Receptionist Wanted

The second week was a lesson in humiliation. It was a slow-motion car crash, far more painful than the one that had totaled my Bugatti. That crash had been fast, while this was a daily erosion of my pride.

I had spent two days crafting a resume. It was a pathetic document that made me feel queasy. Under Experience, I wrote: Socialite, Gala Organizer (Volunteer), Personal Stylist. Every word felt like a lie, even though they were technically true. How do you explain to a recruiter that "organizing a gala" meant choosing between two shades of blue silk and "personal styling" meant spending other people's money? Under Education, I listed the prestigious boarding school I had attended, but I didn't bother to finish my degree in Business Management at the university in London. At the time, following a DJ to Ibiza had seemed more important than a piece of paper. Now that piece of paper was the only barrier keeping me from finding a job.

My first interview was for a high-end real estate firm in Brickell. I showed up in my new "normal" clothes, a pair of black slacks and a cheap silk blouse.

The office was beautiful, a sanctuary of glass and leather couches. The hiring manager, a woman with a sharp bob, named Mrs. Sterling, looked at my resume for exactly four seconds before setting it face down.

"Miss... Miller?" she asked, her eyebrow arched so high it disappeared into her bangs.

"Yes. Eloise Miller."

"It says here you managed 'personal styling' for high-net-worth individuals. Interesting phrasing. Do you have any experience with CRM software? Do you know how to file a deed? Can you use a multi-line phone system?"

I blinked, my mind racing. I knew how to use an iPhone. I knew how to navigate a VIP guest list.

"I... I'm a very quick learner. I have excellent people skills. I know everyone in this city. If you need to reach a specific developer or a luxury vendor, I have them on speed dial."

Mrs. Sterling leaned back, a faint, pitying smile on her lips that felt like a slap.

"Miss Miller, speed dials aren't skills. You have no references. You have no office experience, and," she leaned forward, her voice dropping,

"You listed that you attended a business school in London, but I don't see your degree? We are a professional firm. We don't hire 'personalities.' We hire workers."

The next few days were a blur of "No's." I tried a marketing firm, but they wanted a degree in communications. I tried a high-end boutique, but the manager recognized me immediately. She didn't just reject me; she laughed in my face, calling over the other stylists to see the "fallen princess" looking for a retail job.

The lowest point came at a high-end coffee shop. I thought, how hard can it be to pour coffee into a cup? I was desperate enough to try out for a barista position. During the "practical" test, I stared at the espresso machine as if it were an alien spacecraft.

"It's a coffee machine!" I had snapped at the barista trainer when the steam wand hissed at me.

"How hard can it be?"

"Hard enough that you just sprayed hundred-and-sixty-degree milk all over my shoes," he replied, pointing a finger toward the door.

"Get out."

By Friday, I was desperate. I sat in the driver’s seat of the Toyota Corolla, the engine idling loudly. I had driven south, away from the high towers, and found myself in a neighborhood I’d never visited before. The Rust Belt. It was a grim, industrial grid of warehouses, salvage yards, and heavy machinery shops.

I looked at my bank account on my phone. $214.

The "Miller" life was failing. I couldn't even afford to be a waitress. I was an outcast, someone caught between a life that didn't want me and a world of labor that found me useless. I was a Thorne without a crown, a girl with a smeared reputation and soft hands that had never done a day of real work.

I pulled over to the side of the cracked road, burying my face in my hands. The heat in the car was overwhelming; I was trying to save money by not running the AC, and the sweat was dripping down my neck, matting my hair. I felt a wave of crushing regret. I thought of my father's harsh words.

"Please," I whispered to the empty car.

"Just give me something. Anything. I can't go back to him and tell him he was right."

I looked up, my eyes blurry with tears, and saw a piece of neon-yellow poster board taped to a fence across the street. It was flapping in the breeze, held up by rusted wire.

OFFICE RECEPTIONIST WANTED. MUST BE TOUGH. NO SISSY’S. INQUIRE WITHIN.

The sign was handwritten in thick, black marker. It hung outside a massive metal building that looked like a giant had chewed on it. The windows were reinforced with wire mesh, and the gravel lot was used as storage for scrap metal. Above the door, a rusted iron sign swayed on its hinges: CANE’S GARAGE & RECOVERY.

It was the most unwelcoming place I had ever seen. The yard was filled with the skeletons of motorcycles, half-gutted trucks, and heavy-duty towing rigs. The sound of a heavy industrial grinder echoed from within, a high-pitched metal-on-metal sound that set my teeth on edge and made the hair on my arms stand up.

I checked my reflection in the rear-view mirror. I looked tired. I looked hungry. My skin wasn't glowing; it was pale and stressed. I didn't look like a Thorne anymore. I looked like a woman with $214 and nowhere else to go.

"Well, Eloise," I muttered, grabbing my purse and stepping out into the heat.

"You wanted the real world. You wanted to prove you can survive in it. Here it is."

I stepped out of the car. As I walked toward the gate, the atmosphere seemed to shift. The city noises, the distant sirens, and the sound of the highway faded into a strange silence. There was a primal scent, one that stirred an instinctive fear deep in my gut.

I didn't know it then, but I wasn't just walking into a job interview. I was walking out of the human world entirely.