I sit on a narrow couch made of fake leather. There are several other people waiting. Across from me is a girl, maybe 18-years-old, with make-up so thick and dark she looks like a raccoon. A middle-aged man sits beside me in a cheap navy blue suit – he smells faintly of B.O. and cigarettes. My nose scrunches. I’m too polite to change seats, so I just turn my head. In an arm chair is a frumpy looking woman. She’s 30-ish, wearing jeans and an oversized t-shirt, and her lipstick is orangey and smeared as she sips her Starbucks. I wonder: are these people interviewing for the same job I am?

A guy approaches, he’s tall, about 6’2”, lean and lanky, wearing thong sandals, worn out jeans and a black zip-up sweatshirt with the words ZIP CAR printed on the pockets. His hair is curly and messy like he hasn’t brushed it in days. He looks like a bohemian Malibu Ken doll.

“Ah... Sara?” He focuses on raccoon eyes, his smile tensing. She looks up to him, her pupils wide; a deer in headlights.

“That’s me.” His eyes pan my way, his face relaxes.

“Hey, I’m Misha,” he says extending a hand. “OK, let’s get this party started.”

With a brisk stride he leads me down a narrow hallway, around a corner and into an ‘office.’ The room is filled to the ceiling with zipcar schwag: water bottles, t-shirts of multiple colours, mouse pads, baseball hats and boxes of paper products all printed with the logo: a large Z with little wheels. Misha hurdles over boxes and sits behind the desk. I sit on a green plastic chair and perch on the edge. He picks up a paper, which I assume must be my resume, and scans it over.

“Alright,” he sighs. “I hate doing these things.” He throws down the sheet and I notice that it’s not my resume, it’s just a blank piece of paper. There’s a moment of silence.

I break it with, “I know, interviews are always kinda awkward.”

“Fuck ya! OK. Well … hmm … Why don’t you just tell me about yourself?”

I hate this part of interviews, especially ones for McJobs. I don’t know if I should tell the truth or if I should simply say what they want to hear; how my weakness is perfectionism, I’m willing to work long hours for minimal pay and how I’ve been waiting my whole life for this opportunity. I usually just act my way through the process and let them figure it out week one. But then again, he did just say ‘fuck ya.’ I don’t think I have to bullshit here.

“Well, to be honest, the first thing you should know is that I’m an actor and–”

“–An actor, eh? What would I’ve seen you in?”

This moment always feels like judgment. Obviously I haven’t been in anything big or I wouldn’t be here.

“Uh, well, I’ve mostly done theatre stuff...” His eyes don’t change, they stay focused on me, watching, listening. Does that mean he doesn’t know theatre, doesn’t care or is disappointed I’ve never done anything he knows and is judging me anyway?

“So, yeah, anyway I’m looking for something part-time and fun. I’ve done a bunch promo work before.... and I thought Zipcar sounds like a great company. I don’t have a car. I like the idea of car sharing... I care about the environment...and...ah–”

“Cool. Cool. So ah, yeah. Um, what other promo work have you done?” he says fumbling with the blank piece of paper.

“Well... recently I was working for Executive Search Dating this–”

“–I knew it! Ha!” He slams his hands on the desk. “You don’t remember me do you?”

Mind going blank. Mind racing. Mind confused. Why should I remember him? What happened? Did we make out once?

“Sorry?”

“We met, in Yaletown, you did the whole ‘are you single’ thing with me, about a month ago.”

Ding! My heart begins to slow back down. “Oh...yeah.”

I was doing this horrible promo job where I was date bait. With wide eyes I’d saunter up to business men and ask them if they wanted to go on a date. ”Oh! – giggle – no not with me – wink, giggle – but with a potential match from one of our clients at ESD! – wink, giggle, toss hair.”

I met Misha on the street about a month ago when he was out street promoting. He and another guy were walking around handing out flyers and I was playing cupid. There was a quota of people to get per shift, so even though Misha and his co-worker weren’t in our ‘target market,’ I still approached them. The worst part of the job was after we got their info we had to rate their looks out of ten. I remember I gave Misha 9/10 but noted that he was definitely not an executive.

Snapping his fingers, “I knew it! I knew that I’d seen you somewhere before. So, how did you like that job? Was it high pressure sales stuff? What’s the deal?” He leans in across the desk, his arms folded towards me. I cross my legs, shifting in my chair and lean in too.

“Not really. Well, sort of. Well, the boss was a total jerk – very demanding. I didn’t do it for very long. It was kinda degrading, ya know, standing on street corners, but it paid ok.”

“God, I couldn’t do that. That’s brave. I remember thinking that was a strange job to have... So, cool, cool...” He scans the room, like he’s looking for a hidden camera then quiets his voice.

“Ok, here’s the deal. This job is pretty easy. Basically, I’m looking for cool people that won’t flake out, will show up and do some work. All we have to do is tell people about the company, maybe try to sign them up, and have a good time. It’s mostly unsupervised so I just want people that can do it and not fuck around and make me look bad. Make sense?”

“Totally.”

“Ok... so yeah. You seem cool. If you’re interested, the job’s yours. When can you start?”

“Friday?”

“If you need time to think about it, no worries.”

I think about the bills I have to pay, about how the last time I auditioned was two weeks ago and that money from that last commercial I did is quickly running out. I consider how much I hate serving millionaires who don’t tip because it’s not club policy, and how I cannot ask my father for any more money. At least this is a company I can ethically support. Car sharing, getting people to change the way they think about transportation and its impact on the environment. Anyway, I if I don’t like it I can always quit.

“I’m in.”

“Welcome to the team. High five!”

I reach up and thankfully our hands collide. He then leads me back down the narrow corridor, into another office. There are three people hunched over their keyboards. There’s a map of Vancouver pinned against the wall with lots of tiny flags on it, I assume indicating where all the Zipcars in the city are parked. The first computer is empty but the screen saver is on, the words, “Enter at own risk or Misha will mess you up!” float like a cloud around the screen.

“Hey everyone,” Misha announces. “This is Sara, she’s our newest zipster.”

A brunette with glasses and a pixie cut reaches over and shakes my hand, “Hi, I’m Jackie.” Her smile is tired. I get the impression that she’s working a job that is well beneath her abilities.

“On the phone in back is Rachel,” Rachel raises her fingers while looking my way for a brief moment. Then she quickly returns to her MySpace profile.

A guy sitting below the map gives Misha the ‘what’s up’ nod.

“And this loser is Elliot.”

Elliot gives me a nod and a, “Hey.”

I am now part of the family.

“Ok, well cool, cool. I guess we’ll see you on Friday.” Misha says leading me out the door.

I toss the words, “Nice to meet you,” into the room as I go but I’m not sure they land.

Misha walks me all the way to the elevator.

“So ah, yeah, we’ll get you all sorted out on Friday, with the contracts and stuff. And yeah, thanks so much for coming in.” He puts his hand on my shoulder.

The elevator is on the 21st floor.

“Well, thanks for giving me the job, I guess.”

20th then 19th floor.

“Alright, so I’ll just e-mail you the schedule then.” His hand leaves my shoulder; its heat remains on my skin.

18th.

“Perfect.”

“Alright, have a good day.”

17th.

“Thanks, I’ll try.”

16th.

Misha walks away, passing raccoon eyes who is still sitting in the waiting area, biting nail polish off her fingers. Before he turns the corner, he stops and waves back at me, then disappears. I watch the space where he just was, wondering what just happened. Did I lie to get a job or was I just given one for being me? Did I just high five after an interview? Do I get an employee discount?

DING! The elevator opens before me. It’s empty with a mirrored back wall. I walk straight towards myself looking at my purple dress, my wavy frizzed hair, and my eyes excited and nervous. What did he say? All I had to do was show up and not fuck around? I can do that. I can totally do that.

I turn to face the front, two silver elevator doors close on me. An automated voice says, “Going down.”

I get to the tenth floor and wonder do I walk to the office, stay here, or check in with the receptionist? Since my interview the only contact I’ve had was an e-mail from Misha asking if 1 – 4 was “coolio?” Just as I’m about make a decision, Misha rounds the corner.

“Awesome – you’re here. Come on back.”

I follow him down the hall. His long legs stride quickly and I skip to catch up.

“Ok, so, Sara, here’s some paper work to fill out and ... here’s your t-shirt.” He hands me a simple white t-shirt with a cute little Mini Cooper sitting in a tree. It’s the least offensive promo wear I’ve ever seen: no florescent colours, no large print and it’s not gigantic. Thank God.

“You’re going to be working with Kate today. She’ll be here in a bit .... and ah ... yeah, Kate will show you the ropes. Cool? Sweet,” he rebounds to his computer, eyes focused on the screen.

I fill out the forms; tax pages, a social insurance form and a confidentiality agreement about Zipcar which says I won't ever give away “trade secrets.” I sign away.

Enter Kate, a petite 22-year-old. Judging by her appearance I’d guess she’s an artist or in a band; some sort of silly band where she plays the egg shaker or glockenspiel. I instantly want her to be my friend. She’s barely in the office two seconds before our boss barks orders for the day,

“Just, ah ... just ... ah ... just walk around downtown, hit up Davie or whatever. Kate if you can tell Sara about how the whole thing works that’d be sweet.”

“No problem, Meesh.” Her voice is tight and kinda high pitched. No, I think, she plays the recorder. We grab a stack of flyers from Misha’s desk and start working.

In the elevator going down there are two businessmen.

“So, that meeting, eh?” grumbles a grey suit with yellow tie.

“Yeah, what a waste of time that’s going to be,” responds a suit of black and blue.

“I was thinking that we might get lucky, since it’s out of town, we might be able to fit in a game of golf.”

“Yeah ... maybe. This meeting is going to be hell.”

Kate and I stand silently, observers of a world we don’t belong to. One that seems so cliché and surreal.

“What’s a Zipcar?” the grey suit golfer asks.

“Hey, yeah, it’s really cool,” jumps Kate. “It’s a car-share network. What happens is people become a member and they can take out cars hourly or daily for a small charge. The cost includes your gas, insurance and mileage.”

“Like a rental?” asks grey suit.

“Yeah, except our cars are parked all over the city.” I watch Kate in promotions representative action. Despite her hipster exterior she comes across very professionally.

“Hmph. Interesting idea. Hey, Brian maybe you could use this, get you off the bus,” he laughs, Black and Blue suit does not.

Kate hands them a flyers and tells him to check out the website. The doors ding open and we walk out.

“Have a nice day,” Kate calls back to the men with a genuine smile on her face.

We’re out in the glorious sun walking down Robson Street. It’s not until we pass the Vancouver Art Gallery and the men playing chess on the front steps, that Kate starts my training.

“This job is totally slack,” she puts on large framed vintage sunglasses that make her look like a bug, “Everyone here is cool. But the job can be a bit boring at times.”

“Oh, I’m used to that.” I am the queen of finding jobs that pay you to do nothing.

One Halloween I worked at a costume shop. I was a terrible sales person so my job turned into greeter and I would get dressed up as Raggedy Anne, Marie Antoinette, or Sexy Nurse and greet customers. I got sexually harassed by all the male customers and scowled at by the female but at least I had a wicked costume that year.

I even did a year of catering. Most of the time was spent gossiping in the kitchen with the boss, who was closer to me in age than any of the high school students I worked with.

When I was 18 I worked for the Calgary Public Library as a summer storyteller. I would do two story-times a day for children aged 2–5; I read stories, sang songs, played with finger puppets. I would travel to opposite ends of the city and they paid for my gas and my parking. I had three hour lunch breaks, which I spent doing yoga, or hanging out with friends. The librarians said I can come back anytime. That’s what scares me; that I’ll fail at achieving my dream, go back to Calgary, work in the library, stay there for 40 years, get my watch, get my pension, start wearing kitten sweaters and settle in quasi-happiness because even though the pay’s not great, it’s better than any of the other ... situations.

I find out that Kate has just finished her bachelor’s degree in English. She wants to be a writer, “Someday.” Mostly she talks about taking a road trip across the States.

“All along the coast. Stopping at every tacky tourist attraction. I hear there’s a salt and pepper shaker museum somewhere in The South. My mom used to collect them.”

We walk into the heart of touristy Robson Street where there are two Starbucks across the street from each other. We don’t hand out any flyers along our way. We walk down Denman Street with cheap sushi restaurants and the community centre full of retired hippies, and we don’t hand out any flyers. When we approach Davie, the gayborhood, we put the flyers in our bags.

Kate and I reward ourselves for all our hard work by walking the seawall towards Stanley Park, away from practically everyone we would want to talk to if we were doing our job well. We sit on a picnic table overlooking the ocean. I breathe in the salt-water air. I’ve taken living by the ocean for granted and can’t remember the last time I was here.

Kate instructs me on the workings of Zipcar, effectively making this day not a total waste of time.

“The company was founded in Boston, I think. There’s Zipcars in a bunch of American cities, they’ve been in Toronto for about two years now. It just started here about three months ago. So, what happens is you get a card, it’s like a credit card or you know those gym membership cards that you swipe to scan in?”

I nod, squinting my eyes from the sun, having forgotten my sunglasses. Dumb ass.

“Yeah, well it’s like that. When you want a car you can book it online or by phone, then when it’s your reserved time you go up to the car you chose, at the location you chose and swipe your membership card over the sensor, which is on the top of the windshield on the driver’s side. Then the car will unlock and the keys are inside. The way the gas works is there’s a gas card inside every car so when it gets low on gas, you just use the card. That way the members don’t have to pay for it themselves, it gets billed to the company, saves us so much paper work. What else? ... um ... I’m sure you’ll pick it up as we go. Or just check out the website, that’s how I learnt most of this.”

My black jeans are as hot as the sun’s surface. It’s only May but it feels like summer. I roll up my t-shirt sleeves into what I hope looks like a cool tank top. All of a sudden I’m very aware of how I look. I’m trying too hard like I’m not quite cool enough to be around her.

After about thirty minutes of hanging out on the picnic table I’ve got a sunburn on my shoulders. I’m getting paid for this. THIS is the easiest job I have ever had. Easier than working at the library, easier than acting in theatre, easier than that stupid dating headhunter job. I feel guilty because I think this company is really cool, and it’s a service I want to use, but what do they expect from us? We’ve been told to walk around the city, wearing t-shirts, and hand out flyers. How effective can that be?

Kate and I head back to the office finding various places to leave flyers along our way; in coffee shops, dry cleaners and recycling bins.

Back at the office Misha is smiling and drinking tea in the staff room.

“Hey, how was it? Hope you didn’t work too hard.”

“It was great,” I say avoiding any talk about the work we were supposed to do.

We all leave the office together, out into the hubbub of Friday 9–5-ers. I decide to walk the 45 minutes home across the Cambie Street bridge. As my roommate will still be home for the next hour, I’m in no rush.

Once I get on the bridge I find myself incredibly weak. My head is hot and pounding. I want to sit down but I don’t. One foot in front of the other, I keep plodding away. Dragging them as if they were stuck in sand. Bikes whiz by me. Women in business suits and sneakers stride past. Halfway across I stop, leaning against the railing I look at the view; the ocean, the mountains, skyscrapers of green glass. This is the city I dreamed of living in when I was a teenager: my Mecca. I thought all my dreams would come true here. I would be an actor and live in luxury. I’d be married to Leonardo diCaprio. I’d have a house here, and LA and New York. In my fourteen-year-old mind I’d have made it by 22. But I’m 26 and standing on a bridge in a Zipcar shirt.

The ring of my cellphone pierces through my melancholy. A text from Misha.

“I FO GOT TO AX. CAN U WORK MON 11-5?”

I squint my eyes, rummage through my schedule and see Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday all blank.

I respond: “SURE. THANKS.”

I’m over the bridge ready to climb Mount Pleasant to my home when I get a message back.

“SWEETNESS! PEACE OUT.”

I smile and laugh. Misha. Who is this Misha?