Walla Walla University - Creative Writing Program Final Project

When I turned sixteen it was time for me to get a real job. I was ready to graduate from scanning files at my dad’s law office and move on. Don’t get me wrong, at first working for dad was interesting because he told me the files were confidential and that I was forbidden to read them. Naturally, then, I started to read every file the second he left the room. I questioned why the files were confidential at all because they were so boring I wanted to cry. But I didn’t cry—instead I scanned. And scanned. And scanned. And scanned. I listened to Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody on repeat and sang “Mama, just killed a man” while I undid staples. After pulling the third staple from underneath my nail bed I decided I had enough. All the pretty girls worked at the mall.

The next day dad hired someone else to replace me and he paid him twice as much.

The Roseville Galleria was big, sparkly, and beautiful. As I pulled up to the Macy’s parking lot I watched a willowy brunette walk towards the wide, glass doors. She was scantily dressed in plaid and holey pants. I wanted to be her.

I sat in the food court with my California Crisp sandwich and made a list of places I wouldn’t die if someone saw me working at. After running to the bathroom to check that my eyebrow hairs were lined up, I set off. I was determined. I was a strong confident woman. I repeated this mantra as I marched toward my first store.

Forty-five minutes later I was still empty handed and my eyebrow hairs were askew again. I told myself that even strong, confident women know when to call in back up.

My best friend Jenny met me two days later. Her mom dropped her off outside of Sears and we walked in together. I wore different clothes and hoped the store employees wouldn’t recognize me. Jenny leant me her Glistening Cherry Glaze lip-gloss to help me look older and sophisticated. I think it worked.

The first five stores we visited weren’t hiring. We took a Jamba Juice break to refuel and regroup. Getting denied was exhausting.

We finished our Chocolate Mo’od smoothies, which were really just chocolate milkshakes masquerading as healthy drinks, and trooped past the carousel to our last, and most anticipated, stop.

We walked around Abercrombie and Fitch for a full hour before we worked up the courage to ask the Greek God running the fitting room if we could have an application. Working for Abercrombie and Fitch would probably be the coolest thing I would ever do in my life ever and I had to get hired. Had to. Had to. Had to.

And he didn’t tell us no! I tried not to let my mouth hang open from shock—mom always tells me that it’s not my most attractive look.

He led us to the clearance room at the back of the store, which is actually a room full of half clearance and half regularly priced items; I’m sure that’s an accident though. He opened up a magic portal in the wall and a computer screen glowed from within; the light was so bright compared to the almost complete darkness of the store that at first Jenny and I were blinded by its holy halo.

After we recovered from the shock we began to fill out the application. Did they do this for everyone? Would we get hired? We had to! Had to.

Everyone who was anyone with half a brain knew that Abercrombie and Fitch only hired beautiful people. I wasn’t as fat as I used to be, and my face was prettyish, so maybe I would get hired. Jenny was stick skinny, but her nose was big. Neither of us were sure of our chances.

After we finished, some angelic, Thumbelina-type glided toward us. She told us that they were opening a Gilly Hicks, a sister store, in two months and that we could join the group interviews. Jenny and I mutely nodded, silenced by the beauty that seemed to come from her non-existent pores. I wondered if she used Proactiv.

Half an hour later we sat twitching with excitement at the Starbucks in front of Nordstrom. Two venti drinks in hand (caramel frappacino, extra caramel, but no whip), we came up with a plan of attack.

Our friend Sydney, who had somehow snagged a job at Abercrombie and Fitch Kids, became our informant for all things Abercrombie. We learned that Abercrombie and Fitch hired two types of people: models and impact. The male models stood shirtless at the front of the store and the female models swayed beside them in booty shorts and pretended to fold clothes. Impact workers were the ugly employees who worked the stockroom. They were still prettier than the average person, just not enough to work the 12-year-old crowd that gaped at the models while their dads tried to pull them away.

Sydney was impact.

Jenny and I scraped the caramel off the bottom of our cups and went home to figure out what to wear to our interviews.

The next day I decided not to go to my interview. I had nothing to wear. Nothing. Everything I owned was ugly. There was no point in going without the proper Abercrombie and Fitch attire. No, I could not wear my American Eagle blouse with my Abercrombie and Fitch jeans.

Didn’t mom see the American Eagle logo in the corner? I’ll just go back to work tomorrow at dad’s stupid office and scan more stupid files.

I’m too fat anyway. It’s just a fact.

I told this to my mom and four hours later I stood in front of the mirror wearing new Abercrombie and Fitch jeans (Destroyed Dark Wash, Boot) and a scooped floral blouse (Elisa Shirt, Floral. Pink). It took awhile to find pants that fit, because they keep the bigger girl sizes on the higher shelves, but after rooting around for a while mom and I found some shoved up behind the smaller sizes. It was meant to be! Yeah, 240 dollars sounds like a lot of money to spend on interview clothes, but it was really an investment for when I get the job, which now I’m totally for sure going to get.

One of the coolest things about the job is that once I’m hired—positive thoughts!—I’m going to get a fifty percent discount on all the clothes that I have to buy for work! Apparently, they give you list of all the things you have to purchase for your “uniform!” So mom can’t even get mad at me for spending my entire paycheck on the new clothes from the store, because I have to keep working there. Best. Job. Ever.

The morning of the interview I woke up early to get ready. Three hours later I Skyped Jenny so she could approve my look. Jenny said that Sydney said the store liked the natural look, so I wiped off my makeup. But my face was spotty, so I put a little back on. Little more. Little more. There. You can’t even tell I’m wearing make up. I just look like a slightly chubby girl with a perfect complexion. It could happen. Jenny gave me a thumbs up and we hung up.

We met outside of Macy’s an hour before the interview. We did two super-casual walk-bys in front of the new GIlly Hick’s store. It looked totally awesome. The storefront was made to look like the porch of an old southern slave house. I had never wanted to work at a southern slave house more in my entire life.

When we decided we couldn’t walk by any more without looking suspicious, we went down to American Eagle. What a stupid store. Abercrombie and Fitch was clearly superior in every way. At Abercrombie and Fitch the lighting is really dim to set the shopping mood. It takes awhile before you can distinguish between the different colors of clothing, but that only lasts for a few minutes. It really adds to the experience. Jenny and I discussed this, and our interview upstairs, at a loud volumes while we shopped. We also talked about how were weren’t nervous about it at all. At all.

Ten minutes before the interview we went back upstairs to Gilly Hicks. Since we had last walked by a group of very good-looking people had gathered next to the plaster pillars. They were probably the most beautiful people I had ever seen. How annoying.

The interview was run by a very fit, very “Hi, I’m from Socal,” blonde woman with a clipboard and one of those Bluetooth thingys that mom says give people brain tumors. She took us to one of the seating areas in the middle of the mall and had us sit in the circle of couches. Some people had to sit on arms rests. Jenny and I squeezed on a couch with five other beautifully proportioned people. If we had been applying to any other store, seven people never would have all fit; but this was Abercombie and Fitch. I made sure to cross my legs in a laid back, yet, professional manner, composed my face into an interested, pleasant expression, and got ready to nod at the appropriate moments.

Two minutes into the interview Jenny got kicked out for being too young. She sullenly whispered that she would wait for me in the food court.

Two hours later the interview finished after an exhaustive question and answer session about diversity and working in teams, at least, that’s what I think it was about—it was pretty hard to hear over the Taylor Swift songs being played on the mall speakers. The blonde woman thanked us and let us all know that if she would call us within three days.

The wait began.

I didn’t go anywhere without my phone. I even took to the shower with me and set it on the toilet seat. When it rang halfway through my mid-shower rendition of Rhinana’s Take A Bow, I nearly broke my neck trying to grab the phone and shut off the water off at the same time.

It was only Kenny. No, I haven’t done the homework yet. Doesn’t he know I have more important things to do than read Macbeth?

I also took my Samsung with me by the pool, but then I began to worry that the phone might get so hot it would break. Then what would happen? Would it still receive voicemails? Could I access them? What if it broke, and Gilly Hicks called, and I never knew that I got the job?

I put the phone just inside the door of our pool house, but left the window open and put the ringer on loud.

After four days I realized that I wasn’t getting the job. They weren’t, in fact, even going to call me and tell me I didn’t get the job. I couldn't believe I took off the tags of all my new interview clothes—even the back up pair of jeans and shirts.

Gilly Hicks is a stupid store anyway. Jenny thoroughly agreed. Who models a store after a Southern Slave House? Hadn’t they heard of a little thing called, oh, I don’t know, the Civil War? Stupid. And who cares that they thought I didn’t have the right “model look.” And they can try to convince me that blonde interview lady was naturally beautiful, but nobody’s eyes are that big and bright without some Maybelline enhancements.

Two years later I decided to call off my boycott on Gilly Hicks and all things Abercrombie and Fitch. I figured by now the interview lady had crow’s feet and that I wouldn’t recognize any of the employees from that group interview. Besides, I really wanted to see the inside of the slave house.

After picking out an overpriced scarf from the clearance section, which turned out not to be on clearance at all, I approached the check out counter.

The man working the register gave me a lazy, grin, displaying with his perfectly white teeth, “How was your shopping today, miss?”

“Fine,” I said, wondering if his tan was real.

He studied me as he removed the anti-theft device. “You know, we’re hiring right now, and you have just the kind of look we want are models to have.”

I dropped my cell phone on the counter. “Excuse me?”

The guy became more animated, waving his muscular, hairless arms. “You know! Naturally beautiful. Petit. Kind of like you just stepped off the beach at U.S. Surf Open. You have the look.” He raised his eyebrows at my stunned silence. “It’s supposed to be a compliment!” he laughed. “I’m the manager here.”

I grabbed my scarf off the counter a bit aggressively. “Um, I already have a job. And I get to wear whatever I want and eat 10 oz of free frozen yogurt every shift. Thanks, though.”