Bad Receptionist

     The phone rings. My heart rate increases tenfold for a fleeting moment, only to rest itself on a familiar bed of anxiety. A flare of armpit sweat rages beneath my black sweater.

     “Ethan Hunter Salon, this is Dan.”

     Like most sane human beings, I have a natural aversion to unanticipated phone calls. The inevitable exchange of clunky niceties and awkward pauses makes me want to burry my head in a pillow. Being held responsible for answering the phone feels like sitting in my living room with the front door wide open. Who would tolerate such an invasive channel?

     This attitude, unsurprisingly, did not serve me well during my short-lived part-time career as a receptionist in Portland, Maine.

     I moved to the small coastal city near my hometown in pursuit of a quiet yet diligent life of writing, dancing, sitting in coffee shops, and managing the inevitable litany of cute boys that would be falling into my lap. I knew I would need to find some temporary work to support myself, but I hoped that I could finagle a gig where interaction with the public was nonexistent and the pay was exceptional.

     “Wow, it’s so rare we have applicants who just graduated from such prestigious liberal arts colleges! Right this way, this is where we keep our money pile! Please, help yourself!”

     I was forced to reevaluate my intentions after an unsuccessful interview for an overnight doughnut cutter position at The Holy Donut on Park Avenue. They appreciated my coming in, but ended up going with someone who actually had some doughnut cutting experience. Go figure.

     Eventually, I found myself in the dubiously qualified position of being the face and voice of this sweet couple’s small salon in the historic Old Port district. I spent my days nervously sweeping hair, nervously washing out mixing bowls, and nervously counting down the moments until I could say into the receiver, “No problem! Have a good day. Buh-bye.”

     Wash, rinse, and repeat.

     The mile walk along the brick sidewalk from my studio apartment to the Old Port afforded me many chances to replay a supercut of my life-so-far. Only a few months passed until the plot for my next big move began to crystallize. Once I sat down to let my bosses know that I would be leaving in two weeks, we were all free to release a sigh of relief.

     “We hear you. This probably is not a position where there would be much growth for you,” Jessica offered with her sincerest sympathy.

     She was right. It probably wasn’t.