Liza Palmer - The Nobodies

This is that rock bottom Im going to mine for the inspiring commencement speech Ill give at an Ivy League college in a few years. This is that fun, disruptive detour Ill laugh about on various international stages while dispensing my pearls of wisdom to auditoriums full of admirers. This is the temporary crucible of failure in which I will create my greatest work and

Cute top. Vintage?

What? I turn around, interrupted before I can finish the well-practiced pep talk Ive been giving myself over the last two weeks.

This very same rousing speech got me through yesterdays interview for a job as a part-time receptionist at a small insurance company in Pasadena. A few days before that, I whispered this speech as I power-stood in the poorly lit ladies bathroom of a dentists office in Highland Park that needed a file clerk. And the week before that, I screamed it in a garbage-drenched back alley just before trying to convince a surly biker that I could be the best bar back in the world. He laughed in my face about the bar back job, but then said he did need a go-go dancer for the weekday lunch hour, if Id be interested in that. When I hesitated, he then scanned my body, flicked his toothpick to the other side of his mouth, and shrugged that Id only have to show maybe one titty.

Its nice to know that Ive got options going into todays job interview.

Is your top vintage? he repeats. I loosen my fingers from around the cold metal bar thats supposed to stop me from launching myself over the side of this rooftop parking garage and face the inquiring gentleman. Chunky mint-green glasses. Floral shirt with shoulder pads. Jodhpurs.

No, its just from my closet, I say, touching the fabric of my shirt with newfound disdain.

Youre hilarious. He loops his messenger bag over his head and meticulously flips his collar so it falls perfectly over the argyle-patterned strap. Have a wonderful day. He pushes his glasses farther up his nose and waits.

Yeah, you too, I say, feeling downright bullied into reciprocating his obscene level of cheerfulness. I watch him suspiciously as he bounds down the four flights of stairs instead of taking the perfectly good elevator. Once hes gone, Im finally able to finish my now thoroughly deflated speech.

the temporary crucible of failure in which I will create my greatest work and prove her wrong. Ill prove them all wrong.

Bloom. A company of trendy tech people whose parents have no idea what they do for a living. And me.

I pull open the glass doors.

There is no lobby. Blooms neon blue flower logo takes up an entire wall. I quickly scan for anything familiar. Receptionist? No. Coffee table with old magazines? No. The swell of pride and purpose I once enjoyed as an award-winning journalist? No.

I step forward a few more careful inches. The impossibly cool workforce moves like blood cells, hurtling through the rows upon rows of computers that cut up the barn-like space. I reach into my pocket for my phone, hoping to offer my proximity to technology as a white flag.

I scroll through my group text thread and scan the texts Ive gotten in the last five minutes. Reubens play is opening tonight. Were getting tacos and then caravanning over to the theater. Lynn is asking about the parking situation. Hugo says he thinks theres street parking. I pocket my phone before the untold thousands of follow-up texts come flooding in. A conversation about parking in Los Angeles is never a brief one.

Welcome to Bloom, how are you today? Its the man from the garage. Oh, hey. I know you! His effortless intimacy and exuberance makes me immediately wary. I can feel my phone buzzing in my pocket.

Hi. Im

Hi! Eyes narrowed.

Hi, I say.

Im Caspian.

Hi.

Hi! Do I is it my turn? Caspian continues, You have lovely skin, what kind of moisturizer do you use?

Its this homemade soap my parents make, but its not just for the face, its Why am I still talking? Its for the whole body.

Oh, fun. I live with my parents too.

If it werent for the hyper-efficient numbing Ive perfected in the eight months since I got laid off and subsequently had to move back in with my parents, Caspians comment about our comparable living arrangements would have flattened me. Thank god Im a mere husk of the person I once was. Every cloud.

Caspian hands me a clipboard. I take it. So, Ria is running a bit late, but if you fill this out for me, maybe we can wrangle you a glass of cold brew before your interview.

Id heard about the secrecy at tech companies and look down at the clipboard fully expecting to find a nondisclosure agreement attached. Instead, I find what appears to be a three-question survey about my first impressions of Bloom. Each question is multiple choice, but rather than A, B and C, theyve provided (neutral face emoji), (heart eyes emoji), and (crying emoji) to help me express myself.

How did you know who I was here to see? I ask.

I am the all-seeing eye. He pauses for dramatic effect. Im just kidding! He awaits my reply with a troublesome level of eye contact.

Phew, I offer meekly.

But I kind of am, though. He lowers his clunky mint-green glasses. I know everything. He turns his monitor around and points to todays schedule. Youre Joan Dixon. Here to interview for the junior copywriter job with Ria Jones. I got you, girl.

As I scan the survey, Caspian greets every single Bloom employee who walks past his counter with unadulterated joy. The bespectacled IT kid. Exclamations and high fives. The pack of fashion mavens. Peals of laughter and a quick selfie. The blue-haired Amazon carrying a motorcycle helmet. Tight, closed-eye hug.

I circle the (heart eyes emoji) for my parking experience. A (neutral face emoji) for the Bloom lobby and a (crying emoji) for Initial Human Greetingwhich I can only assume is tech for Caspian.

You said something about coffee? I ask, handing the survey back to Caspian.

Ooh, yes. He unclips the survey, scans it, and sets it into a pile. Right this way. He hops up onto the counter and spins around, landing in front of me with the grace of an Olympic gymnast. That took me months to perfect, he says with a wink.

Is this my 9 A.M.? A voice from behind us asks. We turn around. Tall and lanky, Ria Jones has on a flannel shirt, vintage wingtips, and pants that could, at best, be categorized as high-waters. Her dreadlocked hair is swept up in an immaculately tied wrap.

Yes, hi. Joan Dixon, I say, extending my hand. Ria takes it. Firm handshake.

Ria Jones. Lets get to it then. Ria motions for me to walk into the mosh pit that appears to be the inner workings of Bloom. Ria abruptly stops, turns around. Which room are we in, Cas?

You guys are in Tupac, Caspian says, air-kissing a girl whos wearing a misshapen, plum-colored felted hat.

Ria speaks like shes atop a double-decker bus careening down Hollywood Boulevard. Bloom was started eighteen months ago by Chris Lawrence and Asher Lyndon, but the legend began over ten years ago in a Caltech dorm room when the then roommates developed the CAM algorithm. CAM, which stands for Collects All Materials, is