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The Interview
The elevator doors slid open and Greg Sanbetter stepped out. He checked his watch, it was vital to be on time. The interview wasn't for forty minutes; there would be time for coffee. Thank God. Mondays were always a bear, but even more-so this morning.
This day had to be different. He must succeed in selling himself to Brad Holcumb at Morrison-Gilchrist Investments and according to friends of insiders, that wouldn’t be easy. Greg’s survival as well as the family's depended so much on his success. There certainly wasn’t a shortage of motivators: The mortgage payment was four months in arrears and foreclosure was imminent. Their savings had evaporated long ago, and Karen was threatening to leave him.
A little less than a year had passed since he’d ditched the security and perks of Brody and MacAbee Investments. Thinking he would prosper more quickly elsewhere, he’d quit there, which proved to be a catastrophic move. Now, he had to land a job.
When a man is forty-six years old, he learns that very few big outfits need, nor want, his services. Hopefully, Brad Holcumb would be from the old school, where an individual’s merit and track record would be paramount. Men to whom age was an asset--maturity a source of power and confidence.
The brass doors whispered shut behind Greg and he spotted a Starbucks kiosk to his left. Mu-zak played in the background.
Tan marbled walls glistened in the golden rays of the early morning sun that streamed through the immense wall of windows to his right. Crystal chandeliers dotted the ceiling and lavish, wine-colored carpet muffled his steps. He drifted away from the clot of people that had gathered near the door and merged with the bustling brigade of commuters who dodged one another like reality robots in a foot race
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Somebody spent tons of money on this baby, Greg thought as he took in the surroundings. Glittery strokes reflected the conceit of the associates who leased here. It was all about status, but that was, after all, what made the financial world go 'round in Manhattan, wasn't it? Yes, he would love to work in this building, where artistic gifts of gaud were the norm.
A stunning sunrise--a perfect orange disk easing into big, rambunctious clouds, pink and purple, leaking bolts of sunlight, caught Greg's eye and he edged over to the massive windows. He loved early-morning hours in the fall, when there was a cold cut to the morning air, but you could sense persistent heat coming over the horizon. What a spectacular view, he mused:
From such height, the city seemed sculpted and silent, but busy. People scurried like bugs on the street below, the cabs resembled yellow matchbox cars. Neighboring buildings jutted into the sky from every direction. Some higher, but mostly lower. Greg considered the magic of being equal to their might from where he stood. He felt small but, at the same time, empowered in some strange way.
He checked his watch. There would be time for that coffee, he thought, as he ambled over to Starbucks. A line was forming, the early morning coffee fragrance drawing customers like ants to honey. Greg took his place in the line.
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Mojo's Site Designs
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