Traffic was terrible, and I didn’t get to Monumental Studios until quarter of eleven. The studio was about five miles from my house, which made my average speed on the way something like ten miles an hour. Los Angeles was becoming unlivable, and I wondered sometimes why I stayed. That was a silly question, though. I loved my house. I liked my job. And up until last year, I had a boyfriend who thought he needed to be here.
The weather, though, was what had brought me to Los Angeles in the first place, and I still loved it. I’d grown-up back east, and even as a child had hated cold and snow. I loved that this November day was bright with sunshine and warm enough to wish I was wearing a pair of shorts instead of my suit.
I got onto the Monumental lot without a problem. The security guard was nice enough to point out the building I was going to. I hurried along as quickly as I could. I was only two minutes late when I finally found Bobby Sharpe’s office. His assistant, an absurdly tall young man with red hair, asked me to wait a moment.
The office was different from what I was used to. It seemed to be made of leftover bits of furniture rejected from nicer offices elsewhere. I knew from talking to the old timers that international television sales had kept the studios afloat in the nineties, but now countries were experimenting with their own product. Yes, American movies were still big in theatres and on DVD, but audiences were no longer content to watch recycled American sitcoms on TV. I wondered if I was making a mistake to even consider moving over to this end of the business. The assistant came out of Bobby’s office and told me I could go in.
Bobby was near forty and had nearly-natural blond hair. His face was weather beaten and his eyes were stormy gray. He stood up and extended his hand over his desk. His grip was tight and strong. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Matt. Have a seat.”
I considered chatting about the weather for a moment, but Bobby took control of the meeting. “So, have you known Peter long?”
“We met about a year ago.” I hoped he wouldn’t ask how. I really didn’t want to admit to dating Peter that one time. It didn’t seem professional.
“And your current position. You want to leave it, because...?”
“Re-engineering.” And the temporary leave I’d just been forced onto.
“Ah,” said Bobby.
“I mean, I’m not being re-engineered. It just means there won’t be much opportunity for me there. I could end up spinning my wheels for years.” It was good to sound ambitious in an interview.
“So, where do you see yourself in five years?”
Hopefully not in prison, was my first thought. But I’d played this game before, so I said, “Interviewing for your job.”
Bobby laughed. Then he glanced down at his desk. The resume I’d faxed over lay in front of him. I was expecting questions about my experience, but when Bobby looked up he smiled and took me on a verbal tour of his department.
They collected information on all accounts receivable due the studio from clients throughout the world. This information was then provided to various executives and, of course, a centralized department much like the one I was currently in where it was combined with information from other divisions and disseminated. They also dealt with taxation issues as required by the various countries the studio dealt with. It didn’t sound quite as interesting as the department I was currently in. I liked participating in creating an overview of the studio’s financial health. But I was sure I’d find something about the job I liked, besides the salary increase.
“It’s actually very boring,” Bobby said.
“Not if you like numbers. I like numbers.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt like an idiot savant.
Unexpectedly, Bobby’s computer pinged and he glanced over at it. He’d been IMed. A worried frown passed over his face. He glanced at me uncomfortably. “You know, I’m going to have to cut this short. I am sorry. I’ve got your resume, and it was terrific to meet you. Tell Peter I said ‘hello.’”
I was confused. Something had happened to sink the interview, and I wasn’t quite sure what. As he ushered me out of his office, I glanced over at his assistant’s desk. On the kid’s computer screen was an article about Eddie’s murder. The one that identified me as a person of interest. I turned to Bobby.
“There’s no point in my doing a follow-up call, is there?”
“Of course there is. I mean, we haven’t made a decision and, well, why don’t we see what happens?” Bobby turned red. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to be anywhere in the world but standing in front of me.
“Whatever,” I said, and walked to the elevator.
Driving home, I could barely contain my anger and humiliation. The idea that people were innocent until proven guilty might apply in the courtroom, but it certainly didn’t apply anywhere else. It occurred to me that I might never be arrested, that I might have to live under this cloud for the rest of my life. How in the world would I do that?
Even though I’d taken my jacket off when I got in the car, I still managed to sweat through my shirt. It was a nervous sweat, an angry sweat, and I probably smelled like a trip to the vet. When I walked into my house, the first thing I did was strip off my clothes and head to bathroom to take another shower. I knew I wouldn’t be able to wash
