Resume

“Your two o’clock is here,” Cindy says peeking through my barely opened door.

“Two o’clock?”

“The interview. David wants you to talk to her.”

“Right. Bring her up and drop off her résumé.”

Moments later, Cindy opens the door and motions to the young professional-looking woman standing next to her. “Erica Mack, this is Anderson Kelso. Mr. Kelso, Erica Mack.”

Erica reaches out her hand as I stand up. The shake is quick, perfunctory.

“Nice to meet you, Erica,” I say.

“Likewise,” she says. Her voice is light, insubstantial.

“Well,” I say to Erica as Cindy leaves. “Have a seat. As you heard, I haven’t had a chance to look at your résumé. I’ll have to wing it. Hope that’s OK.”

“That’s fine,” she says as she sits down. “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me.”

“Not a problem,” I say settling in to my own seat. “So, you’re applying for the claims counsel position.”

I look up as I’m talking to her and I notice her eyes. They’re a translucent blue. And familiar.

“Yes,” she says. “The claims job. I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure if that was a question or not.”

“No, right,” I say. “It wasn’t. It’s just. Nothing.”

I shake my head quickly and smile.

“Sorry,” I say. “Anyway, tell me a little about yourself.”

“I’m at Jones and Phillips in the litigation section. Do a bit of products, bit of employment.”

She pauses. I’m not really listening. I’m trying to place her face. The silence again becomes awkward.

“Right,” I say. “Jones and Phillips. Litigation.”

“And before that I was at a small firm in Kansas,” she says.

“Did you go to KU?” I ask.

“Yes. Both undergrad and law school.”

That’s it. Freshman year. Her last name wasn’t Mack. It was Nixon. It was the eyes that had attracted me even back then.

We were in Professor Weinstein’s Psych 101 class together. He always opened class with a dirty joke of the day. It seemed so scandalous. Now it seems so ridiculous.

So much seems so ridiculous now. I wore long, stringy hair in a ponytail and never shaved. I thought I was some cool bohemian in Jesus sandals, but I was just a poseur. I didn’t go to poetry slams or jazz clubs. Just hung out with my friends and watched Married with Children, ogling Christina Applegate before she turned into a respectable actress.

At some point I began to have more than casual friendship on my mind with Erica. She always held a seat for me in the large lecture hall and had invited me to come to one of her intramural gymnastics meets. I took these as signs of encouragement.

Then one day I missed class and asked to borrow her notes. I was thinking of asking if we should get together to study for the mid-term exam together. Seemed like a natural next step. As I photocopied the notes, I saw a line of print at the top of the first page in small handwriting. It said simply: “Hippie freak didn’t show.”

Hippie freak. Apparently I misread her interest.

I stopped going to class regularly. When I did go, I sat in the back. I nearly failed the mid-term, but pulled out a “C” on the final.

I only saw Erica a few more times.

I settled into a relationship with a girl I met in my Intro to Poetry class. We were eating dinner at Nick’s Irish Pub and Erica walked in. She stopped at the table and chatted for a bit, though she never used my name and I wasn’t certain she remembered it. I ran into her again at graduation, but it was clear she couldn’t remember why she recognized me.

I refocus on the Erica in front of me. She’s talking about her career—cases she’s won, favorable settlements she’s secured. She slowly winds down, then stops.

We look at each other.

Then she smiles and says, “You look familiar.”

“I just have one of those faces.”

“I guess so,” she says as she looks past me and over my shoulder. “Is that your family?” she asks, pointing to a frame sitting on a small table.

“That’s them. I met my wife in college my sophomore year. And those are our three girls.”

“Nice family,” she says simply.

“Yeah,” I say. “Listen, I just remembered another meeting I’ve got to get to. I do appreciate your time. We’ll be in touch.”

I reach for my phone and dial three digits.

“Hi, Cindy. Can you take Erica back down to the lobby please? No, I don’t need the résumé now.”

I stand up and Erica follows my lead.

“Thank you for coming in, Erica,” I say as Cindy pokes her head in.

Erica again reaches out her hand. This time she takes my hand more gently. She holds it for a second, then envelopes it with her other hand and squeezes them both together. She smiles as she lets go.

“It was a pleasure to see you,” she says.

I watch her leave with Cindy. I stand for a moment, then turn back to my phone and dial David’s number.

“Yes, Anderson?”

“Just got done with the interview.”

“So, what did you think?”

“I don’t think it’s going to work out. Didn’t measure up to her résumé.”

“Hm. I thought she might have been the one we’re looking for.”

“She’s not.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“Fine,” he says brusquely

“Fine,” I finish.

I hang up the phone. Cindy stops back by my door.

“She seemed nice,” Cindy says. “Pretty, too.”

“I suppose.”

“Want me to set her up on David’s calendar?”

“No, ding her.”

“Really?” Cindy asks frowning.

“Really,” I answer. “I’m going to take a break. Answer my phones for a bit, will you?”

I sit back down as Cindy closes my door.

“They were pretty eyes,” I say to no one.