Control

10

By the first week of March, in our final year of university, Trey and I had started preparing, not only for graduation, but for life after Yale. It was a scary thought that we would not be returning next year and that we were now required to get out into the real world, get jobs, and start our lives.

I had done well in school, my marks near the top of my class. My professors were helpful in guiding us to which area of business were best suited. Many of them suggested I go into public relations, since I seemed to have a knack for persuasion. Brian said it was because of my looks, that „pretty people‟ just got what they wanted easier. I punched him every time he said that.

I knew I didn‟t want to get into finance, since my aversion towards math did not ebb as I aged. I seriously considered PR, even agreeing to meet with a business associate of one of my professors, for a possible entry level position after graduation. The job was at one of the largest PR firms in New Haven. Even though the position was considered entry level, the salary was surprisingly good. Or at least seemed so to me after four years of living on macaroni and cheese.

Trey, who was much better at math than I was, was considering a job in finance, working with his professors to line up an interview with a firm in Bridgeport.

As the date of my interview neared, I grew increasingly anxious. I had never been on a real job interview. The jobs I had before came from neighbours, or for the past three summers, Trey‟s dad. School prepared you somewhat for what to expect and a degree from a school like Yale did carry some weight. But bottom line, if I screwed this up, I had no backup plan.

The night before my interview, I spent the evening sitting in the common room of my dorm, watching TV, trying to distract myself. I honestly wasn‟t paying attention to the show, just staring blankly at the screen.

Trey had gone for his interview with the financial firm that afternoon, and I was still waiting to hear how it went. He hadn‟t come home yet, and I wasn‟t sure if that was a good sign or not. Either he was out celebrating, or sitting in a bar somewhere drowning his sorrows.

As if on cue, Trey walked into the common room dressed in a dark blue suit, his face sombre. He threw himself down into the chair across from where I sat on the couch. I looked over at him, waiting for him to tell me how his interview went. He sat there quietly, his head tilted back to rest on the back of the chair.

Finally, annoyed at his silence, I spoke. "Well?" "Well, what?" he said, not lifting his head.

Uh oh. "How did the interview go?" I was already planning which bars to take him to in order to do the drowning of the sorrows plan.

He sighed deeply, finally lifting his head to look at me blankly. After a few moments, a smile spread across his face. "Got the job!"

I rolled my eyes at him. "You‟re a dick. I was sitting here thinking you had fucked it up and that I was going to have to drag your soon to be drunken ass all over campus"

"Well, you‟re still going to have to drag my soon to be drunken ass all over campus, but for a completely different reason." He kicked his shoes off, loosening the tie from around his neck.

"Congrats, I guess. But you‟re still a dick."

He ignored me, leaning his head back against the seat again. "It was intense. I don‟t think I‟ve ever been so nervous. But it must have gone okay, because they offered me the job. I know Dr. Richardson‟s recommendation probably pulled some weight, but at least I got the fucking job."

"Good for you, now you can pay for the drinks when we go out." I commented, leaning down to stretch out across the couch.

"Fuck that. I don‟t start until June, so until then I‟m still broke like you."