I had arrived at my appointment with plenty of time to spare. I sat in a hot, stuffy car with the windows rolled down, looking out over the packed parking lot and listening for any rustling of breeze in the leafy boughs and tall grass. No breeze, but a mockingbird mockingly trilled its delight at seeing the sweat bead on my upper lip. He lifted off and away he flew, leaving behind the faintest tease of wind. That was all I needed to grab my portfolio, by purse and my courage. I locked my car door and marched in a lurching clip, clop (heels, heels!) up to the imposing steps of the glass and concrete edifice. I could feel the blast of conditioned air greet me from three feet away as someone scurried out the double-doors that I was heading toward. I caught the door in time and entered the cool, slate covered antechamber. I had to produce proof of my existence to a sour faced man sporting a mostly stubble crew cut. He snatched and swiped my card of personage and told me to have a seat. Blue bench or orange Atomic Age swivel chair? I chose the chair since it was closest to the exit that was just a little bit closer to home. The neatly pressed man-in-charge thrust his hand toward me after a few minutes of chair admiring had come to pass. Seems I’d passed the swipe and was officially deemed OK to wait. And wait I did. Until a tiny orange topped lady, who looked to be the sister of the chair I’d come to know, waved in hurried fashion to follow her. ‘Bye, chair.

We took the elevator to a level somewhere near the navel of the concrete and glass fortress. Someone couldn’t wait to get in as we got out of the car and had to hop aside to facilitate the flow of riders going up, going down. With shoes clacking on stone floors, leaving behind auditory breadcrumbs, I followed the lady into a white and windowless Plexiglas box. Good thing there were coasters on the end table since I tend to dribble. Oh those first impressions! This time I sat on a long, narrow couch with a black and gray crisscross pattern all over it. It was trying to leave a message. I didn’t have much time to decipher it before a chorus line of clipboard toting questioners filed into the fishbowl. Let the games begin.

“How did you know what to do when the cart was before the horse?”

“How far can you see if there is a valley and very tall trees between you and your refrigerator?"

“Why do you have to think inside or outside a box?"

“Who designed your clothes?”

I had a lot of answers to dole out. Some were better than others, but everyone’s head bobbed in unison just the same. That could have been because of the marching band that was parading through the halls during my interrogation. As papers were being shuffled, pens being capped and uncapped, and I was left holding my breath, the Verdict came down.

“You are very dynamic and sparkly. You will become bored with us. Why do you want to work here, anyway? You should try something like counterfeiting.”

One-by-one the clipboards shook my hand and exited the fishbowl as quickly as they had entered. The orange topped lady clamped her hand around my wrist and drug me out of the fishbowl as though I had no right being there in the first place. We found another elevator that took us all the way down to the bottom where I was told I had to leave the building immediately before it turned into something edible. Pity.

My car was still hot and stuffy. I tossed my belongings into the passenger seat (the clipboards didn’t even look at my portfolio!) and I sat and waited for the mockingbird to return with a new set of coordinates.