1: Cheeto Faces and Pageant Answers

Whatever had possessed me to apply for a job at a gym was beyond me. Maybe it was my subconscious trying to be ironic. Fat girl, face of Roman Elite Fitness, haha so funny. Maybe it was my subconsciousness' subconscious trying to tell me that I needed to lose weight and working at a gym would get my ass into gear. Or maybe, and most likely, it was a moment of desperation, trying to get my cash flow situation correct. I hadn't been employed for far too long, and to say my résumé was looking a little sparse was an understatement.

Of course, the manager had no way of knowing I was fat. Phone calls and online applications make everything so easy. Or really, really complicated. You could totally fall in love with someone's face and be horrified by his or her body. It's happened to me like it's happened to other people meeting me. My fault, really. Some guys think they're meeting a girl who is height-weight proportional, a sin of omission on my part. But then again, I think I'm meeting someone much taller than my five foot self and I'm meeting someone so short that I barely have to look up to him. In that case, I should have been more careful. Yet still, you might be a gym manager with an open job position and you come across the résumé of a girl you can hire for cheap and then call her to set up an interview, which is exactly what happened to me. I submitted my application on a Wednesday, got the call on Thursday, and had an interview on Friday, with no idea how to dress for it.

"Liz!" I called from my bedroom, hoping I would get a response from my roommate, who was probably dead asleep, despite it being 11:30 on a Friday morning. I heard a flush and then the sink for a few seconds. I was surprised when I saw her face a moment later.

"Good morning!" She said, chipper as ever, with a big smile on her face. Most surprising of all, she was dressed in a white sundress and gold Jack Rogers sandals with a full face of makeup.

"Why do you look so good?" I asked, genuinely interested as to why she looked like someone who regularly did brunch at a country club.

"I'm going to brunch!"

"Since when? And who the hell does brunch on a Friday? Do they even serve brunch on weekdays?"

"They do when it's a private chef cooking for you," she teased. I stared blankly for a second. "Jackson does brunch on a Friday," she continued, dragging out the a in Jackson. Suddenly everything made sense.

Dr. Jackson Flint was fifty years old. He had copious amounts of money and he liked to spend it on girls more than half his age. Not that I'm judging. I always wanted in on that cash pool of older men who like to throw their money around, but I'm not the right type. Country clubs and other exclusive, expensive places don't like ethnics or fat women, and the men who frequented these places didn't like fat women and liked to fetishize ethnics. I checked off both boxes. Liz didn't check off any. She was a five foot two blonde with a gamine shape. She was saving money for a boob job and casually having sex with old men to get the money. Again, not judging.

"Whatever. I need help with an interview outfit," I said. Liz has had approximately twelve jobs in her life. She started working at fourteen and hadn't stopped since, sometimes working two jobs. She came from a working class family and earned everything she owned. I admired everything about her hustle.

"It's for the gym, right?" She asked, walking to my closet and stepping over the various piles of shit that cluttered my floor.

"Uh-huh." I responded. She paused for awhile, staring at the options in front of her. She began to narrate.

"Well, like, it's a gym, so you don't have to wear like a business suit. And what do they wear there, like, khakis? Yeah, khakis." She grabbed a pair of khakis from the lower rack. She continued.

"Okay, so khakis. And gym workers wear polos. You're not gonna wear a polo for an interview. Polos are fucking horrendous and I will only wear one if I'm being paid to do it, like you are, because obviously you're gonna get this job. Anyway, how hot is it outside?"

"I don't know." Liz sighed in annoyance at my ignorance.

"Well, I don't care. Put this on," she commanded, throwing a royal blue sweater at me. I hadn't worn that sweater since about twelve pounds ago.

"Um, okay. Thank you."

"I have some godawful grown-up looking loafers in my closet, if you want to use them. Wear the brown ones, not the black ones. How are you doing your hair?" she asked. Liz was the hot friend and a surrogate mom, which got weird sometimes.

"I was just gonna straighten it," I replied.

"Sounds good. I kinda have to go now. Good luck! I know you'll get it! Love you!" she said, speed walking out of my room and down the stairs. She was gone in a flash, and I could hardly blame her. Who would keep good and easy money waiting?

I began to get ready. I like to take my time, each step is an important process. Plus, I was prone to messing up. Showering, obviously, was the easiest step, since I had been doing that the longest and it didn't involve heated tools nor paint of sorts.

I moved on to my hair, which was a nightmare. I had decided to wash it since it looked oily, knowing that if I'd washed it, I'd have to blow dry it because wet hair is unprofessional. I brushed my hair out with a comb, hoping to get extra moisture out, then blasted the hot air at my head.

I know exceptionally little about blow dryers. I know that you point the hot air at your head and also do something involving a round brush. I improvised with that knowledge. The straightening of my hair was easy. Clamp, pull down, watch steam emerge from head, repeat.

My makeup is usually hit or miss. Sometimes my obsession with eyeliner made me look stunning and sometimes I looked like a drunk raccoon who had been crying all night. Classy, I know.

I took extra time on my eyeliner, careful to make each eye match. Once that was done and I had something decent put together on my face, I turned to the clothes.

The blue sweater stared at me. I didn't have time for irrationally thinking that an inanimate object was judging me. I put it on, feeling how much tighter it had gotten on me. I frowned at my reflection. I squatted down, with my knees together, and pulled the bottom of the sweater over my knees. That's better, I thought. I had loosened it so it no longer clung to every roll of mine or my belly button.

I finished getting ready and left for my interview. In the car, I went over the talking points and answers I had come up with for common interview questions. My daddy always told me that I was the Queen of Bullshitting, and bullshitters make it far in life. I tried to remember that.

I pulled into the parking lot, taking a spot in the front that the front desk couldn't see. I didn't want to feel their judgment on me before I walked in. I took a deep breath. "Queen of Bullshit, Ruby, Queen of Bullshit," I reminded myself aloud.

I went inside and tried to look both casual and confident. I probably just looked scared. The girl at the desk looked at me with a raised eyebrow. I tried to ignore it, while giving her a once over as quickly as I could. Her tan was orange, bright, manufactured orange. She had a face like one of Dr. Seuss's Whos and wore her dark hair in a messy bun.

"Hi, I'm looking for Jackie?" The girl blinked long, exaggerated blinks at me.

"Oh, that's me! Are you my interview?" I nodded yes and she pointed to a table for me to sit at.

I went and took a seat while she reached for a book and shared some words with another tall, Cheeto colored brunette.

"So, I'm Jackie," she said, reaching out for a handshake. I took it, and it was weak. I was disappointed. She opened the book and began firing questions. Do I mind cleaning? What are my weaknesses? Can I deal with angry people? What sort of background do I have? Where do I go to school?

I answered them all with ease. She nodded when I responded and made notes. "One last question," she said.

"Sure," I listened.

"Why do you want to work here and why do you think you'd be a good employee?"

I paused. Why did I want to work there? Money, creeping on hot dudes. That's it. I couldn't just say that though. She'd laugh, but I wanted cash, not friends. Why would I make a good employee? Easy, I'm willing to work. And then I began.

"Well, Jackie, I want to work here because I feel it's important for members to see a variety of bodies working here. Furthermore, I think that's good for business. I'm the hardest worker you'll find and I'm willing to quickly learn whatever I need to be taught. I can diffuse heated situations, I can sell product and memberships, and I will provide the best service possible to members who are, in fact, expecting a Roman Elite standard."

Her mouth was agape. That answer was the closest thing to "world peace" as I could say. "Um, wow. You have a meeting with the owner on Monday. His name is Tucker DiAngelo. I really liked you. How's noon?"

"Noon is great, thanks Jackie!" I held my hand out for another disappointing handshake. She obliged, and I was on my way, feeling good about myself despite feeling shitty in my clothing. I reminded myself to find another, nicer shirt for my second interview