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I walk into my favorite burger place on Broome Street. (Mostly because it doesn't cost a small fortune to eat a burger with fries, and their burgers are a solid 4 out of 5 ⭐️)

Becca gets off work early on Wednesdays, so I'm not surprised to see my blonde friend, already sitting in a booth. And FYI: All of us socially-awkward people would like to thank whomever invented restaurant booths! (Who wants to feel that exposed while you shovel food into your mouth? Yep, me neither. Tables are the worst!)

I slide into the cozy booth, the faux-leather making that weird creaking noise as I sit. I stare across at my friend. She's wearing her signature black-framed glasses, and her short blonde bob is sleek and pin-straight. Becca's wardrobe is mostly monochromatic (think black, gray, white, occasionally beige) so I'm surprised to see her wearing a pale blue sleeveless top.

"Sooooooooo," she greets me, without explanation. But, we both know that her 'soooooooo' really means 'how did the interview go? Did you get the job? Tell me everything'.

I answer her unspoken questions by saying, "The interview was 'interesting'." (And if you're wondering, yep, I totally did air-quotes around the word interesting)

"Interesting good? Interesting bad?"

How do I answer this exactly? I mean, technically I did get the job, but if I were a betting woman (which I'm not) the chances are pretty high that my new boss will just immediately fire me.

"Um a little of both I guess."

Frustrated by my answers Becca says, "Vague much, Emmy? The back of my shampoo bottle gives more details than you just did, and all it says is lather, rinse, repeat."

(Did I mention that my best friend is hilarious?)

And so, I give Becca all the little details she's clambering for. From pregnant Barbie to GQ boss and my lack of job security, I tell her everything.

She seems completely unfazed by my story. But, here's the thing, Becca was born and raised in Queens. She's seen a lot in her twenty-seven years. So, what was the strangest job interview I've ever had, is just another Wednesday morning to her.

Don't believe me? I have proof in the form of a picture we took in St. Lucia. (Work vacation generously paid for by her employer) In the pic, we are literally being mauled by a mob of hungry goats trying to steal our street food. While I look like I'm being eaten alive, Becca is sending an email from her phone! Sending an email! If Becca ever says 'you'll never believe what happened', buckle up my friend, because I'm betting her story will blow your mind.

"All you have to do is show up tomorrow and prove that you deserve the job," she encourages, as if it's that easy.

"That's just it! I'm not sure I do deserve the job!" I self-deprecate. "I'm not even sure what the company does. Although, for what they'll be paying me, I'd gladly scrape feces off of the bathroom walls."

"Gross Emmy. I'm trying to eat here," she scolds while chewing a complimentary bread roll. Toilet humor is Becca's kryptonite, every classy bone in her body cringes at the mere thought. Needless to say, I love using toilet humor around her.

"Relax, you're only eating bread. It's not like you're munching on tootsie rolls or chocolate swirl ice cream," I defend, and she gives me the all too familiar evil eye.

Saved by the server! A nice young girl takes our orders, which neither of us needed a menu for. And once the server's gone. Becca eyes me typing on my phone.

"You should have done that two days ago," she tells me, and immediately I'm confused.

"Done what?" I ask.

"Google Branault-White Group."

How did she know what I was doing on my phone?? Sometimes I think Becca missed her calling as a CIA operative. If things don't work out for her in finance, I definitely see 'bounty hunter' as a top-notch second choice.

"I was too busy!" (Those YouTube videos can't watch themselves!)

I stare down at the search results for 'what does Branault-White Group, Inc. do'. Ah ha! Apparently, they are...ugh!...investment banking? I hate finance! I mean, look at my own finances. They're sadder than a Nicholas Sparks book.

"Beccaaaaa," I whine. "They do investment banking?" She just giggles at my annoyance. Jerk.

"Hey, I told you the name of the company. Can't be mad at me for not doing your own research. But, it doesn't really matter, you'll be a personal assistant. They won't be asking you to crunch numbers or anything," she tries to console, and fails.

Here's the thing, I'm not dumb by any means. I'm a whiz with words and the English language. My knowledge of history is pretty stellar. Decent computer skills. And my common sense is off the charts! But math, horrible, annoying, stupid, 'that's why they created calculators so we wouldn't have to do this garbage', math. My skills in this area would best be described as Sesame Street level. Now you understand my frustration.

"Honestly, if I didn't need the money so bad, I would probably bail on this job," I say. "But I can't, because I'd feel super guilty. Things are getting really expensive with Grandma Faye, and you know my mom and dad are too broke to help out."

"Trust me, you'll do great," Becca says, and her sincerity does make me feel a tinge better. "How are things going with Grandma Faye? I feel like I haven't seen her in forever."

"She's still her same funny self, just much more forgetful. It's like I'm constantly experiencing deja vu," I explain and then do my best imitation grandma voice. "'Emmy, why didn't you buy the onion bagels? I told you to get the onion ones.'...I did grandma. Put em' in the fridge, where you like em'...And then twenty minutes later it's, 'Emmy, why didn't you buy the onion bagels?'...It's a bit frustrating, but mostly just sad."

"Yeah, getting old is the worst. It's like jumping off the Empire State Building, a long way down, and you're dead at the end," Becca deadpans.

"Leave it to you, to brighten up a conversation," I sarcastically observe, and then our server arrives with my juicy burger and Becca's vegetarian something or other.

After we both give her our 'thank yous', and the server comes back to prematurely fill-up my water. She slides a random white piece of paper in front of me with words written in blue ink.

"A note from that gentleman over there." Our server points to a guy sitting alone, and the 'gentleman' gives me a bright smile and a wave. I smile back, because Hey! I'm from the south, we aren't even rude to our worst enemies! (Exception, of course, with the Hatfields and McCoys)

I begin to read the scrawled note, and I can feel Becca's cheshire grin directed at me.

Hey my name is Mason. I'm not usually
this forward, but I knew I would regret it if I didn't tell you how beautiful you are.
I'd love to take you on a date.
If you're interested here is my number.
555-474-8954

As I'm reading the note I'm already formulating my response. I can't give too much reaction because clearly the guy is still staring at me. Becca hands me a pen, because, clearly, she knows me well enough to assume I will respond. And she's right! I don't like stringing people along, rather, I take an honest approach to life. Like ripping off a giant bandaid, quick and virtually painless. I'm all about trying to impart life lessons.

Lesson one in dating: become their friend before you actually date them! So many people ignore this one. It's like 'well I think you're attractive, you think I'm attractive. we should go on a date'. No, you really shouldn't. Trust me, because you're both probably control freaks or something and it'll never work out. And now that you've dated, it makes any future friendship awkward. (And, what if his best friend was perfect for you, but now you're off-limits, ugh!) Save yourself the trouble, be friends first.

I begin writing my lengthy response, and re-read it for good measure. The guy sees me writing him back, so he makes no move to come over and talk to me. Becca is quietly eating, watching it all unfold. When our server returns, I ask her to pass along my own note to the gentleman. I can tell she wants to read it, but doesn't know if she should.

As our server walks away, I tell her that she's welcome to read it, and she gives me a bright smile. Becca doesn't ask to read my response, likely because she knows exactly what I would write. And it went a little something like this:

Mason, Thank you so much.
Who doesn't like to be told their beautiful?
So thank you, I'm flattered.
But, underneath what you consider to be a beautiful exterior, is a crazy person.
I make Napoleon Dynamite look like the poster-child for appropriate social behavior. But keep on looking for your future wife! And please, be friends with her BEFORE you ask her on a date.
All the best!
-E

Needless to say, he got the message. (Literally and figuratively)

Did I mention that he wrote his note on the back of a CVS receipt? Apparently the guy has a cat, drinks Diet Coke, and has a wart that needs removing. (Wow! Just wow!)

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