Behind Door No. 2

I have this recurring dream. I'm a contestant on a game show. A game show where the host is all teeth and a bowtie. He walks me into a room with no cameras, no walls, no ceiling. Just three doors standing side-by-side. He says, "Behind one is your dream. The rest are filled with emptiness." He points to door number 2. It swings open, revealing a warm light. This is my dream. It is a recurring dream of hope and happiness and fortune. And, it's behind door number 2.

But, then there's a twist. There's always a twist. As I lift my arm to point at door number 2, five more doors drop from the darkness above my head. They land next the other three. The host widens his grin and waves his arm. Door number 2 slams shut. The doors begin to shift, faster and faster, weaving in and out of each other. Door number 2 is now door number 4, and then it's door number 1. And, then door number 5. The host laughs, "Keep your eyes on your dream!" And, I do. I follow that door with a mighty will and strained eyes.

But, then, I blink.

It's that easy. A blink, and everything is gone. My hopes, my dreams. Everything. This is my recurring nightmare as I end my career as a student and begin my career as a . . . well, at this point I just need something that pays. "Dream big. Aim high. No goal is unattainable! I'm going into the entertainment industry!" Katie screamed from the mountain top moments before being struck down by a bolt of lightning. I'm going to become a walking cliché. Either that, or a waitress.

I've been searching for a job for a month now, but to no avail. I tell myself it's just the economy. There just aren't any jobs out there for a poor pale Arizonan girl right out of the college womb. Especially when that poor pale Arizonan girl doesn't quite live in Hollywood yet, and her connections are sparse. That's what I tell myself. But, then every once in a while, a tiny ounce of insecurity creeps in and I think, Maybe it's just me. Either way, I'm unemployed.

It took my new roommates and I a total of two weekends, four days and 6 tanks of gas to find a place to live. The first place we so-naively applied for turned us away because we were all unemployed. "Well, of course we're unemployed. We can't get jobs without a place to live!" "And, you can't get a place to live without a job." That's what I sound like when I become schizophrenic. It happens often. No worries.

But, finally, in our last bout of desperation, we found a place. A perfect place. Why perfect? Two words. Wet bar. Now, I don't drink. Not since the sangria at my brother's wedding. But, when I think of fancy, I think "wet bar." What's not to like about a wet bar? It provides extra storage for anything that doesn't fit in the kitchen, and it's great for displaying cheap wine bottles. Plus, the name itself: "Wet Bar." It sounds like a particularly slippery brand of soap. Or, perhaps, the filthiest strip club in Europe.

Wet Bar.

With new hope and a place with a view (of an alleyway), I continued my job search, only to some avail. After spending an hour on Google Earth searching Ventura Blvd. for a coffee shop or restaurant that might consider my years of office work an admirable quality, I checked my email. I still receive emails from the Media Arts department at UA, and I never read them for obvious reasons. But, something about this particular batch of emails peeked my interest. An email titled "Paid Internship." Click. I'm there, and I'm submitting, and I'm hoping. And, BAM! Four days later I'm woken up (at 11am) by a receptionist at the production company. She says her boss is going to interview me over the phone. I say, "Great!" And, then I wait until 2pm (with no bathroom breaks, just in case) for that phone call.

There's always a moment during any interview process when I wonder, Is forwardness obnoxious or likable? Or, is it just expected? In this case, I suppose it was expected. The woman didn't call at 2pm, so I waited ten minutes past the hour and called myself. She was stuck on a conference call, and her assistant said she'd call me back in five. Three minutes pass, and then a ring.

Me: "Hello?"
Her: "Hi Katie. How are you?"
Me: "How are you?"
Her: "Oh, I'm good. Thank you."
Me: "Oh, gosh. I'm fantastic by the way."

If I were more flexible, I would kick myself in the face. Sometimes I get so concerned over being polite that I end up acting just the opposite.

We spoke for a few minutes, and she asked me to come into the office on Monday. I agreed. We exchanged verbal handshakes and hung up. And, that's when I realized that I hadn't breathed in nearly five minutes.

So, I have an interview. It's a start. If I get this job, I'll still need to get another just to have enough to pay for anything other than rent. But, it's all good. Things are looking up. I'm looking up, and I'm not seeing any of those surprise doors falling out of the darkness. Door number 2 is standing right in front of me, and this time it's slightly cracked open.