What will you do when you come to the moment of truth?
|As she raced across the street, Marcie dodged a flying bike messenger, suddenly glad she had worn flats for her job interview. Then a woman on the sidewalk crashed into her, almost knocking the new leather portfolio from Marcie’s grasp and rushing off in clacking heels without so much as a how-dee-do. Marcie pushed on, determined to snake her way through the New York throng, toward the soaring building at the end of the block.
She made it to the building, pushed through the massive revolving door, and checked her blurred image in the bronze door of the elevator that would whisk her to Philbee and Sons on the 47th floor. Was her brown hair really disheveled, pushed across her forehead, or was it just a distortion in the reflection? She brushed at her hair and wondered if she should have tried to cover her nose freckles with powder.
Five minutes later she was seated in front of Mr. Philbee himself. She presented her resume and he asked, “Where are you from?”
“Indiana,” she replied with a bright smile. He didn’t ask where in Indiana – Marcie had the feeling it was just a shape on the map to him.
Mr. Philbee droned on – cold calls, territory, target demographics. Then Marcie heard him say, “Do you see a bridge between yourself and, say, regional manager? You know, down the line?”
Marcie stared at Mr. Philbee, across a silence that stretched all the way back to Indiana. “No,” she said. “I don’t. Thank you for your time, Mr. Philbee.” She stood, turned, and left the office.
Out on the street, Marcie stared into the crowd of people flowing past her. She saw a bridge all right, but the other end was shrouded in mystery. She took a step and climbed onto it.
(Word count: 300)