Chapter 1: The Interview is On, pt.1 (Revised Jan. 10, 2013)

For this, my first entry, I submit a segment from a much larger piece. This segment, with several others, will make up the first chapter in what I hope will be a novel. For now, the novel has the working title of, The Big Story of a Small City. Particularly, I don’t like the title, but I’ve learned over the years titles aren’t that important. I won’t offer any other introduction since this would be the very beginning of the novel. Any lack of context or back story, at this point, is purposeful and intended to be explained later. I welcome any and all criticisms, especially grammatical and/or typing, and hope you enjoy. Thank you for your time.

September 4, 2012, had started off like most other days. The only exceptional difference was the arrival of the new desk I had commissioned to be built by one of the state’s best carpenters. It cost me more money than it would ever be worth. Nearly 20 years ago, I purchased some antique cherry wood that had been removed from a building that was set for demolition.

Over the years, the building had been called by many names but was locally known as the Pershing Hotel. In its heyday, it was DuBois’ greatest theatre and the highest classed brothel in the area. Since then, it had housed an assortment of businesses and purposes but had never been taken care of by any of its owners. Eventually, it fell in disarray and was slated for demolition.

Before it was tore down, the last owner stripped the building of whatever was left of value and sold it. There wasn’t much. Over the years it had been the refuge of street kids and vandals as well as looters. All that was left to sale was the antique building materials that made up the interior, things like banisters, cast iron tubs, old tile, stuff like that.

I was there the day the owner sold the materials. Some cherry molding and inch thick paneling had been stripped from the walls of the main lobby. When I saw it, I fell in love with it. There was something about the quality of the old-world craftsmanship and I thought it would make a beautiful desk. The owner’s price was much higher than what it was worth, and when I inquired about purchasing just the amount of cherry I needed, she insisted that it all went as one lot. It ended up costing me $700.

For almost 20 years I lugged the wood around or stored it in hopes of one day building my desk. It royally pissed my dad of because when it was being stored, I had to store it at his place. Eventually, I concluded I would never build it and commissioned a carpenter to do it for me. There was more than enough wood for a desk, so I made an arrangement with him. Whatever wood was left, he could keep for his inventory in exchange for a discount on the desk’s construction. Even still, it cost $2,100 to make, but in the end was so worth it. The desk was more than adequate; it was a masterpiece of construction and 20-year-old dream come true.

It wasn’t just the quality of the cherry wood, or the construction that made it special to me. The Pershing Hotel itself had played a major role in my life, and in many ways, if it wasn’t for that building, I wouldn’t be the success I am today.

I had just finished moving my stuff from my old desk to the new one, and was pouring a cup of coffee, when Aimmee entered the room.

“Bonjour mon amour,” she said.

“Good morning,” I replied without looking up.

Our relationship is unique. For all intent and purpose, we are boyfriend/girlfriend. I met her in France a few years earlier where we fell in love. When it was time for me to go home, she wanted to stay with me, and I with her. However, neither one of us were interested in getting married only for the sake of her getting her citizenship but, if she was my employee, she would be able to get her work visa. So I put her on payroll as my secretary and, ever since, we’ve been together. If you asked of either of us what the nature of our relationship is, we would both say we were in love, but are not boyfriend/girlfriend; she’s just my secretary. This has always given our relationship the sense of being forbidden and has kept things exciting for us. It’s like a pretend affair, if you will.

“I must go,” she said in her thick accent. “Or I’ll be late. And you better get zat coot little doopah of yours in gear or you will be late too.”

“I know. I know,” I said. “I’m gonna finish this cup and I’ll get going.”

“D’accord,” she said. “I will see you zair. Je t’aime mon petit chou.”

“I love you too, babe.”

She left.

I had to be on-air by 12:00 PM, but there can be a good 1 to 2 hours of preproduction before air time. I was expecting an easy day, so I planned on just an hour of prep time.

When I signed my contract with the station, I made it contingent that Aimee would be brought on too as my personal assistant and secretary. It was her job to get there before me to transcribe the days dialog and manage my phone and email messages. In truth, her job wasn’t that involved. She was pretty much there just as eye candy for me.

All-in-all, it was one of the cushiest of jobs either of us have had. Typically I’m eager to get to work and get started, but on that day all I wanted to do was spend a little time at my desk. After all, it had been nearly 20 years in the making and I wanted to bask in my dream come true.