Page 77 of The Chase

It’s slate and charcoal, as Summer would say.

And it’s the same fucking outfit I tried on last night. The first one, which Summer advised me to forsake in favor of what I’m wearing now: dark-blue Ralph Lauren jeans, a Marc Jacobs dress shirt with no tie, and brown Gucci loafers. Summer would be proud that I remembered each designer’s name and can link it to his corresponding clothing item.

Thank God I didn’t go with the first outfit, or this interview would’ve started off a touch awkward.

“Colin!” Kamal greets me with enthusiasm, pumping my hand in a shake that lasts the entire time he speaks. “So good to meet you! Look at you—you’re huge! You look way smaller in the picture I have of you. In person you’re a giant!”

“Picture?” I say blankly.

“My assistant grabbed your hockey mug shot off the net. Is it called a mug shot? I don’t know. How tall are you? Six-one? Six-two?”

“Six-two—”

“Six-two, I bet. I’m five-eight, just a little fella with a big bank account, right?” He guffaws at his own joke. “Let’s grab a seat?”

“Sure,” I say, although I doubt he hears me. It seems like Kamal Jain mostly talks to himself, and you’re just along for the ride.

The Ritz bar resembles one of those gentlemen’s cigar clubs you see in the movies. A few round booths span one wall, but for the most part it’s padded leather armchairs tucked throughout the room to provide the illusion of privacy for patrons. There’s even a roaring fire in the fireplace, a real one, which crackles as the server leads us past it.

We settle in a pair of chairs in the corner of the room. Kamal orders a vodka tonic. It’s ten thirty in the morning, but I don’t comment on it. No way am I criticizing my potential employer’s morning beverage selection. Also, I’m a bit starstruck, so speaking might be a challenge in general. I’ve seen this man’s face on the cover of magazines. I’ve followed his career for years. It’s surreal to be sitting across from someone I’ve admired from afar for so long.

“Thank you for coming all this way to see me, Mr. Jain,” I start.

“Mr. Jain! We already discussed this, man—call me Kamal or KJ. ‘Mister’ gives me the heebie-jeebies. Too authoritarian for my liking.”

“Sorry. Kamal.” I decide to be upfront with the guy. I suspect he might appreciate it. “I’m sorry. I’m almost embarrassed by how hard I’m fan-boying right now.”

He gives a loud laugh. “Oh, trust me, I can relate. One time I met Stan Lee at a comic book convention, and I almost came in my pants. Swear to God, I felt a tingle in the dingle.”

I stifle a snicker. “Well, luckily you were able to control yourself,” I say helpfully.

“Barely! That man’s a legend. I’m divorcing my parents and hoping he’ll adopt me.”

The snicker slips out. I already knew from the interviews I’ve seen with him that Kamal has no brain-to-mouth filter. But experiencing it in person is a whole other spectacle.

“Is that a Marc Jacobs?” He gestures to my shirt. “Great fit, bomb cuffs—pricey. Hope you didn’t clean out your savings account for li’l ol’ me. You’re in college, you can’t afford frivolous purchases yet, Colin. I’ll get my assistant to send you a check of reimbursement.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary—”

“All right,” he interrupts, “I’ve got four more minutes. Let’s do this fast.”

Four minutes? He literally just sat down.

I wonder what it’s like to be SO IMPORTANT that you fly to Boston for a five-minute meeting before having to board the old company jet again.

For the next three minutes, Kamal launches questions at me as if he’s firing an interview rifle. They seem to have no rhyme or reason. Jumping from one topic to another before Ican blink and only allowing me about ten seconds to answer before firing again.

Who are your artistic influences?

What’s your favorite movie?

Do you eat meat?

Would you be willing to work weekends if needed?

What do you think ofNo Man’s Sky?

Would you consider yourself a jock?

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