Free Things I can’t Explain by Mitchell Kriegman

Admittedly I fudged and said on my résumé that I covered Wall Street. Okay, it was Occupy Wall Street and the piece was about the lack of Call-A-Head Porta-Potties, but a girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do to get a job.
    Besides, it’s an interview and that is a really incredibly good thing! You never know where it will lead. I’ll just have to come up with some angle that makes me at least appear qualified.
    I squint at the computer screen. The e-mail is cyber-signed by someone named Druscilla Devereaux, assistant to “MT Wilkinson.” Druscilla? That’s got to be one of the vampire girls in Twilight , right? Or Buffy or one of those Rugrats characters? Maybe this is jobspam after all.
    MT Wilkinson, huh? Never heard of him either. Or her. I hate asexual monikers because for one thing, if you ever have to e-mail this person, how do you address them? “To Whom It May Concern”? “Yo”? It’s also unpunctuated, I might add, which doesn’t bode well for MT’s editorial prowess. But you know what? Not my problem. If MT, whoever he or she is, prefers to go sans punctuation and is transgender, what business is that of mine?
    Druscilla suggests I call to schedule a pre-interview. I imagine it’s so the crafty vampiritrix can decide if I’m worthy of an audience with MT. I snatch up my phone. Four digits in I realize it’s only 7:47 in the morning and stop. But you can bet I will be fondling that touch screen again at nine a.m. sharp, and I will be bright, charming, and professional. I will tell Druscilla Devereaux that I would love to be pre-interviewed for an interview with MT.
    I pop up from my desk chair and hustle to the kitchen for my single-serving cup of coffee, which I’m suddenly no longer thinking of as lonely. It’s a symbol of my independence!
    MT’s assistant wants to see me!
    Things are looking up!
    Or at least looking somewhere.

 
    CHAPTER 7
    Since the phone is in my hand, I program the Nuzegeek number into my contacts. That way, at nine o’clock sharp I can shave a few nanoseconds off my dial time. But as I punch in the last digit, Elvis purrs and rubs up against me and my trusty index finger lingers too long on the touch screen and it’s ringing! Before I can hit END , to my shock, there’s a voice.
    â€œNuzegeek.”
    I’m momentarily befuddled. It’s not even eight a.m. I curse Elvis under my breath.
    â€œHello?” the voice on the other end asks.
    â€œMs. Devereaux?”
    â€œHardly,” the voice answers with that aristocratic upper-crust English accent that reminds me fondly of Benedict Cumberbatch. There’s an indelicate snort on the other end of the phone. “Ms. Devereaux rarely arrives before nine forty-five,” the voice continues.
    â€œOh.” What am I supposed to say to that? Druscilla’s work ethic is no concern of mine. “Um, well, to whom am I speaking?”
    â€œThis is MT Wilkinson. To whom am I speaking?”
    Shit! Hang up , Clarissa . Better yet, toss the phone across the room; it’s still under warranty. Whatever you do, do not tell MT Wilkinson who you are, because it’s 7:53 in the morning and only a desperate nincompoop would call about a job at this hour.
    â€œI said, who is this?” MT (female, by the way) repeats in her crisp accent.
    I’m tempted to murmur “cat murderer,” then strangle Elvis and pretend this never happened. But I freeze—caller ID—would she know? Would the ASPCA find me? Damn you, telecommunications revolution! Curse you, PETA.
    â€œThis is Clarissa Darling, Ms. Wilkinson. I received an e-mail from your assistant—”
    â€œDarling?” I can almost hear MT’s wheels turning as she tries to place the name. “Clarissa Darling. Hmmm … ah, yes. You applied for the investigative journalist position. Hunter College grad. Hugh Hamilton’s former