The Review

1.

"So Ms. Reynolds, tell me a bit about yourself." The burly man spoke, leaning back slightly in his worn down leather chair. He ran his stubby orange fingers through his overly greased jet black hair, taking a pack of Marlboro's out of a desk drawer.

My nose crinkled in disgust, the early hint of tobacco burning my nostrils before he proceeded to light one right in front of my eyes.

He stretched out his hand, one cigarette placed between his stubby fingers, offering one to me.

"No thank you." I say, clearing my throat and taking a giant gasp of the last bits of clear air left in the tiny office space. "Well, sir, I am a recent graduate of NYU  with a degree in Mass Communications and a minor in Journalism. I plan to go on to graduate school here in Los Angeles to get my masters in Communications as well. My goal is to eventually become a widely known music journalist. I believe Onstage press is the right place for me to begin this journey. "

I flash him my widest, "give me the job,", smile, hoping to convince him of my desire to work for Onstage Press.

Who was I kidding? My desire to work for Onstage press? My desire was to get a job entirely.

This was my fifth interview in the past 48 hours and I was out of options. I came to LA, to America for that matter, with hopes of becoming a successful journalist who covered live music. I was passionate, dedicated, and determined. My grades from NYU were outstanding. I had extracurriculars up the bum. And, not to mention, I had seven internships on my resumé and about 10 letters of recommendation on top of that.

But still, here I was, 6 months out of college and employed at a local dive bar as well as a Starbucks instead of working a stable job to pay my LA level rent.

I had begged every editor of almost every magazine in the Western Hemisphere to give me a job. Any job. Hell, I would take the job as a grammar consultant if that mean I could at least start.

After a few moments of  silence and a few long drags of cig later, he cleared his throat to talk.

"Ms. Reynolds," He coughed, smothering the flame on the cancer death trap. "Your resumé is extremely impressive. Internships with the Times, BBC, and not to mention Ticketmaster. You're only, what, 22? Many people try their entire lifetimes to work for companies such as these."

"Thank you sir." I fold my hands firmly in my lap, crossing my small fingers in hopes of some sort of good luck.

"But, before I go any further. I believe I should clarify my question. I want to know more about you."

Me? What about me? Wasn't it all right there in the thick resumé in front of him?

"I'm not sure what you mean by that sir." I stifle a laugh, feeling the beads of sweat forming on my palms.

"Well everything obviously about you is impressive. At least on paper. I can see that by your resumé. But I don't know you. Obviously you have a passion for music and the industry or else you wouldn't be here. What drove your passion? Why do you care so much?"

I bite my lower lip for a second, thinking quickly. None of my other interviews had asked that sort of question. It was mainly just about my school work, my internship experiences, so on so forth. But none dug deeper.

I think back to my times in Beverley, sitting in our tiny two bedroom flat watching my mums tape of a Bon Jovi concert from the 80's. My brother and I watched it so many times that we knew every word to every song and even had memorized ever speech he spoke during the show. It was something about live shows and the roaring crowd that just stuck with me.