Bill to Pay

Bill Clinton

“I’m sorry, but you’re just not quite what we’re looking for,” he said with a straight face and arms folded, only seconds after shaking my hand.  I spotted my résumé, with a single crease down the middle in the bin off to the side.  I counted the bullet points under the work experience heading�"three, my work in London, L.A. and New York.  I didn’t miss anything.  “Clinton” was scribbled across the top in a fine point red pen.  I leaned forward in my seat, putting my hands onto the desk separating me from the man who had just glanced at my breasts.

            “Might I ask why?”  The dreaded question for all employers; why won’t you hire me.  I have a master’s degree in social psychology from the London School of Economics, doesn’t that count for anything?  This isn’t the first time I’ve had this conversation with a man like him.  White, at the ripe age of 50, in a freshly pressed suit and dark tie with fancy Italian shoes that clicked down the hard floors of buildings that housed these overgrown “charity” organizations. 

            “Your… history leaves me with a few concerns about how you’d fit in around here and at our events.”  Not the first time I’ve heard that.  And at this rate, it definitely won’t be the last.  “Plus, you’d have to attend many of our more…publicized events and of course the press would be

there, taking photographs, writing news stories...  I’m not sure that would be the best thing for you.” 

 “Best for me or for you?” I said, standing up, pushing back my seat. 

            “Ms. Lewinsky please sit down, let me explain�"”

 The door slammed shut behind me.