5 January 2011
Thursday @ 9am
Reducto Records
Diagon Alley

“So, tell me about yourself, Natalie.”

The Reducto Records manager smiled at the wee blond witch from across the little cafe table tucked in the front window of the music shop. She looked like what you’d think a manager at a record store would look like: not formally dressed, some hardware in her ears and nose, dark blue nail polish, robe that looked more like a trench. Professional but not stuffy.

Nemo didn’t have proper interview clothes, but she did have a purple blazer with black lining. She’d done her hair as well, using a spell to smooth it out and pinning her bangs back. For make-up she’d dialed back the dark eyes, but kept her dark lip.

It had been a long time since anyone called her Natalie. It ill-fitting and a little embarassing. She liked the name, it was a good name, but it wasn’t hers anymore. And a job was a job and needed a job name.

She took a deep breath and they got started.

“I’m responsible, good with people, and I like music,” she said in her best talking-to-adults voice. Then she just stopped and held that adult-appeasing smile.

The manager lifted her eyebrows. She’d meant the question as more, like, innocuous personal details, like, say, where was she from, what brought her to London, where she went to school, what her hobbies were. It was helpful to know where her part-time kids were coming from. Natalie here was young so she didn’t expect much of a resume, and she didn’t. Just a few months in a muggle Subway restaurant.

“I see you don’t have any retail experience, which is fine,” she quickly added with a smile. “What else in your life has helped you prepare for Reducto?”

Nemo thought for a moment. “I’m good at math and I’ve done a lot of performing so I know how to sell a mood. I know what people like. 

“Good, good answer.” The manager took down a little note. “Next, tell me how you’d handle a conflict with a customer. Maybe a gentleman brings in a record claiming it was scratched when they bought it. Maybe he’s irate.”

“I’d just get them a new one,” Nemo answered quickly.

But she kept going. “People just want to be validated. That dude probably rehearsed his whole speech on the way over. Someone so pissed off about a 3G record probably got it for his kid or something. Adult daughter, right? Maybe he hasn’t seen her in years, maybe he messed up and they’re estranged. Something comes up, he’s traveling for business, and they finally get to reunite, but he doesn’t know her anymore and all he can think to get her to show he cares about her is a record they used to play when she was little, before things got bad, before he let her down. Probably shuffled around the store for an hour trying to figure it out. Agonizing, right, doubting his whole life over this record. Everything depends on this simple record. So he gets home and the thing is scratched? Or it isn’t, or he scratched it, whatever. But he’s built it up in his mind, like the whole world hung on it? So yeah, dude can come in and yell at me.”

As Nemo spun her tale, the manager’s eyes slowly widened. “Most people just say they’d apologize and offer store credit,” she said with a chuckle.

Nemo shrugged and tagged on. “Or maybe he’s just a dick.  In which case he can shove it.”

Realizing what she’d said a bit too late, Nemo pressed her lips together. “Probably shouldn’t say dick.”

fin