I followed her to a large conference room. She disappeared momentarily and then returned with a manila folder. She placed it on the table beside me.
“There’s an application in there, an I-9 form, and a four-page questionnaire,” she said, gesturing to the folder. “It shouldn’t take you long. Let me know when you’re done.”
The questionnaire resembled the personality profile assessment I’d taken upon entry to the Federal Bureau of Prisons. Realizing the similarities between the two tests, I answered most of the questions opposite of what I had in prison. Being independent, dominant, impatient, and analytical weren’t qualities I suspected they were seeking. After completing the questionnaire, I reached for the application. The first question following my personal information was the same one that had prevented me from being hired on my twenty-six previous attempts.
Have you ever been convicted of a felony?
If I lied and got caught, it would be a one-way ticket back to the joint. If I told the truth, I wouldn’t be hired. In four days, I’d be picked up by US Marshals for not complying with the conditions of my release. Under no circumstances was I going back to prison.
I stared at the question, wondering what I could do differently.
Excluding that question, I filled out the application and placed it in the folder. Hearing the click-clack, click-clack of an approaching pair of heels, I pushed everything aside and turned my chair toward the door.
A petite blonde stepped through the doorway and paused. The buttermilk tone of her poker-straight hair was about as credible as my personality profile responses. Massive fake boobs heaved out of the plunging neckline of her bright-yellow dress with each breath. In contrast to her age—which I guessed to be in the mid-thirties—her deep brown skin was leathery and sun-spotted from overexposure to Southwest Florida’s sun.
I stood. “Teddi?”
“Janine.” She looked me up and down. “Janine Bazoli.”
Her Jersey accent was subtle but impossible to hide completely.
“I’m Devin,” I said. “I’m applying for the receptionist’s position.”
“Yeah.” She gave me another quick look. “So I heard.”
“Out of curiosity.” I turned to face her. “Are there any men in this office?”
“Including you, there’s one.”
“How many women?”
“Four full-time and one part-time,” she replied. “That doesn’t include Theresa Bianchi’s skinny little ass, who uses this office to do her deals because the lying bitch doesn’t have a Realtor’s license.”
Before I could comment, she continued.
“You can tell her I said that, too. I’d say it to her face if she was standing beside you.”
Several of the men I was in prison with were from New Jersey. One thing they all had in common was that their attitudes preceded them. Apparently that held true with Jersey’s women, as well.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever have the opportunity to meet her,” I said. “But I’ll make a mental note of what you said, just in case.”
She nodded toward the folder. “Kate said all she’s waiting for is for you to fill out those papers.”
“She told you I have the job?” I asked, expressing more excitement than I intended.
“Yeah.” She looked at me like I was an idiot. “I just said that.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” I picked up the folder. “I’m going to take this stuff to her.”
I rushed past Janine and into the hallway, hoping I wasn’t wrong about my interpretation of Kate. With the employment packet pinched in the web of my hand, I stepped in front of her open door.
She peered over the top of her monitor. “Oh, are you done?”
“More or less,” I said. “I just had a couple of questions.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I stepped inside her office. “Can I ask you three personal questions?”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t put too much credence in that four-page thing,” she said. “We only use it to see who’s suitable for management positions. It really doesn’t apply to you.”
“It’s not that.”
“Oh. Well. Sure.” She draped her hair over her ears and smiled. “Ask away.”
“Have you ever tried oysters on the half shell?”
“Oysters.” She wrinkled her nose. “No.”
“Are you married?”
She seemed offended at the question.
“This isn’t a proposition or an inventory of your worth. Just play along. I’ve got a point to make, I promise.”
“Married?” She sighed. “No.”
“If you were dating someone and they really wanted you to try an oyster while you were out on a date, would you?”
“I mean. If he really wanted me to, sure.”
“If you liked it, would you admit it?”
“If I did? Sure. I’m kind of a foodie, so I like it when I find new foods.”
I lifted my extended index finger. “One more question.”
Her brows raised. “Who’s being interviewed for the job? You or me?”
“I wanted to find out who I was dealing with before I answered one of these questions.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “Who are you dealing with?”
“An open-minded woman who wouldn’t condemn someone for a mistake he made.”
She smirked. “You’ve been convicted of a felony, haven’t you?”
I hadn’t reached a point where I was comfortable talking about it with her. Not yet, at least. But there was no avoiding the issue.
Instead of slumping my shoulders in defeat, I puffed my chest proudly. “I have.”
“That’s okay,” she said dismissively. “I mean, as long as it wasn’t for something bad.”
Bad wasn’t clearly defined. I mulled over my response.
Not receiving an immediate answer, her face contorted. “It wasn’t bad, was it?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “I’ll give you the abbreviated version.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Okay.”
“I was walking out of a bar, and a guy was arguing with a girl just outside the door. They were surrounded by a large group of people, so I figured it was just some drunken argument about who was going to drive home. Before I got to my motorcycle, I heard her scream. When I turned around, he had her by her coat and his hand was cocked, like he was going to hit her. I told him to let her go. He said, ‘Go home, asshole. This doesn’t concern you.’ I guess he thought with all the people surrounding him that he was safe. Just to let him know he wasn’t, I said, ‘Fuck you.’ Five minutes later, he was in a pile beside his car, and I was being handcuffed.”
“That’s it?” she asked.
“More or less.”
“So, what? You spent a weekend in jail or something?”
It was time to let the cat out of the bag. I twisted my mouth to the side and arched a brow. “Eight years and a month.”
“Holy crap!” Her eyes bulged. “Eight years? For a bar fight? Why?”