He sat behind his desk without lifting his head. He frowned. He picked her resume and writing samples from a pile of papers.
"What did Carlotta tell you about this place?"
"You didn't do much writing at that place in New York," he whined, as if in afterthought.
She did as much writing as she could. She wrote a report on Stress Management. She attended a seminar on stress management. She wrote a report and it was distributed to the staff. She wrote letters and memos. She used her writing as much as she could. As she explained all of this to him, she could see his eyes wander.
He gave her three tests. He asked her where she'd been.
"Desert Botanical Gardens," Debbie answered in awe. A faint smirk appeared on his frowning face.
He described the job. Half reporting. Half copy-editing and layout. Saturday work. Fridays were spent in the office, getting the paper out.
"A production day," Debbie said.
"Things get a little raunchy around here on Fridays. It's casual. You can wear shorts. Why do you want to go into the newspaper business?" he suddenly asked.
"That's what I always wanted to do. I was on the school paper in college. I majored in English. But I got side-tracked," Debbie answered in surprise.
When she finished the three quizzed, Debbie returned to his office. He was on the phone. She waited. She returned the tests, thanked him, looked him in the eye, and said goodbye, feeling puzzled.
Debbie entered Dirtwater Springs with Carlotta and Rob, the photographer for the Apache Junction Independent. The editor who interviewed Debbie had refused Carlotta's invitation to lunch.
Old bottles lined the shelves near the high ceiling in the large, rustic establishment. Dead flies lined the deep windowsills near their booth. But it did not matter. The burgers were excellent. The fries were tender and well done, so much better than the fries back East. They were shaped like chips, cooked just right.
Debbie chatted about the interview.
"He's hard to read," Carlotta said of her former boss. But she liked him. A woman's opinion mattered to him, she said.
"What did he tell you about that place?" Rob laughed. He said it was good that Debbie liked photography and the Editor would like that.
"I guess I'm not very positive," she admitted.
"Oh, yeah? That's hard to believe," Rob said amicably.
They stood outside Dirtwater Springs, a small wooden establishment in the sand on a long road leading to nowhere. Rob hugged Carlotta emphatically.
"It's not often I get to eat lunch with two beautiful women," he said, his voice slightly sad.
Debbie said nothing. Then they were back on the road.
"Do you want to go to the Mall? I could drop you off, and pick you up when I get out of work at five," Carlotta offered.
But Debbie opted for the pool. Her face was burnt from the walk home and she had spent too much money at the mall.
When the sun got too hot, she sought solace in Carlotta's apartment. The phone rang.
"There's a graduation party tonight. Nothing big. Just a pool party and some food. I think there will only be a few of us," Carlotta said.
"Sure!" Debbie answered.
"It's not dressy; we'll only be sitting by the pool. Wear shorts," Carlotta advised.
"I never get invited to things like this at home," Debbie said.
"You don't get out much, do you? To me, it's just like hanging out," she said.
Carlotta drove past monster malls, with names like "Broadway Southwest," along the freeway, bypassing the lights of downtown Phoenix in the distance. She turned into an elegant Southwestern apartment complex.
"These apartments always reminded me of a birthday cake," Carlotta described the three and four story dwellings, foreign to her in the desert.
They looked like English Tudor style adobe apartments. The girls agreed that the $450 price tag was too much.
"That's East Coast prices!" Debbie exclaimed. Carlotta had shared an apartment with her friend Diane when she first moved back home from New York. But she moved before they started to get on each other's nerves.
"She'll only go somewhere if it's trendy. Then she has a rotten time," Carlotta told Debbie.
"That is such a New York thing to do," Debbie said.
"She's a really sweet person. But she's too nice. She's always apologizing for everything."
"I think I'm too nice," Debbie said.
"Here's what you have to do," the mother of Diane's fiancee was saying. "You like the Phoenix Suns, right? Say, hey, did you see the Suns' game last night? And name a few of the players."
Debbie named one. Richard Dumas.
"That's it," she winked.
"But I don't want it to sound so obvious," Debbie countered.
"No, you don't want to be phony. Be subtle. Did you see the Suns?"
She looked at Debbie knowingly. But Debbie looked back at her with doubt in her eyes, as elusive to her in the past few weeks as clouds to the Arizona sky.
"See? You made three dollars already," she said.
Debbie had dunked into the pool, retrieving three one dollar bills, resting on the bottom of the aquamarine floor. No one else had even ventured into the pool yet.
"This is beautiful," she said, noting the palm trees, the surrounding Southwestern apartment.
"To me, it's just buildings," Diane's fiancee, the graduate said. "Why people want to live this close, I don't know."
He explained how the palm tree was a transplant to the desert. This whole complex used to be open desert.
On Saturday morning, Debbie awoke with a nauseous feeling. It wsa seven o'clock and she had to get ready for an open test sessoin for a temporary job with the phone company. But Carlotta's car wouldn't start. Debbie felt relieved.
She cooked spaghetti for lunch while Carlotta's father worked on her car.
"Don't tell my mother, if she calls. She'll get upset," Carlotta warned.
"Did you ever break down on the way to work?" Debbie asked her.
"Once," she said.
If Debbie worked in Apache Junction, she would have to get a car. She lay awake at night, thinking about this. Her savings. Her mother would have to close her bank account. She would have to get a car.
Carlotta returned to the apartment as Debbie was cooking. She did not expect her for hours. The car was fixed. Carlotta decided not to go to the office.
"No water in the battery," she said.
She was delighted with the spaghetti luncheon and offered to clean up while Debbie got ready for the next available test session at 2:00. She drove past a lone vendor on the lackluster streets of Arizona.
"Selling oranges here?" Debbie laughed.
"Yeah, they still sell them."
"Oh, just like we sell apples," she said.
"An apple is more of a treat to me," Carlotta said.
An orange tree grew in the parking lot of the phone company.
"I wouldn't pick them," Carlotta advised. "If you finish earlier, just call. If not, I'll pick you up at 4:30."
Up Next: NO RESUME NEEDED....(or should I say, Southwestern Belle???...* * * :)
