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6) The Interview
🕑 Added 2023-09-04 04:29:15 +0000 UTCElizabeth Daley (POV)
I love my job. Really. No matter how many times I have yelled at the Almighty about how much I hate it, I don’t.
But there are some instances where, being in charge of some of the buffoons we’ve got here, it gets tiring after a while.
Not that it’s been a while now, has it? Why I remember the ceremony like it was a few weeks away. Mainly cause it was.
But being made the Dean, of the most reputable and distinguished School of Cinematic Arts in the world… well, it leaves a mark on you.
Especially if you’re the first woman to have ever held the post. I have teared down numerous unqualifies sons of bitches to get where I am. And I’m not about to quit, no matter what.
But then I saw the petition. Apparently, some blithering idiots want to start an activities club. Now that’s not so bad, you might say. Wait for it. They wanted their members to be exclusively white Christians.
Useless fuckers.
“MINDY!”
And in came running my secretary, “Yes, Miss Daley?”
“The next time you get a petition with the same… general theme, chuck it into the nearest bin you find. Understood?”
“Y-yes Ma’am.” Good lord, she was shaking like a twig in a tornado.
Good, now out,” I say as the door closes with a thud.
The door closes with a thud. And just as I think I’m about to get a moment of peace, my phone rings.
I pick up.
“Yes hello, who is this? O-oh, Ambrose! Oh, how are you? Fine? Th-that’s good, that’s very good. Yes? Uh-huh, oh, oh ok. Ok, no worries I’ll see to it myself-, wait, you said 13? A-and you’re confident he’s… I don’t know, ready? Oh-ok, yeah sure, I’ll meet him. Uh-no. I’m afraid this week’s not possible. But next week, I-I think, Tuesday, yes Tuesday works just fine. Just make sure he gets here by 10:30 okay? Not a second later. Ok, ok, have a good one, bye.”
I put down the phone, before letting out one of the longest sighs of my life.
Ambrose, a dear old friend of mine. I still remember the set of ‘For the good of them’. I was an assistant cinematographer and Ambrose, the producer.
He was really good back then. Nope, he’s just as good now, I think, if not better.
Here’s hoping his son has an iota of his talent. He’s clearly got brains by the look of it. I mean, dear god, valedictorian at 13… the kid is definitely going places.
I suppose I should talk to the little bugger before forming an opinion first and foremost.
Sigh, next week can’t get here any faster.
MC (POV)
It is a sunny day in Los Angeles, and here I am, on my way to the campus to meet the dean.
To be frank, I can’t wait to get this over with. There’s no chance of me having a hard time here. I’m easily gonna get in based on the vast amount of credits I’ve amassed in high school, and my campus life will be a fucking breeze.
I mean, just think about it. Who in their right minds would dare to mess with me? A 13-year old boy who is the sole heir of a media empire. People will be walking on eggshells around me, treating me like I’m made of glass.
But hey, I reckon the next 5 years will be some of the most important ones of my life. I’ll be absorbing knowledge like a certified maniac, ensuring that I master every single discipline necessary to make a film. Or a tv show. And if I’ve got a little extra time, a theatre production.
Now, I don’t particularly give a tiny rat’s ass about theatre, but quite a few distinguished actors found their roots in Broadway musicals, where they perfected their art and evolved into true thespians.
Plus, I have a dream. If I want to become the most significant figure in modern Hollywood, then I need to have a crowning achievement under my name. A title of such prominence, that the most distinguished awards pale in comparison to the prestige I can derive from this.
I really, really wanna be an… EGOT winner.
Now EGOT, is obviously an acronym, standing for ‘Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, Tony’.
To put it into context, EGOT has frequently been referred to as the ‘Grand Slam’ of show business. In my previous life, only 18 people had been bestowed this honour by 2023. Here? Only 11.
Plus, the youngest one to enter this exclusive club was 39. Now, imagine how much fame I could leverage, if I achieved this under 30.
Sigh, I can already imagine the headlines… ‘Ricky Stirling makes history by becoming the youngest EGOT winner!’.
Or something flashier. Eh, I’ll leave that to the journalists, I just need to focus on making kick-ass content for the public.
As I become immersed in day-dreaming –
“Mr. Ricky, we’re here, the dean’s office.” Benjamin called out.
I blinked, “Ok, thanks ben. Just wait here for a few minutes, I’ll get this over with soon.”
I step out of the car, as I admire the rustic building in front of me. 3 storeyed, with brick outlines visible on its walls. I make my way into the waiting area, and spot a woman sitting at a desk outside a door.
‘That ought to be the secretary, or the receptionist’ I think as I walk up to her.
“Good Morning, I’m Richmond Stirling. I believe I have an appointment with the dean in… 3 minutes.” I gave an easy smile, not too large which will make me look overly enthusiastic, but not too curt, which will display me in an aloof light.
Yep, my mannerisms were on point. A really nifty advantage of having a cute little face, a mature brain, but most importantly, a shit ton of CHA.
The stat is high enough to ensure I make a positive first impression no matter what, unless I stir up shit purposely.
“Oh, yes. Uh, the dean is currently in a meeting, but she’ll be right with you.” She smiled kindly, “In the meantime, do you want a candy?” And she whipped out a… yeah you guess it, a candy.
Sigh, sometimes I forget cause I’m at home constantly where everyone has acclimatized to my intelligence. In the eyes of the world at large, I’m still a little kid, who’s barely passed his pre-teen stage.
And as far as every adult is concerned, a kid below 13 is a grade-A snivelling risk. As in, one wrong word, and they’ll start bawling their freaking eyes out cause their precious little feelings were hurt.
So naturally, I played along. “Oh yes! Thank you, Miss!” I exclaimed cheerfully, quickly grabbing the confection from her extending hand, and popping it in my mouth without wasting a second.
“Aw, you’re such a sweet little boy!” She cooed. Yep she fucking cooed.
Naturally I shouted in a fake indignant tone, “I’m not little! I’m a big boy.” I puffed up my cheeks, which just made her coo more.
A few ministrations later, I was called in.
Now listen, I don’t enjoy acting like a little kid. I hate it. Frankly I find it degrading. But endearing myself to other people, well it’s a ridiculously easy way to enter their good books and farm some charisma. Plus, the more positive impression I leave, the easier time I’ll have in the future. She IS the dean’s secretary after all. I bet there will be at least one instance where I might require some help from her. But then again, I’m just dealing in hypothetical scenarios here.
Anyways, I enter the office and there she is. Elizabeth Daley, seated behind a large, meticulously built mahogany desk. Like holy shit, my father’s desk in his study is not that large.
Lizzie, yep that’s what I’m gonna call her in my head. Lizzie had a short stature, she was thin and unassuming, with tomboyish looks. Her hair was shorter than my father’s. Quite literally.
But this is the 90s. A time before gender equality was widespread. Before the #metoo movement. And Miss Daley here, is not from a prominent family. She rose to become the first female dean of the most prestigious cinematic educational course in the world through her own merits.
There’s no way in hell, I’m ignoring the signs. She is definitely a certified badass. There’s no other way to say it. She rose to a well-respected management position through her own capabilities in her 40s.
Respect.
“Mr. Stirling, how wonderful to meet you in person.” She got up and extended her hand, a wide smile etched on her face.
“Good Morning Miss. Daley, please call me Ricky.” I replied in kind with a charming smile, shaking her hand as I look up to her face.
“Oh yes, Ricky it is then.” She proceeded to sit down. “Please have a seat dear, I have a feeling this won’t take long.”
A little thing I noticed; her chair is covered in fluffy cushions with a reclining set-up. Mine on the other hand, it’s wood. That’s it. A plain wooden chair, not even an armrest. Is it meant to be some sort of power play or something? She might use the discomfort to her favour to gain an upper hand during meetings.
Or, maybe I’m just looking too much into this. Maybe, not everyone in the world is ought to get me, and not every little irregularity is some form of symbolism with deeper entrenched meanings hidden behind a veneer of hospitality.
Sigh, I gotta stop living my life like it’s a movie. It’s my life damnit, not some fancy ass production made to entertain a higher being. Or, at least I hope so. Then again, it might just be revenge for my atheist outlook in my previous life. Rest assured, I learnt my fucking lesson.
“Now-” she began by opening a file. Wait, that’s my academic record. How does she have it? Maybe my dad sent it? Or she got it directly from my high school? Bah, who cares.
“- you have done very well for yourself in high school. Valedictorian, district level chess champion, Oh! And, you won the Scripps national spelling bee two years in a row! Now that’s just downright impressive!” She rattled on, without sparing a glance in my direction.
“Wasn’t exactly difficult. I’m sorry, but I believe I’ve met the required credits needed to undertake the Bachelors in Fine Arts course. Any reason in particular you’re perusing through my file?” I enquired, genuinely curious.
“Oh, no, not really. I-I was just curious Ricky. But I believe I must clarify certain things you may have overlooked.” She finally looked up. “Now, do you know what the acceptance rate is for the course you want to enroll in?”
“Three percent, give or take. Wh-why? What happened?”
“Oh no, nothing happened my dear, just making sure you know. You see, nearly everyone who applies for said course meets the academic requirement. Therefore, to ensure we only take in the best of the best, I interview them myself.” Her smile grew minutely. Her pearly white teeth becoming more and more visible by the second.
Oh.
Bloody… FUCKING hell.
Oh, daddy dearest, you got me. You did. But this isn’t over. Not by a long shot. Someday, it maybe tomorrow, maybe a few years from now, doesn’t matter really.
Someday, I’m gonna get you. And then I’ll laugh, loudly, as obnoxiously as humanely possible as the world burns around you.
“Now-now, no need to worry Ricky, you just have to be yourself, and answer a few questions I ask along the way.”
“Ok, sure. I’ll answer your questions to the best of my ability.” I instantly activate the meditation skill, and then de-activate it the next instant.
The split second under that skill, gave me all that I needed to collect myself.
[Skill ‘Poker Face Lv. Max’ has been activated]
HA! Take that.
Now no matter what curveball you throw at me, you’ll never be able to predict my reaction. NEVER! Mwahahahaha-ha-ha…ha.
Sigh, I really need to work on my internal evil laughter. It sounds great, it just, lacks pizzazz. You know, that extra little oomph factor. No worries though. I’ll get there one day.
“Wonderful! Now, it says here in you file, that you are fluent in 8 languages. Can you name them? For my information?” Her expression betrays a sense of intrigue.
“I’m fluent in English, obviously. 3 years back, me and my dad took a month-long trip through Europe. I wanted to be able to interact with the locals in their native language, so I learnt Spanish, French, German, Portuguese, Italian and Russian.”
“Hmm, I don’t think you realize how impressive that truly is.” She chuckled wryly. “And the eight?”
“Mandarin. It’s just, I am a really huge fan of Bruce Lee. I even enrolled in Wing Chun classes last year.” I rambled with just the right amount of excitement.
“Sorry dear, you have me at a loss, Wing-what?” Oh, she really had no idea. Well I suppose, there is a significantly lower chance of people knowing random trivia before the invention of search engines as a whole.
“Wing Chun.” I said, enunciating the ‘chun’, “It’s a subcategory of Chinese martial arts. Bruce Lee practiced it.”
“Oh, oh well-that’s… most impressive. Let’s move on, shall we?” It wasn’t really a question.
…
…
“Oh, dear god, look at the time! Well, I believe I’ve asked you enough questions for now Ricky. Welcome… to the University of Southern California! I believe you’ll fit right in.” She beamed at me as she vigorously shook my hand again and again.
Hmm, I have a feeling I made a pretty good impression, going by the number of times she said ‘impressive’.
All righty, it was an unexpected ordeal, but I handled it near perfectly, and that’s all that matters in the end, doesn’t it?
Really hated how my dad played me like a fucking puppet though.
‘Ricky, it’s just a meeting!’ He said. What a load of bull that turned out to be.
I’m just disappointed I didn’t predict this. I mean, I knew that ‘Lizzie’ became the dean only a few months ago. But changing the admission procedure in her first year? Now that’s ballsy with a capital B. And she doesn’t even have balls. Not even globes going by the top she was wearing. Yep, she’s as flat as the fucking road I travelled on in my Cadillac.
Sigh, puberty. Why art thou such a bitch. I really gotta develop a skill for this and soon.
But how exactly?
Now therein… lies the true conundrum.
