call him that, had first told me about the job opening one night over pizza and beers at the Bayou. He was one of those D.C. guys who pride themselves on being in the know, and he knew I’d been trying to land a government gig since graduating two years earlier. But entry-level positions had become scarce and you usually had to know someone who knew someone to get an in. Sidney was my in. He had a job at the State Department and heard about the open typist position from a friend of a friend. I knew it’d be a long shot, as my typing and shorthand skills were just okay and my only other work experience had been answering phones for an almost-retired litigator who wore ill-fitting suits. But Sidney said I was a shoo-in because he’d put in a word with someone he knew at the Agency. I suspected he didn’t really know anyone at the Agency with whom to put in a word, but I thanked him anyway. When Sidney leaned in for a kiss, I extended my hand and thanked him again.
I left the bathroom, relieved to see that the man with the newspaper was gone. I ordered a large Coca-Cola, and the little Greek man behind the counter gave it to me with a wink. “Rough start?” he asked. Nodding, I guzzled down the soda. “Thanks,” I said, sliding a nickel across the counter. He pushed it back with one finger. “My treat,” he said, and winked again.
* * *
—
I arrived fifteen minutes early at the black iron gates leading into the complex of large gray and red brick buildings on Navy Hill. Five minutes would’ve been respectable, but fifteen minutes early meant I had to walk around the block three times before entering. By then, I was a sweaty mess all over again. As I pushed the heavy door, I expected to be greeted with a blast of delicious air conditioning, but was hit only with more hot air.
After waiting in the inspection line, it was my turn to have my ID checked against the list of preapproved visitors. But as I went to get it, a white-haired man in round wire-rimmed glasses pushed past me, knocking into me and causing me to drop my handbag. My meager one-page résumé fell to the floor. The man who’d breezed past security turned and came back. He picked it up, handing me my now smudged and slightly embellished yet still meager list of accomplishments and qualifications with a “Here you go, miss.” Then he was off before I could respond.
* * *
—
In the elevator, I licked my fingertip and scratched at the smudge on my résumé. It only made it worse, and I cursed myself for not bringing an extra copy. I’d written it with the help of a book I checked out from the library titled How to Land the Job Fair and Square! I formatted the résumé per the book’s instructions, even paying extra for the heavier off-white paper stock. The smudged résumé was what the book would call “amateur hour.”
To make matters worse, in the process of picking it up, I’d caused the paper towel I’d inserted in the bathroom to ride up, and I could feel it pressing against the small of my back. I told myself not to think of it, which made me think of it even more.
“Where you headed?” the woman next to me asked, her finger hovering over the buttons.
“Oh,” I said. “Three. No, four.”
“Interview?”
I held up the smudged résumé.
“Typist?”
“How’d you know?”
“I’m pretty good at making quick assessments.” The woman extended her hand. She had wide-set eyes and full lips with waxy red lipstick that resembled two Swedish Fish. “Lonnie Reynolds,” she said. “Been at the Agency since before it was the Agency.” She seemed simultaneously proud and tired of that fact. When she shook my hand, I noticed a band of white skin on her ring finger. She noticed me notice the missing ring and held my gaze for an uncomfortable moment. The elevator dinged at the third floor.
“Any advice?” I asked as she stepped out.
“Type fast. Don’t ask questions. And don’t take any shit.” As two men got into the elevator, I heard her call out from behind them, “And that was Dulles who ran into you, by the way.”
Before I could ask who that was, the doors closed.
* * *
—
On the fourth floor, the receptionist greeted me by pointing to the