Heather Hailey sits at the back of a chauffeured black town car she’s renting just for the day, thinks it’ll make a huge impression, believes these wheels alone will score her the job. She doesn’t know that her credit card will get declined when she goes to zero out the balance for the car, that after all the pomp and circumstance the interview doesn’t go well, or that she will spill Curried Tofu on the Very Expensive Shirt she got from Rent the Runway. The driver pulls up to 4 Times Square and at exactly the same time a tidal wave of anxiety nearly knocks Heather over. Pop goes a Xanax and she hopes and prays it chills her out, puts her nerves on ice.
Meanwhile, upstairs in the magazine’s carefully minimalist offices all the phones are ringing and clothing racks are wheeled back and forth, back and forth, groaning with boxes and garment bags from fabulous boutiques. Just a regular day at “W.” An assistant (gay) pulls up to Jessica Landfair’s office and as she types an email she overhears him lisp that her four p.m. appointment just arrived.
Then: “Hi, Heather. It’s so nice to meet you. Come on—let’s go over to the conference room.”
“Did you have any trouble getting here?”
Another day, another interview. I hope this one will turn out okay. God I wish I could’ve spent another five minutes with my vibrator this morning. That “Rabbit” really does hit the spot. I mean, it’s not enough to just sext with Baron while he’s out of town and I’m thisclose to calling my old friend with benefits. Anyway—pay attention, Jessica. You don’t want to come off rude. “Oh, I know. Times Square can get a little crazy.”
Look at this train wreck. What a piping hot mess. You can’t go to an interview at a prestigious fashion publication dressed like that. the outfit is everything. Doesn’t she have a gay to tell her when her make up is a little bit too drag queeny, and not in a good way? I mean, I love drag queens and everything and they’re totally “in” right now, but there is a fine line between drag queen fabulous and hot mess ridiculous. This is not Vegas. Ohhhh…. you’re from Oklahoma. I guess that explains it.
“Great! Well, why don’t we get started, hmm? So, I see that you’re currently majoring in Mass Communications.”
Are you kidding me? What bullshit major. What does that even mean, anyway? “Mass Communications.” I know what it means. It means you’re an airhead bimbo who went to college to get wasted and sleep with the entire crew team, not that I didn’t enjoy myself with members of various sports organizations when I was in college. But sheesh—I can’t wait till the day I get to interview somebody really smart who majored in something real, like Chemistry or Neuroscience. Can you even major in Neuroscience? Because clearly Mass Communications isn’t working so well for Little Miss Heather. I already can’t stand the way this girl opens her mouth, ends her sentences like questions. I want to toss her out the window, right onto 42nd St. How’s that for communication?
“Okay, so tell me why you want to work in fashion?”
Oh. My. God. If I have to hear that goddamn phrase one more time—“Fashion Is My Passion, Fashun Is My Passhun”—I’m seriously going to go apeshit. If I were really mean I’d make her write “Fashion Is My Passion” 100,000 times and I’d be like, If you do it in two hours you get the job. What’s it with all these girls thirsty to work in fashion because it’s faaaaaaaabulous or whatever. I mean, doesn’t she know it’s hard work? Doesn’t she know that sometimes it’s really boring? Doesn’t she know that sometimes you slam your wrist on a clothing rack by accident and get awful blood blisters that no amount of make-up can conceal? I tell you, these girls nowadays are absolutely clueless.
“Okay, so ‘fashion is your passion’ and you’ve always wanted to be a fashion stylist. Who are some of your favorite stylists and what talents or edge do you think you can bring to our magazine?”
Wait. Hold up. No she didn’t. I can’t believe she just said that.
“Um, actually, the name of our magazine is “W”. We don’t literally pronounce the “W”.
Yeah, go ahead and excuse yourself and blame it on the long flight you country bitch. I don’t think I can listen to anymore of this. I’m trying hard to look like I’m very interested in what she’s saying. I’m bobbing my head in all the right spots, squinting my eyes, basically brainwashing her into thinking I am totally and 100 percent zeroing in on all the Nobel Prize winning commentary she’s making. In lieu of listening I’m thinking about whether or not I should call Jake, my friend with benefits, I’m thinking about ordering the Number 7 from Wo Hop Chinese Restaurant, I’m thinking about the Alexander Wang sale tonight on Gilt Group, I’m thinking about who won on RuPaul’s Drag Race. But it’s only been like five minutes max and I have to figure out a way to stretch the interview to 10 minutes. Courtesy is key. I’m so bored by this interview but amazingly I manage to eek out
“Okay, Heather. If “W” is your favorite fashion publication, as you say it is, which is your favorite issue?”
Was that a little bit testy? I like to ask this question because everybody is always like, Such and Such is my favorite This or That, so I like to really put them on the edge of their chairs and ask them, Okay then, which was your favorite? And it’s like watching a deer caught in headlights. And I think that’s really the payoff for succeeding at your career: so you can be entertained as other people sweat. Like watching a television show. Amazingly, she whips out a favorite issue but it’s the most recent, the one out now, which she probably read on the way here, I see it in her Louis Vuitton (a fake). There should really be an App for getting out of bad job interviews. Okay, it’s been a full eight minutes. This. Interview. Is. Over.
“Alright, Heather. Well it was great meeting you. Have a safe trip back to Oklahoma.”
I didn’t give her any sign that I was interested in her but she picks up on that when she asks when she can expect to hear back. So that’s when I lie.
“You’ll hear from us by the end of the week, definitely. Take care.”
Heather scoops up her Blackberry (five messages await), her Vuitton, shakes Jessica’s hand and notices that even though Jessica is standing right there, she looks far away. Heather texts the driver and tells him that she’s ready to be picked up. She pops on her sunglasses, then peels the “visitor” sticker off of her hot pink, lime green, turquoise and yellow striped blouse and storms through the hallway, into the elevator, through the lobby, past the revolving doors, and out into the street like she owns the place.
