Caroline

Walking throughout the city of Detroit in summer is close to treading the path of righteousness without faith__it's hard that way.

What's harder is getting a job as a college student. It's always like a dream that could never come through.

The hardest part is that I have been sitting in the lobby of this art gallery for over two hours now, waiting to break the sarcasm of life, oblivious to everything going on, but attentive to my thoughts.

The only fascinating thing about this place is the amazing paintings sitting right on the wall of each corner.

A particular painting caught my attention and I could not decipher the meaning the artist was trying to pass.

It was of an elephant with its trunk standing out in a quite narrow doorway which it obviously could not fit.

"Could you please, drop this over there?" a young lady who has been calling our numbers in, probably in her late twenties or early thirties who seem to be the secretary handed me a face-wipe with a red lipstick stain standing out like that time of the month.

I didn't respond at first which caused her to repeat herself.

"Of course," I answered with a fake smile, dumping it in the waste bin.

Humans are quite disrespectful and I choose to remain an introvert! I thought.

"Number 50," the young lady who I later found out was indeed the secretary called out and I looked around me and saw no one. No one but me.

"Miss Twain," she called out my name like she was stressed out and the least she needed was me acting dumb.

"You seem to me to be the last candidate," she said stylishly in a low but harsh tone.

I looked at the number tag hung around my neck and immediately stood up, apologizing intensely.

I walked into the office which seem colder than its outside.

A young lady was sitting with glasses hung on the bridge of her nose. Her head was bent, seriously working on something which was concerning the job interview.

The interior decoration of this place was done by a respectable artist, no doubt. The details were incredible with different art and subtle meanings etched into each.

It was a great view of the sight.

I took in all the incredible paintings, getting shrewd inspiration from each.

"Your file," she suddenly said without raising her head, and to say I wasn't startled will be a lie.

"Uhm...yeah," I fumbled for words, bringing out my file from the file jacket and handing it over to her.

"Kindly introduce yourself," still not raising her head. I mean, it doesn't hurt to see the interviewer's face.

I postured myself well like I was about to take a polaroid shot and began.

"I'm Caroline Twain, a 20-year-old college student. I'm in my third year in college but I need a job to continue the funding of my studies. I have been an artist since I was in high school. Growing from presenting a piece for my school's art exhibition to submitting art to a museum. I have been an intern in a fine art gallery for six months now and I have 3 paintings which are yet to receive the appalling literal recognition but..." I was cut short and then, she raised her head.

Not the face I was expecting though. I was expecting a quite strict face but was graced with a calm yet serious face that made her brunette look impeccably gorgeous.

"Why do you think your three paintings didn't receive the recognition it needed?"

"With no doubt, I believe to be an expert in what I do which is meant to be crowned with..."

"Miss..." she looked down at my file on the table before she continued. "Miss Caroline Twain. A straightforward answer, please," she said, yet calmly and I was starting to get terrified. The fear that this whole interview could end up like the ones in the past gripped me.

"Uhm... I think..."

"You think or you're certain? Speak with some certainty, Miss Twain," now, her face was back to my file.

"I am certain that most artists hit the verge of a dead rock only to fly back high like a catapult," I don't know how I got that phrase but I guess it caught her mind.

"Talk about the originality of your work," she retorted. Now, she's facing her laptop with her well-manicured hand placed on her mouse.

"One thing an avid artist like myself proves is the originality of my work. I put in my all with every painting inspiring inner peace. I paint from my imagination which gives my work its sense of originality,"

"Can I see any of your work, Miss Twain?" she asked and I rushed out to retrieve it.

I took off the covering and she stood to check it out more.

She traced the painting with her eyes closed. I wasn't sure what she was doing but I didn't interrupt her either.

She opened her eyes and smiled at me before walking back to her seat.

Everything seem to be going pretty well and yet again, the phrase I dreaded the most was said.

She adjusted her glasses well before speaking and I knew instantly what those fine lips were about to spit out.

"We'll reach out to you, Miss Twain," she said with a slight smile, handing over my files, and immediately she went back to what she was doing like I was never even in the room.

They never do.

I thought I did well. I thought the fact that I was a young lady should stand me out but I was denied any form of exhibiting my skills.

I looked around the office one last time before picking my painting off the ground and exiting the room.

I wasn't even surprised anymore. I wasn't even disappointed but no doubt, I was going to give up schooling or seek a job.