Window Shopping

I might be the general manager of Vivant but I answer to a board of tough buzzards, one of whom is my father. Another of whom is my grandmother. And they aren’t even in good moods on the Friday before a three-day weekend.

If I don’t bring Stella in for an interview, I’ll never see her again.

But I can’t call her in here just to ask her out.

That would elevate me from a daddy longlegs to a hairy tarantula.

“You look conflicted, Mr. Cook.”

Leland never calls me anything but Aiden. “You can drop the formalities. I’m not going to lecture you about the file name.”

“Oh, thank God.” He lets out a hoot and deflates, sending his chair back into the file cabinet with a rattle. “I was having flashbacks to my job interview where you said the one thing you’ll never tolerate is unkindness. And I really shouldn’t have labeled the file that way. No one is a reject. Everyone has ups and downs. That’s all. We’re all at different phases of our lives…”

Leland is still rambling, but my thoughts drown him out.

Everyone has ups and downs.

That’s damn well right.

God knows I have.

When I took over as general manager of Vivant five years ago, I promised myself I would be fair in all things, no matter what it cost me. Before I arrived, decisions were based solely on the bottom line—and I’m not so idealistic that I believe profit margins aren’t important in business. But there has to be a balance. Everything is a balance. For instance, Leland’s pessimism balances out my optimism and keeps our office running somewhere in between.

If Stella is the one with the prison record and I don’t interview her based solely on that, I’m not listening to my gut, which is telling me she deserves a shot at the position. I’m dismissing her because of the board of directors and their preconceived standards.

Not mine.

Lastly and perhaps selfishly, I want to see her again—and then there’s only one way to do so the right way—and that’s to give her a real shot at the job. Interview her with the same open mind I interview everyone else. Being in prison shouldn’t preclude her from a chance if she’s served her time, right?

I’ll worry about the fact that I’m not allowed to have romantic relationships with employees without filing documents with human resources another time.

Finally, I allow myself to scroll down.

Stella Schmidt. Based on her birthdate, she’s twenty-five. Sheesh, that’s young. I’m one and a half presidencies older than her, but okay. Moving on. Three years’ worth of online courses in fashion merchandising and product marketing. All right. That’s definitely something, even if she didn’t graduate.

I stop when I reach the box asking if she’s been convicted of a felony.

The answer is yes.

Under “more information,” it simply says Bedford Hills Correctional from 2017-2021.

No further explanation. And I can almost see her stubbornly tight-lipped expression.

I spear my fingers through my hair. Jesus, she just got out. What the hell could she have done to get herself four years behind bars? The girl barely reached my shoulder. Not that height has anything to do with committing crimes. Unless she’s one of those spies who has to carefully climb over a complicated series of green lasers protecting a giant diamond. Being small in stature might give someone an advantage in a situation like that.

I keep scrolling.

She didn’t even put down a single reference.

Work with me, Stella.

Based on the application alone, it’s a real stretch to call her in for an interview, but if I don’t, it’s going to be a pinwheel under my skin for a long time. Balance. Find the balance.

If Stella gets a second shot, so does everyone else.

“All right, Leland, here’s what we’re going to do. Call everyone in the no pile and set them up for interviews, too.”

His jaw dangles down in the vicinity of his knees. “What? Even the musicians?”

“Even them.”

It’s much later when I start to regret this decision.

Past five o’clock. Everyone, including Leland, has gone home for the day. I’m on my thirty-first interview and I haven’t had lunch, so my groaning stomach is drowning out the answers of the woman sitting across from me. Kimberly. She’s one of the overqualified applicants. NYU graduate. Top of her class. Impeccably dressed, a gold cuff wrapped around her deep brown bicep. She answers everything correctly, but I don’t get the same kick in my gut when we’re discussing concepts for the window. Nor do I get it with the next hopeful—Jonathan from Minnesota, who is only in town for two weeks with his death metal band and thought maybe they could perform in one of the windows, like, “a conceptual thing or whatever.” Or Lonnie, a former contestant on Project Runway who got voted off in one of the early rounds and insisted on me watching his highlight reel.