Page 4 of Glass Half Full
Too old to give you a second thought, Renee. Three years didn’t change that.
“I’m just going to start this off by saying your resume looks fantastic, Renee. Seriously, it’s just so pretty.” I force a laugh as Monroe holds up the deluxe quality, colour-printed page. “You seem to have just the kind of experience we’re looking for, and your cover letter was very impressive. I have a few questions for you myself, but I’ll let our manager take the wheel first. Dylan, did you want to ask Renee anything?”
A memory forces itself into my thoughts like a projector screen coming to life, the scene playing out so clearly it might as well be a movie in my head. It was the first time I ever went to one of the spoken word workshops at the library. A few of my friends thought it sounded cool, but not cool enough to go with me. I sat on an orange plastic chair surrounded by chatting teenagers I’d never met before and wondered why I even came in the first place.
Then Dylan walked in. He had another group leader with him, but right from the start, he stole the show. He made us get rid of the chairs and sit on the floor. He was all energy, shades of emotion constantly shifting, turning like the tide and pulling us along with him, past the doubts and hesitation that held us back until we found ourselves straight in the deep end.
One of the kids asked if there were any rules for our poems, any subjects we weren’t allowed to talk about.
“I have only one rule as far as that goes.” Dylan held up a finger, all his energy coalescing into that single point, every word marked with intention. “No small talk. I don’t want to hear the things that are easy to say. I don’t want to hear the words the world shoves in your mouth and forces you to swallow, the ones that are supposed to be polite and normal. I don’t want to hear the same script we’ve all been learning since the goddamn day we were born. I want yourwords.
“I want the words you’re scared to say. I want the words that feel like they’re setting you on fire when you speak them, the words that steal your sleep and keep you up until morning. It doesn’t have to be sad or dark or enlightening. Hell, one of my favourite spoken word pieces is about a guy professing love to his laptop. I don’t care what you write about, but it has to be real. It has to be true. It has be completely, totally you. I don’t want to hear any small talk. I want your words.”
That’s what he’d ask when he heard our poems, when he walked around that meeting room at the library I ended up spending so many hours in, prodding us through creative exercises and brainstorming sessions. He’d suspect someone could go deeper, push farther, break down a few more barriers to pull up the raw honesty underneath, and he’d just ask, “Are those your words?” He’d find someone feeling sucked dry of inspiration, floundering for just a hint of where to begin, and he’d sit them down and ask, “Where are your words? Let’s find them.”
It’s insane, but I half expect him to ask me that same question now.
Where are your words, Renee?
I wish I had an answer for him. I really wish I did.
Of course that’s not what he asks, but it might as well be. It’s the reason they’re gone.
“Your resume says you’re currently completing your degree over in the UK. Are you planning on going back?”
Monroe nods like the question was on her mind too. I know it’s a totally normal thing for an employer to ask; I was expecting to have to talk about it. I have the answer all planned out in my head.
Small talk.
It’s the easy version of the story, the polite one, the one people can listen to without cringing or looking away.
“I’m taking a year off school to save up and get some work experience.” My answer comes out just a little too peppy. “So you don’t have to worry about losing me anytime soon.”
“Good to know,” Monroe replies. “And you’re looking for part time?”
“Yes, if possible.”
“I know you originally applied for a serving position, but when we talked on the phone you said you’d consider bartending. We’re desperately in need of someone else behind the bar, so I just want to know if you’d still be comfortable with that.”
I’d prefer serving since I’ve done it before, but it seems like this is all they’re offering, so I nod. “Of course.”
Monroe writes something down on my resume. “Great. Dylan, did you have any other questions?”
“I’ll, uh, just look at this again for a second, so go ahead and fire away, boss lady.” Dylan slides the paper towards him, but I can feel his eyes on me as Monroe starts to grill me about my work history and expectations for the job.
Most of them are standard interview questions, so I get through it all fairly smoothly, confident I’m saying the right things when she hums in agreement each time I pause, her grin still in place as she jots down a few notes.
“I think that’s it from me. Don’t worry too much about your lack of pint pouring experience. DeeDee will have you trained up in no time.”
“You’re not going to throw her in the ring with DeeDee, are you?” Dylan pretends to be aghast as I look between the two of them.
“Baptism by fire,” Monroe shoots back. “If she can survive a training session with DeeDee, she can survive anything at this bar.”
“Is that the girl with the pink hair?” I ask, doing my best to keep up.
“The one and only,” Dylan chimes.
“She seemed sweet. She offered me a tequila shot to calm my nerves.” I start shaking my head as soon as the admission leaves my mouth, scared I’ve incriminated myself or my future co-worker. “I didn’t take it, of course. I think she was joking.”
