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“Let’s find a motel,” Scott says. “We can make some calls from there.”
We rent a cheap motel room and bring our newspaper and clothes bags in. I leave Scott to call about the apartment manager jobs and head into the bathroom for a long, hot shower. When I come out, Scott’s smiling. He called a place that’s hiring immediately, and they said they want us to go look at it.
“They gave me the address to drive by,” he says. “We’re supposed to call back if we’re still interested.”
“If we're still interested? Why, is it in the ghetto or something?”
“Let's go see.”
“It doesn't look that bad,” I say when we pull up. It’s just a plain beige complex, a lot like our apartment building in Moorhead. The parking lot has some garbage and broken glass in it, but that can happen anywhere, especially when there’s no managers to clean it up. We call back and tell them yes, we’re interested, and they invite us for an interview. I pull my hair back in a tight braid, and Scott puts on his Dockers.
The property management building is a half hour drive out of the downtown core. We take the highway over the bridge and down the four-lane road, matching the speed of the cars around us. Our exit brings us through neighborhoods and business districts, past strip malls with realtors, insurance agents, and property management companies. The street numbers get closer and closer to what we have scrawled on a piece of paper.
“There it is,” I point to a glass door with the company’s name written in black letters.
We enter into a small reception area with two gray chairs, a coffee table with People magazines on it, and a large reception desk. A pretty blond woman smiles from behind the desk and asks if we’re Scott and Melanie.
“Yes.”
She picks up the phone. “They’re here.”
Another woman emerges a moment later and extends her hand. “I’m Daphne. Thanks for coming by.” She’s wearing a business skirt and high heels. Her hair is done up in a high bun, with wisps falling down around her ears. Her make-up looks pasty under the florescent lights.
We follow them both into a conference room at the end of the hall. The receptionist has a cute, nervous giggle, which we hear several times before we’re seated around the oval table. She sits back and lets Daphne take the lead.
“We’ll be honest with you,” Daphne says. “We really want to hire you. But we have to interview you officially and write your answers down.”
The receptionist hands her the sheet of questions and Daphne poises her pen.
“What’s your best quality?” She asks us both. Scott says his are friendliness and problem-solving skills. I say mine are organizational skills and a good work ethic.
Daphne: “Scott, what would you do if someone pounded on your door and said they moved out two months ago and haven’t received their damage deposit refund, and they demand that you give it to them?”
Scott: “I would take down their name and number and tell them that I’ll look into it for them. Then, I’d contact you about it in the morning.”
Daphne: “Good. Melanie, what would you do if Scott wasn’t home and you heard yelling coming from the parking lot? You look out the window and see a group of men standing around. One of them has a knife, pointed at another man. You hear something about a gun.”
I glance at Scott, who raises his eyebrows at that question. These are hypothetical, I hope, and not based on past experience. Scott gives a slight nod, and I know he’s thinking that we need this job. I clear my throat. “Uh, I’d call the police.”
Daphne: “Good. That’s the right answer!”
They offer us the job. We start tomorrow, so we’ll only have to pay for one more night in a motel. The manager’s apartment is unfurnished, though, and we only have what would fit into the Grand Am: our clothes, a coffee maker, and a couple boxes of pictures and memories. We’ll need to buy some stuff before we move in. Luckily we won’t have to pay rent, so we have some cash. We find a furniture store and pick out a queen-sized mattress and a plush couch, which they’ll deliver for us. Next we go to Wal-Mart and pick out dishes, silverware, glasses, cups, one cooking pot, two towels, facecloths, tea towels, dish soap, hand soap, and a sheet set. This’ll get us by until payday. Last stop is a grocery store, Fred Meyer, which is actually like a grocery store and a box store in one. “One-stop shopping,” Scott says. We spend seventy-five dollars of our remaining two hundred on groceries and a house plant.
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