The sight of the raven-haired woman standing in the street at the Metro bus stop interrupts the replay in Christina’s head. The woman wears a vermillion polyester shell, matching pleated skort, nude pantyhose, and white leather boots slightly higher than mid-calf. Unusual attire for an October afternoon in downtown DC, conspicuous among the business-casual-dressed commuters waiting at the stop.
Christina watches as the woman takes out a thin rod from between her legs, about two feet long, with a dimpled silver shaft and a rubber star-shaped tip. Like the batons that high school majorettes twirl, though this woman left her teenage years long ago. She begins singing, “Onward Christian Soldiers,”[1] in a bright but not unpleasant alto, as she tosses the baton and steps in place:
Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war
With the cross of Jesus going on before
Onward then, ye people, join our happy throng
Blend with ours your voices in a triumph song
Christ, the Royal Master, leads against the foe
Forward into battle, see His banners go, oh
The twirler throws the baton in a “Figure 8” and catches it with ease. She then executes a 4- spin toss, marching in time to her vocals. The baton nearly misses her hands as it falls. At the last minute, with an awkward twist, she grabs it. The twirler completes her routine as the bus arrives at the stop. She steps into the bus. The other passengers follow her inside, as though they saw nothing out of the ordinary this Wednesday workday.
As the bus drives away, Christina remains in place for a few minutes, contemplating the entertainment she just witnessed. Maybe the twirler is auditioning for a role and needed one last practice run. Perhaps the woman’s moxie will win over a future employer, even if her talent falls short.
***
Continuing her walk down 17th Street, N.W., Christina tries not to postmortem the interview, but cannot help herself. In retrospect, the question about state income tax wasn’t that tricky. Though she had prepared a response on a similar topic, she couldn’t retrieve the answer quickly enough from her brain to articulate it well. Perhaps it’s the lingering effect of her annual review, the depletion of confidence continuing even after all these weeks.
At least the firm called her in. Not like her experience last year with that high-level federal government position. Five hours to prepare attachments and complete the on-line application. Twenty-seven essay questions about the relationship of her prior experience to the job. Four months with no word, then the HR department’s three-line letter stating though she was ranked as highly qualified, the job was awarded to another candidate.
Her contact at the top of the agency asked her to apply. She was highly ranked. Still, she couldn’t even get an interview. A frequent outcome of her efforts.
***
Christina spots a couture coffee chain down the block. She walks into the café and places her satchel on a table next to the window. A bearded man at the next table taps on his laptop. He wears a sweatshirt the same shade of red as the twirler’s shell. She wonders if he’s working on his resume. As she approaches the counter to order her latte, she views her reflection in the mirrored wall behind the baristas. Could the interviewer tell? There are no creases, no bags. No uneven skin tone.
She uses all the tricks – leaving the date of law school graduation off her resume, wearing skirt suits to show off her slender legs, mentioning her triathlons, avoiding references to the Obama years. But some things are harder to hide, like the strands of grey hair, and the reasons why after all these years, she’s still just an associate.
***
Back at her table, Christina withdraws the stationery, the envelope stamped and addressed. That is her practice, to save time and ensure the note is mailed the same day as the interview. She begins writing, “Dear Jason: I enjoyed meeting you today. I appreciate the time you took to give an overview of ….”
The pen slips out of her fingers and falls off the table, something the twirler would not have let happen. Her awkward twist to retrieve it from the floor restarts the loop in her head.
How many notes has she written over the past 18 months? Forty? Sixty?
Why does she do this? Does it make a difference in the employer’s consideration of her candidacy? Does it reinforce her presence in the minds of the well-connected professionals she meets at networking events? Or show she’s just a relic of another time?
She tells others that she always, always, always sends handwritten thank you notes. It distinguishes her from the rest of the pack, she says. It’s just good manners, she says. Proof of much better manners than most employers, who, even after granting multiple interviews and requesting writing samples, can’t spare the 60 seconds to send the two-sentence email telling her she won’t be hired.
***
Christina traces a “Figure 8” in the air with the pen. She wonders if the twirler has completed her audition. She resumes writing, then stops. Enough. She signs the note and reads it over, then tucks it into the envelope and seals the flap. She sees that the stamp features a drum major with a baton.
Finished with her latte, she leaves the café. There’s a post office across the street. She crosses at the light and proceeds to the curbside mailbox. As she sticks her note in the narrow slit, she knows she won’t get this job either.
Marching in time.
[1] Lyrics by Sabine Baring-Gould and Music by Arthur S. Sullivan, “Onward Christian Soldiers” (1871) (Public Domain).