Bum Heart

In New York I made out with a boy named Marty with a health condition that he described as a “bum heart.”

“I gotta bum heart!” he said matter of factly as he rapped his knuckles against his chest. His accent reminded me of someone from the TV show Jersey Shore, which normally would have been a turn-off but I had had one too many Dirty Shirlies that night and my inhibitions were all askew.

“What exactly do you mean?”

“My heart, it just ain’t right” he barely elaborated before taking a long drag off his cigarette. I watched two sinewy strands of smoke curl up into his nostrils and thought: maybe I have a similar problem. I thought about sharing this new revelation with Marty but then realized I had no medical evidence to support this claim; only a slew of spiteful exes.

Throughout the night Marty kept wandering outside for cigarette breaks and each time I would follow him, even though I didn’t smoke. It was fall and the air was so cold I could feel my fragile California blood congealing beneath my thin hoodie but somehow it was still better than being inside the bar.

“Come home with me,” he whispered, as he wrapped me in his knee-length peacoat.

The heat felt good but I ignored the question. It wasn't really a question at all. It was a demand, and I don't take well to those. I took one last glance at the tall trees that lined the parking lot. They looked tired, as if they were ready to shed the last of their lemon-colored leaves but couldn't quite muster the strength.

The pop music pulsating from inside the bar seemed palpable in my drunken state and I noticed that a dewy, mustard-colored light was spilling out from the doorway and onto our touching feet. Marty then started kissing me. I waited until he was finished to give him back his peacoat and head toward the glow.

Corporate Interviews, 10-Storey Buildings and Other Places I Don't Belong

The trouble began before I even set foot inside the building. I circled the strip lined with massive glass-windowed office buildings unable to figure out where I was supposed to park. Downtown Los Angeles was an area I avoided like Black Friday for this particular reason. Even if you did know where you were going, it was almost impossible to figure out where to park. After passing my destination for the third time--the largest building on the block--I eventually spotted the bleakly labeled parking structure behind it.

Carefully I parked my beat up Civic amidst a sea of ebony BMW's and customized Mercedes.' The thought that if I nailed this interview I could potentially be driving one of these expensive vehicles danced across my mind as I made my way toward the elevator. It disappeared, however, when I immediately began having trouble figuring out how to operate the lift. In my defense, this wasn't just your average elevator. Instead of the two regular up and down buttons, what looked like a mini-pad jutted out from the space between the two doors. Its touch screen displayed the various options. I pressed L3, which I assumed stood for where I was headed, and the machine directed me to elevator “E.” How fancy! I thought. In addition to talking phones and automatic soap dispensers, our modern world of technology now offered what I'd now mentally dubbed a “smart elevator.” This agency had impressed me before I'd even entered the building.

The doors to the smart elevator opened preemptively on level two to reveal something even more shocking than the machine's intelligence. Dozens of college-aged girls, dressed in various combinations of high heel and pencil skirt took the elevator cabin by storm. The small space immediately filled with a nauseating perfume smell as we glided to the next level. When the doors finally re-opened, a woman who could have easily been one Hugh's Playmates by night (Office Barbie by day) was the first to step out. I assumed she was guiding the tour.

“This,” announced Office Bunny. “Is the human resources level! If you do end up landing a job here at BAM you will first interview with Ben Plower, our recruiter. He will then start you in the mailroom and you can work your way up from there.” Strange, I thought. Ben Plower was the man I was supposed to see for my interview. I touched my uncurled hair and glanced down at my loose-fitting capris. I felt suddenly self-conscious and underdressed in comparison to the other girls. Nevertheless I shouldered past them, also feeling sort of lucky to have bypassed this cheesy introductory on my path to potential employment.

The reception area was sparse in an almost futuristic way that I've come to realize is typical of Hollywood talent agencies. It contained little more than a metal desk/podium in the center of a giant room with a panoramic view of Los Angeles. Behind the desk sat three attractive, young business people, two of whom were engaged in rapid phone conversations. I made my way over to the one who wasn't on the phone, a 20-something-year-old woman who gazed up at me with deep blue, deer-like eyes and said, “Can I help you?”

“Uh yeah, I'm here to see Ben Plowers?”

“Is this an interview?”

“Yeah! Yup...I guess so.” I realized that my three answers mirrored the three levels of certainty that I was feeling at that moment. On one level I was confident I could excel at whatever kind of office work this job entailed (pun intended). That was the YEAH! Part. The “I guess so” part was not quite so optimistic. This was the part of me that was still having trouble accepting the fact that anyone from this company would even want to interview me. This part of me still thought of today less as an interview and more as a casual opportunity for the HR person to unblinkingly eliminate me from the pool of serious candidates. The “yup” part, you could say, was the bridge that connected these two spectrums. Yup, you may still be young and green, but you can accomplish this!

Deer Eyes then handed me a packet of papers to fill out and phoned Ben to tell him I was here. After I was done initialing a thousand clauses that I hadn't bothered to read, I handed the packet back to Deer Eyes who directed me to Ben's office.

I guess this is where I am supposed give a brief description of Ben but, honestly, I can't. Try as I may, I just cannot seem to think of a single adjective that set Ben apart from any other middle-aged white male. Like so many other men his age, he wore black-rimmed glasses and was neither particularly attractive or particularly unattractive. His mannerisms followed suit. He wasn't unfriendly but he didn't exactly put me at ease, either. He was simply “businesslike.”

I tried to be “businesslike” also but looking back I am assuming that my attempts were futile. First of all, I could not for the life of me figure out how to sit comfortably on the gray couch positioned across from his desk for such “interview” occasions. I alternated between awkwardly leaning forward and slouching deep into the cushions, which were just a little too far back. Eventually, I settled on leaning forward with my hands clasped between my knees as if to say, 'Okay, I'm ready.'

Going off his cue, I told him “about myself.” Which is to say, I told him what was relevant. I told him I had recently graduated from film school and taken an internship at Blumhouse. I was also careful to include how I had been essentially promoted from intern to executive assistant after my supervisor was fired. This was the little nugget that usually impressed people but Mr. Plower remained unmoved. He listened to my monologue stone-faced and then glanced back at my resume. He then spent the rest of the time lecturing me on the harsh nature of the mailroom. He explained how I would have to take a disheartening amount of bullshit from some of the biggest a-holes in Hollywood on an almost minutely basis without letting anything bother me, etc. etc. etc. All of this conveyed at length, of course, using more erudite terminology.

Afterward, he handed me his business card and told me to contact him if I was still interested. I assured him that I was and threw pursed lips he responded that he would look forward to hearing from me. His eyes, however, seemed to be saying something entirely different. I scanned them for a brief moment, trying to discern their message but it quickly became clear that they were being held hostage by the rest of Mr. Plower's body. What is it? I coaxed, as I squeezed Ben's hand for a bit longer than he expected. But it wasn't until I was leaving that their message became clear. “Get out!” They squeaked over the symphony of typing. “Get out while you still can!” As I exited the reception area the squeaking persisted, this time barely audible over the chorus of voices answering different phones with identical greetings: “Get out before you turn into me!”