Excerpt/Who Cares?

Before my next round of query letters, I'm editing the whole script for at least five hours a day. Below is an excerpt that had be specially selected because the rest of my memoir manuscript is incriminating most of all to me, and a lot of other Chicagoans.

And who cares? It's my happy tummy.


“Hi.” A clean cut business woman would apprehensively approach my desk. “I know this is a lot to ask and I pass by here all the time, but I just have to ask you, how do you get to be a concierge? It looks like a fun job and I'd just love to get a chance to do it.”

I'd morph into a snake and become territorial even though I could smell my own body odor and thankful that the desk was large enough that she couldn't. My suit sleeves would be rolled up past the elbow to make it look like different apparel from yesterday. “You have to get your foot in the door and that takes a little planning or a lot of luck.” I'd make up.

“Do you, possibly, know how I might get a foot in the door?” She'd ask.

I'd snarl and think, “You are not getting my job lady.” But I’d say, “I don’t know. Good luck.”

“Can I use your name as a reference?” She'd ask.

“No. Oh, no, no.” Then I'd pick up the phone to pretend I was busy.