Page 69 - WTP VOl. XIII #2

and then they’re swallowed up by a tunnel.
Two stops later the train resurfaces. It tears through the scrapyards, housing projects, and toothy brown cemeteries on the south side of Camden. Marissa imagines walking the blocks here, ringing the door- bells of the half-rotting houses like she did 10,000 times on the South Side of Pittsburgh. Shelley in- sisted that they hit every last door, no matter how sketchy-seeming—one ring, then one friendly knock. Shift into canvassing posture, ready yourself with a smile, always remain upbeat and friendly. Even if you were mugged once. Even if you worry every night about being assaulted. Even if the cops have been called on you so many times that now it’s just a mi- nor annoyance. Marissa still feels stupid for taking so long to figure out that none of this was worth it, that no one actually makes quota consistently, and that
it was better to just let Shelley scream at her every night. When the train stops for several minutes at a platform near an Aldi, she gazes out in the direction of the river and tries to envision all of the hundreds of miles between here and the campaign office in Pittsburgh. She’s not even in Pennsylvania anymore. They’d never be able to reach her here.
The train starts moving again, picks up speed, and before long all streets, houses, and buildings have vanished from the landscape and they’re troughing at ground level between thick shoulders of forest. They must be way beyond Camden now, somewhere deep in the Pine Barrens. Marissa feels the wheels be- neath her slowing, hears the hiss of the airbrakes and the automated voice on loudspeaker mispronouncing the name of her stop. She rises and stumbles towards the exit. The doors sweep open and exhale her.
The escalator from the platform leads to an enor- mous parking lot. At it’s edge she sees an empty, two-lane road shooting off arrow-straight into the forest. Across the road there’s exactly one building:
a rectangular, four-story layer cake of brown brick and curtain glass. She walks towards it, across the parking lot, in which she notices a small fleet of sleek, expensive-looking cars. Jaguars, Bentleys, BMWs—all black, white, or greyscale, parked in a semicircle with no other vehicles around them. Their vacant head- lights seem to watch her. She quickens her pace and hurries by.
She reaches the front door of the building and pulls its handle. Locked. A second later, someone buzzes her in. She finds herself in a fluorescent-lit, window- less hallway that smells like Pine-Sol, linoleum, and dead houseplants. A few doors seem to lead to broom closets and just one seems not to. That one bursts open.
“Marissa! Oh my God, good to see you—how long has it been?”
It takes a moment to match voice to face. A big wom- an, in an even bigger sweater. “...Julia?”
“You got it! Julia Donohue, remember? From GFFS! I’d give you a hug if that were in any way professional. We’ll have to catch up soon, after you’re hired! Any- way—shall we head back?”
“Sure,” Marissa says, awkwardly returning Julia’s smile and wondering what there even is to catch up on, since they’d barely even known each other. She follows down a second hallway towards an elevator that sits with its doors flung open, in no rush to get anywhere. Julia turns left at the elevator and stops at the first room on the right. It smells like bleach, and also has no windows. Inside are a keyboard, telephone, and computer monitor, languishing on a particle board desk.
“Your very own office!” she cries. “Assuming you pass your telephone trial—which you will.” She leans over and clacks on the keyboard until the screen displays a long list of names and phone numbers. Then she shoves a slice of printer paper into Marissa’s hand.
“Your call script!” She presses a button on the top of the telephone to set it on speaker. “Okay, start at the top. Go!”
Marissa dials. The call rings twice and is shunted to voicemail:
Hey, uh, this is Bill. I don’t like being called, because I’m always very busy. Only leave a message if this is
important.
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