Dirty Sweet Cowboy

T he ballroom is packed with recent graduates shuffling from booth to booth under the extravagant chandeliers of the Fairmont Hotel. I clutch my printed resumes close to my chest with my arms folded, squinting down the row of potential employers. Dozens of my peers in nearly identical “business professional” outfits—cheap suits and striped ties for the boys, conservative pencil skirts with white, button-down blouses for the ladies—push their way to the front of the best employers, trying to snag some of those on-site interviews .

I shift from foot to foot, realizing just how uncomfortable these heels are. If this is the sort of thing I have to wear for corporate life, I don’t think I want any part of it .

“Okay, I think I got everybody in this row,” my best friend Bea says, magically appearing right next to me. She tucks a curly strand of hair behind her ear and scowls at the sheaf of papers in her hands .

“What do you mean, you got everybody?” I shake my head .

She glances at me, raising her eyebrows like the answer is supposed to be obvious .

“I gave everybody a resume? The whole reason we’re here? Now I just have to wait for the job offers to roll in. I may make a spreadsheet to keep track of everybody. You know how to do that, right ?”

“Wait… you gave everybody a resume? As in, everybody ? ”

She nods, craning her head toward the next aisle and riffling through her resume copies again, apparently counting them .

“Yes, everybody. I figure I should have a job by tomorrow .”

“I don’t think that’s how that works, Bea,” I mumble, glancing at my own resumes. Ava Harrison, it says at the top. Then Objective: to find a job with long-term prospects and potential for advancement where I will be able to use my skills and ambition in a mutually beneficial way .

In other words, completely generic baloney .

“Of course it’s how it works,” she continues. “It’s like dating. You get as many digits as possible, even from guys you don’t even like. The more guys you have in the running, the better your odds of finding somebody worth banging. It’s a numbers game .”

“This doesn’t feel anything like dating,” I remark, trying not to sound too sarcastic. This was my idea, after all. Now that we have both graduated from Cal State, supposedly we are serious adults. On our own. Ready to face the future with a smile, or so the valedictorian told us at graduation .

“Sure it does,” she quips, popping her glossed lips dramatically. “Just slightly more literal. You size them up, they size you up. You do the fakey-fake dance and each tell each other some bull crap about how great we are, and by the time either one of you figures it out, it’s too late. You’re knocked up and married. Metaphorically speaking .”

“I guess you have a point …”

“Of course I do,” she snaps. “How are you doing, anyway? How many resumes did you give out ?”

“Well…”

I let the word drift off, and her attention gradually snaps back to me. She cocks her head to the side, scowling. I see her start to chew on the inside of her cheek .

“Fifteen? A dozen? Ten ?”

I just shrug .

“Help me out here, Ava. Six? Three… no, two? Wait, none?” she asks, her voice rising with every word. “Hold the phone. Are you seriously going to tell me that you have given out zero resumes ?”

I wince, unsure what to tell her .

“I just don’t know if I see myself as a medical biller, or veterinary lab assistant, or management trainee for San Francisco’s largest dry goods importer. I don’t know if those jobs are my future or not .”

She looks completely puzzled. Her eyebrows are arched so high, I’m afraid she’s going to get some permanent forehead wrinkles .

“You don’t know if that’s your future…” she repeats, incredulous. “How are you going to know what your future is unless you actually start doing something, Ava ?”

“Well, I’m not just going to take the first thing that comes along, you know .”

Bea turns on her heel, stalking toward the farthest cluster of employer booths. I hurry behind her, mostly because I don’t want to be left there looking stupid at the end of the row. At least this way, I have a mission: trying to keep up with Bea .

She zigzags back and forth, dropping a resume and a bright, friendly smile at each booth, one right after another. Men in short sleeves and ties or ladies in tired-looking sweater sets take her resumes with bland, unfocused eyes .

By the time we get to the end of the row, Bea is completely out of paper. She turns around to face me, putting her hands on her hips and glaring at my still-intact stack of resumes .

“Not even one?” she huffs .