderings on the nature, essence, substance of truth? Well, they call it a disorder nowadays. Because I have an attention deficit. (Which just sounds ridiculous.)

Callum interrupts my thoughts by telling me we should go to his friend’s place – everyone is smoking hookah and then having a beach volleyball tournament. This is a favorite activity for many of us because his friend has an enviable sand court that makes it really fun and summer-y to play. I am instantly cheered up by this plan, and happy to escape the impending doom of my interview crash’s burning aftermath.

I head into the bedroom to change out of my suit, and as I catch myself walking past the mirror, I stop. I cannot believe how foolish I look.

Who am I kidding?

xKate

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