efforts with the dates, names, addresses …’
The heat makes me woozy and I tune out, surreptitiouslyscanning the real estate section of the Village Voice for free apartments.
‘Can I just ask a question?’ A large woman in a heap of crinkled velvet speaks up from my right.
‘Apparently,’ Nubby pushes up his glasses at her, ‘you can.’
‘I’m a singer. I’m classically trained in opera and musical stage but I’ve only been to a few gigs in the last month. I’d say three – no, four – wait.’ She digs into her overstuffed patchwork duffel, rooting out a desk calendar covered in photographs of red-eyed cats lounging on radiators. ‘Umm, I would say four, because even though the fourth was my cousin’s bar mitzvah, they were going to pay for my transportation to and from the hall. And I’ve gone to tons of voiceover calls – do they count?’
‘Do you receive a paycheck?’ Nubby stares at her.
‘Well, yes, if that’s what you’d call it. Sometimes I just take the work for the connections. I got a great gig in Boca Raton from a Buick voiceover last year —’
‘Your question?’ Nubby grips the white binder in front of him like a homicidal caroler.
‘I don’t have all the contact information for every call I went on, even though I put the time in and made the effort to go, which hasn’t been easy, because my brother’s been sick and I’ve been watching his parrot, who I sometimes take to auditions, but sometimes I just have to feed him. I’d go back to Boca if I could, but mostly I prefer the opera work and there’s just limited venues in Southern Florida for quality opera.’
He blinks. ‘So?’
‘So, should I not list those calls? Or do I list them? Or don’t they count at all, because I think the work I do to take care of my brother’s bird should count for something, because Lord knows that’s work – anyone who’s had to change a birdcage knows there should be some sort of salary for that …’
Sweet mercy at long last arrives in the form of Hair Gel Man, who extends his arm up into the air. ‘I just want to confirm that this meeting is an hour and a half.’ His tone is pleasant, as if, unlike the rest of us civil hostages, he’s been getting a full spa treatment. ‘I have a pretty promising interview scheduled and would sure hate to miss it.’ He smiles winningly.
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ Mrs Kamitzski concurs coquettishly, turning back to Opera Lady. ‘We’ll have to resolve your issue in private when the session is over.’
After Nubby drones on for another forty-some minutes, we’re instructed to bring our forms up as our names are called. Another half-hour and it’s down to me and Hair Gel Man, who covertly scrawls on the corner of his desktop.
‘Girl?’
‘Here!’ I step to the front, hand over my form, and pull on my coat. ‘So, exactly how much longer do you think before I receive my first check?’
Mrs Kamitzski scans the paper and then points out something in her binder to Nubby. Nubby smiles thinly. ‘Your claim was denied.’
‘What?’ I break into a new kind of sweat. ‘How is that possible? I was fired.’
‘Record shows that you lost your position due to misconduct and that disqualifies you.’
‘What record? There was no misconduct. I was fired!’
‘Well,’ Mrs Kamitzski chirps, ‘you can always appeal if you want to get yourself a lawyer and register for a hearing, but you have to do that over the phone. If you take your seat, we’ll get you the number, just as soon as I take care of this patient young man so that he can make it to his interview on time.’
Hair Gel Man waltzes up, debonairly straightening his tie. I wedge myself into his vacated seat, too stunned to protest.
‘You sure have been nice to accommodate me with all you have going on here!’ he says sweetly, launching Mrs Kamitzski into a fit of what I’m sure she believes to be girlish giggles as the three walk out together.
I start to see spots. I am
The heat makes me woozy and I tune out, surreptitiouslyscanning the real estate section of the Village Voice for free apartments.
‘Can I just ask a question?’ A large woman in a heap of crinkled velvet speaks up from my right.
‘Apparently,’ Nubby pushes up his glasses at her, ‘you can.’
‘I’m a singer. I’m classically trained in opera and musical stage but I’ve only been to a few gigs in the last month. I’d say three – no, four – wait.’ She digs into her overstuffed patchwork duffel, rooting out a desk calendar covered in photographs of red-eyed cats lounging on radiators. ‘Umm, I would say four, because even though the fourth was my cousin’s bar mitzvah, they were going to pay for my transportation to and from the hall. And I’ve gone to tons of voiceover calls – do they count?’
‘Do you receive a paycheck?’ Nubby stares at her.
‘Well, yes, if that’s what you’d call it. Sometimes I just take the work for the connections. I got a great gig in Boca Raton from a Buick voiceover last year —’
‘Your question?’ Nubby grips the white binder in front of him like a homicidal caroler.
‘I don’t have all the contact information for every call I went on, even though I put the time in and made the effort to go, which hasn’t been easy, because my brother’s been sick and I’ve been watching his parrot, who I sometimes take to auditions, but sometimes I just have to feed him. I’d go back to Boca if I could, but mostly I prefer the opera work and there’s just limited venues in Southern Florida for quality opera.’
He blinks. ‘So?’
‘So, should I not list those calls? Or do I list them? Or don’t they count at all, because I think the work I do to take care of my brother’s bird should count for something, because Lord knows that’s work – anyone who’s had to change a birdcage knows there should be some sort of salary for that …’
Sweet mercy at long last arrives in the form of Hair Gel Man, who extends his arm up into the air. ‘I just want to confirm that this meeting is an hour and a half.’ His tone is pleasant, as if, unlike the rest of us civil hostages, he’s been getting a full spa treatment. ‘I have a pretty promising interview scheduled and would sure hate to miss it.’ He smiles winningly.
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ Mrs Kamitzski concurs coquettishly, turning back to Opera Lady. ‘We’ll have to resolve your issue in private when the session is over.’
After Nubby drones on for another forty-some minutes, we’re instructed to bring our forms up as our names are called. Another half-hour and it’s down to me and Hair Gel Man, who covertly scrawls on the corner of his desktop.
‘Girl?’
‘Here!’ I step to the front, hand over my form, and pull on my coat. ‘So, exactly how much longer do you think before I receive my first check?’
Mrs Kamitzski scans the paper and then points out something in her binder to Nubby. Nubby smiles thinly. ‘Your claim was denied.’
‘What?’ I break into a new kind of sweat. ‘How is that possible? I was fired.’
‘Record shows that you lost your position due to misconduct and that disqualifies you.’
‘What record? There was no misconduct. I was fired!’
‘Well,’ Mrs Kamitzski chirps, ‘you can always appeal if you want to get yourself a lawyer and register for a hearing, but you have to do that over the phone. If you take your seat, we’ll get you the number, just as soon as I take care of this patient young man so that he can make it to his interview on time.’
Hair Gel Man waltzes up, debonairly straightening his tie. I wedge myself into his vacated seat, too stunned to protest.
‘You sure have been nice to accommodate me with all you have going on here!’ he says sweetly, launching Mrs Kamitzski into a fit of what I’m sure she believes to be girlish giggles as the three walk out together.
I start to see spots. I am
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