Brothers of Paradise Series

I dial Melissa in Human Resources. The ad for a new personal assistant went live just yesterday, but patience is a virtue I don’t possess.

“Mr. Marchand?”

“Have you received any applicants for the new position?”

“Yes,” she says, “a handful. But the ad hasn’t even been live for twenty-four hours yet. I’m expecting more.”

“Send them over.”

Brief hesitation. “I haven’t vetted them yet. Would you like me to send you a selection? I could go through them in a few hours’ time.”

“No, send the ones we’ve already received.”

She’s perplexed, that’s clear, but she doesn’t argue. “They’ll be in your inbox shortly.”

Perfect. Something productive to do during the fifteen minutes I’m now forced to wait for one of my head architects.

Melissa’s email appears. Seven applicants are included, each in individual files with all their supporting documentation. Excellent. I scroll through the list and open the first one. Faye Alvarez. It’s an unusual name.

Her CV is excellent. Valedictorian. A bachelor’s degree in architecture. Worked five years at Elliot Ferris. I grit my teeth at the name-he is no friend of mine-but his firm is undoubtedly successful.

I click open her cover letter and can’t believe my eyes.

Dear Mr. Marchand (what kind of fancy-pants name is that?):

You’re not going to hire me, you old stooge, and let me list the reasons why. Intrigued? You should be. I’m about to tell you everything that’s wrong with this industry. You’re welcome.

Firstly, I don’t have any professional recommendations. That’s not because I didn’t work somewhere nice-because I did-but because my former boss is a lecherous creep. Terribly, terribly lecherous. That’s a good word. Well, it’s a bad word, but it’s forceful. He refuses to give me a recommendation because we had a so-called difference of opinion. I’ll give you a clue: I was in the right. So here I am, without a recommendation. It’s not because I’m not good at my job. It’s because I was too good. I’m the best damn architect you’ll ever see.

But you won’t believe me when I say it, because you need proof, and I can’t supply it. It’s a catch-22. That’s another good term, a reference to a literary classic. As you can tell from this beautifully written letter, I am very highly educated. But you won’t hire me anyway, because I didn’t go to an Ivy League college. I’m sure you did, and all the other architects at your firm. You probably only hire other Ivy alumni. An unspoken rule, right? I know how New York architect firms work. Well, I couldn’t afford to. WASN’T MY FAULT!

Second, I don’t look like an architect. I’m putting it bluntly here because why not? That’s the truth of it. I’ve been told I’m “a distraction in the workplace.” Too curvy, too sensual, too exotic, whatever that means, I’ve heard it all. Just because my dad was from Mexico doesn’t mean I’m some sort of dish to be sampled. But that’s what all the higher-ups see. They don’t see my perfectly executed calculations; they just see my cleavage. Which I usually try to cover up. Again, NOT MY FAULT!

Do you want to know the final reason why you won’t possibly consider hiring me, or even calling me for an interview? I don’t have any previous experience as an assistant, despite being grossly overqualified for the position you’re hiring for. I’m stooping to the level of assistant, and I won’t even get that. But I’m also underqualified to be an architect at your prestigious firm, dear sir, because of the previous reasons I listed. So I’m fucked either way.

This industry is sexist, elitist, and protectionist. I thought I could make it anyway, but it seems like I can’t. Reject me and you’ll help confirm my thesis. Thanks in advance.

Sincerely,

Faye Alvarez.

I read it once.

Then I read it again.

And by the end, I’m grinning. This woman is angry. More than that-she’s furious. Not once have I ever been called an old stooge, and certainly not by someone I’ve never met. The part that makes me smile the most is the ending. She signed her cover letter with sincerely, after just having used the word fucked. Impossible.

Insane.

I look at her CV again.

Honestly, she has stellar credentials. Graduated summa cum laude from a mid-tier school. Interned at one of the big firms before landing a job as a junior architect. She was a part of the Century Dome project.

Hmm. Impressive structure, that one. I’d been there at the opening.

She’s right, though. She’s definitely overqualified to be an assistant. At the same time… she’d need very little training on the architecture part of it. She’d understand all my notes right away. The systems, the projects… sure, she might need to learn how to handle a calendar, but that’s the easy part. The building and development are the hard part, and she already has that down pat.

I re-read her letter.

It makes me smile again. That’s a good word. Well, no, it’s a bad word. This woman sounds half off her rails, and half brilliant, and damn if it isn’t the first applicant who’s actually stood out to me. I can’t hire her-of course I can’t. But there’s no harm in calling her in for an interview and proving her last prediction wrong. Marchand & Rykers isn’t elitist or sexist. And if the letter is any indication, the call might just be the most fun I’ve had in months.

Besides, her first paragraph is unsettling. Old Elliot Ferris not giving her a recommendation because of what she’s hinting…

I dial the number she listed at the top of her CV.NôvelDrama.Org: text © owner.

A breathless voice picks up after the second ring. It’s soft and sure. “Faye Alvarez speaking?”

“I’m Mr. Marchand from Marchand & Rykers.”

There’s absolute silence on the other line.

“The old stooge,” I add, always helpful.

“Hello,” she breathes. “God, I’m very embarrassed about that letter.”

“You are? I didn’t get that from the text itself.”

“No, well, I wasn’t exactly in my right mind when I sent that.”

“Are you telling me you applied to work at my firm while under the influence?”

“Maybe,” she says. “The answer depends on whether it will exonerate me or not.”

“Exonerate,” I repeat. “That’s another objectively good word, wouldn’t you say?”

There’s a distinctively feminine groan on the other end. “I’m very sorry about that letter.”

“I understand that you are,” I say, “but I’m not. It was very amusing.”

Another groan. “Oh, I’m sure. Has it been passed around the office yet? Taped to the water cooler?”

“Not yet, but I have big plans for it,” I say gravely. “I’m thinking of turning it into an email forward.”

“You wouldn’t,” she breathes, and I can’t help but smile at the outrage in her voice. God, this woman is fun to needle.

“I won’t, not if you come in for an interview.”

The silence on the other side is complete.