CC Fiction: Chasing Chastity (Part III)

[Read the second installment HERE]
A few days later, I received a friendly e-mail from Jack. He informed me that I’d be hearing from an internal HR recruiter in the next couple of days. I also noticed that he was now available for chat on my Gmail account.
“No harm in that, right?” I asked Jason.
“Sure. Who cares?” He replied.
So after I heard from the recruiter, Jack and I chatted here and there – nothing special or even personal, just friendly banter about this and that. But things quickly took on a different tone, although subtle, I began to wonder about Jack’s motives. He was ecstatic when he found out that Liz, the HR recruiter, had called me. As soon as I told him over chat, our “chat conversation” proceeded as such:

Jack: digits? your digits?!? also may i suggest that you wear a highly professional business suit for the occasion?
me: why do you want to call? and of course i’ll wear a professional suit, silly!
Jack: what do you mean why??? i wanna talk about this over the phone!
me: ok. . . sorry

Before I had a chance to turn my head away from my computer monitor, my cell phone cried BZZZ! BZZZ! BZZZZ!
“So what’s up?”
“Oh, not much. As I said over chat, I just spoke to Liz. That’s all . . .” I picked at my hangnail. Ouch! Blood collected around my skin. I bit harder.
“Well, uh, so how did it go?” He paused, breathed heavily. “How did it go?” he insisted.
“Uh, it was fine.” I inspected my wound. “I mean, as ‘fine’ as any conversation about an interview can go,” I smirked. Dead silence. “Uh, so, anyways, it went pretty well. I guess,” I said suspiciously.
“What do you mean, ‘you guess?’” He drew back, his tone softened, “so, uh, when is the interview? If I have time…I’ll take you out to lunch or something. How’s that?”
“Sure. Ummm . . . my interview is scheduled a week from today, so that means it’ll be next Tuesday, obviously,” I said uncomfortably, “at 11 a.m., to be exact. Oh, and lunch would be great.”
“Great, well, I’m on my way to wooooo and ‘seduce’ some politicians, convince em’ that our product is see-a-perb.”
“Oh, well, I’m sure you will succeed.”
“Of course I will, baby! I used to be a big-time body builder. Nothin’ can stop me! I am driving a brand f*ckin’ new jag, too!” he shouted.
“Ha! Ummmm, well . . . bye then. Oh . . . uh . . . one more thing, tell Cara to call me. OK?”
“Uh . . . will do. Good-bye, me lady!” he screamed awkwardly.
A week later I was sitting in AFFIXED’s sterile waiting room, watching the luscious secretary (obviously hired because of her looks) surf the web.
The luscious little lady – I mean the receptionist – said, chewing gum, “UH, like I told Jack that you were here . . . you don’t know, uh, Stan do you?”
“Ummm, no, I know Jack, but I don’t know Stan, but . . . great! Thanks.”
“Sure . . . but I thought you knew Stan.” She smacked her Bubblicious.
“No. I don’t know a person here named Stan.”
A paunchy stomach materialized, pushed against my glass, and a mouth above it spoke. “Uh, hey, hey! How are you?” Jack stuck out his paw awkwardly.
“Fine. Fine. Thank you.”
“You ain’t no professor here, lady-bee!” He laughed. “Oh, and uh, you look, uh . . . really, I mean really nice!”
“Uh, OK?” I replied and played with my resume. Liz interrupted us.
“Excuse me Jack. You are Glenn, correct?” The pudgy, young woman inquired. “I’m Liz.”
“Yes. Yes, I am Glenn. So nice to meet you, Liz . . . it’s a pleasure.” I replied, sticking out my clammy hand. We entered her office, I sat, and I watched cars zoom by on I-95. Hmph. Not such a great view, I thought.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, too!” Liz stuck out a limp, wet clam. Her shake was wet and weak. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“Thanks, Liz.”
The interview was fine, I guess. But as soon as we started to discuss the position, I knew I wasn’t the right candidate.
Liz began: “So, how can your skills that you obtained as a researcher, uh, as a professor . . . how are they applicable this analyst position with AFFIXED. You are aware, the position is entirely quantitative?”
“Ummmm . . . well my researching skills are, uh, transferable . . .”
“And how so?”
“Well, look, I obviously don’t have a background in quantitative research, since I was a professor of literature, but my analytical skills are, I think,” I chuckled, and then coughed, “superb. Plus, oh, and plus I have great leadership skills.”
“Well, Glenn, if I may . . .”
“Of course, of course. I don’t even ask my students to address me as ‘Professor Camp’, so please…'”
“Well, just checking. Anyways, you don’t have to prove that you have outstanding analytical skills. My parents are both academics, so I’m sure of that. Given that you were hired at Yale, I trust that you’re analytical skills are superior when compared to the rest of the population. BUT, and that’s a big but, are they relevant to this position? I wonder . . . I’m just being honest.”
“No, I know.” I was defeated, but Liz at least was nice. She was definitely on my team. “I appreciate your honestly, Liz.”
Even though my academic background was impressive, I didn’t make “the cut.” Liz’s alma mater was Yale, too, so I suspect that was part of her interest in me. Well, she said as much. Nevertheless, it was impossible to persuade or convince her that my skills were transferable for a research analyst position.
Liz didn’t come right out and say the obvious, but I think we both had a hunch that I was there for very different reasons. Although I was dressed in a crisp black suit, a rather masculine, Marlene Dietrich-like look with my blonde hair pulled in a severe bun, I felt painfully feminine and vulnerable. Afterwards, Jack took me to lunch in the building’s cafeteria. His eyes darted here and there. We ate in silence, but he scanned my breasts. At one point during our terse remarks, he coughed.
“You’re gonna need to move closer to the office.” He looked away, making it impossible for me to read his expression.
“OK, but I haven’t gotten the job yet, Jack!”
“Well, I’m just saying . . . the commute up I-95 is hellish.”
“No, you’re right.” I crunched on a dry piece of turkey. I felt so desperate for a job like this (oh, the places that Jason and I could go see! We could even move, ITALY, I thought), that I failed to see the implications of this statement.
He added, “Yeah, you should move closer to me, and we could be drinkin’ buddies. Whaddya say?”
“Sure . . . Cara could join us, right”
“Uh, sure. Whatever.”

Score Yourself a Free ‘Do
Score Yourself a Free ‘Do
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