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Auden

All the online “how to land your dream job” advice stresses the same point— expect the unexpected during an interview. But come on. How can one expect what’s unexpected? Then again, my imagination is vivid. Surely I can expect anything, right? And if I expect the unexpected, maybe the unexpected will cease to exist. Or what if it never existed?

My brain fights not to implode while I fidget on the beanbag, the only available seating in the lobby. No, I didn’t just smoke up outside in the parking lot—my messed­up lungs would never tolerate that sort of activity.

For better or for worse, this is the usual functioning of my sober mind.

The Outsider magazine headquarters have evolved beyond sad little cubicles, beige carpet, and soul­sapping artificial light. I anticipated capital C cool, but this is a whole other alphabet of awesome. Platinum LEED­certified building? Check. Koi ponds? Check. Floor­ to­ceiling windows with panoramic views of Bear Peak and the surrounding Flatiron rock formations? Check. And let’s not forget about the team­building zip lines near the main entrance, the electric­car charging stations, or the indoor climbing wall.

It’s office nirvana.

My heart does a pretty damn good imitation of Thor’s hammer striking against my rib cage.

What’s the name of that hammer again? Muehler? No, wait. Mjölnir.

Stop! Focus. Random factoids won’t save you. Get your head in the game.

I valiantly try to look like the poster child for calm and collected. Pursuing a job with the country’s oldest and most prestigious outdoor lifestyle magazine is the last thing anyone would expect me to do. I’m a play­it­safe girl suited for an entry­level role in the state capitol press corps, a reliable and responsible career path. Not this—guns blazing into the land of adventure junkies. But being here, pushing my limits, feels damn good, like I’m stepping from black and white into a world of color.

I shift position to scratch my knee, and the resulting bean crunch is noisy enough to cause the receptionist to glance over the plant­filled stack of timber beams that passes for her desk. Her gaze is cool, slightly annoyed, no doubt thinking that I don’t have a prayer of fitting in here if I can’t even manage to sit without making it an awkward production. I drop my eyes, diligently studying the ankle zip of my slim­fitting gray dress pants.

Everyone strolling past is the epitome of laid­back and earthy while simultaneously projecting this indefinable aura of capability. They are also really, really, ridiculously good­looking. Even the receptionist must moonlight as a Pilates instructor or a fitness model. The large yellow VISITOR sticker on my shirtfront makes it clear that I don’t belong, especially with my poor attempt at a sophisticated French­twist hairstyle and awestruck stare.

My lips are dry so I lick them, resisting the urge to hum the “One of These Things (Is Not Like the Other)” song from Sesame Street. I’ve gone on hikes—it’s hard to grow up in the Colorado Rockies and never spend time outdoors. But while I might be considered adventurous to someone in Manhattan or LA, the fact that I don’t ice climb, whitewater raft, backcountry ski, or mountain bike makes me pretty darn boring around here.

An unaccompanied golden retriever pauses for me to give it a quick behind­the­ ear scratch. In yet another unconventional nod, dogs are welcome around the office. The DIY espresso cart across the lobby offers complimentary organic, fair­trade coffee while understated indie folk music plays from the surround sound.

Holy Mother of God, I long to be part of this cool club.

Except you’re nothing compared to these people. Why are you even bothering? They’ll laugh you out the front door.

My cheeks burn as my breathing gets shakier. It’s funny the way all my internal negative self­ talk whispers in my twin sister’s voice. Not funny ha‑ha, either—funny, weird. But now isn’t a time for dredging up self-worth issues. I need to pull it together. I can do this.

I have to.

My only firm job offer to date is a reporting gig with a community paper based in Bakersfield, California, recently rated America’s most polluted city. Beggars can’t be choosers in this struggling economy.

My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Brett, my on‑again, off-again boyfriend. Heard back from Rapid City. Looks like South Dakota is rejecting me, too.

That’s it. No tacked­on “good luck today” message or anything.

He wants to break into broadcast journalism but hasn’t gotten a single callback in the seven months since he graduated. We’re both from Aspen, attended the same high school and college, and shared a major—plenty in common to keep us going the last four years. He’s not “the one” or anything, but our relationship feels familiar, comfortable, like an old pair of sweats that always comes in handy on the weekend.

The fact that I’ve gotten a few callbacks and even the Bakersfield offer is a current sore point. He’s jealous and I hate it. I know the market is tough and that I should be grateful for any opportunity, but the California option isn’t remotely tempting. Even though my asthma improved after my teens, I can’t afford to play with fire, or more specifically, shitty air quality.

I need this Outsider position.

The city paper is on the floor next to me and the headline boasts, BOULDER VOTED THE PERFECT PLACE. Apparently the town hit some national list for both happiest and brainiest city. In addition to topping community well­being indexes, it’s also been my de facto home for the last four years, and even with the freedom that comes from having a shiny new University of Colorado degree under my belt, I don’t want to live anywhere else. I skim the article and the facts don’t lie. Three hundred days of sun a year, fabulous food, hundreds of local hiking trails, amazing street performances on Pearl Street, and a small­town feel with a big arts scene—where could be better?

“Miss Woods? They’re ready for you.” The receptionist gestures to the three­ sided glass cube meeting room behind her, the one where four strangers lounge around the Outsider version of a conference table, an orange picnic table on rollers.

Go time.

Asthmatics can be mouth breathers. Not a great first impression. Lip check. Ensure mine are politely closed. Yes, good. Now inhale through the nose, shallow breathing at a controlled rate. The trick is to remain calm and keep the self-doubt under lock and key.

Four people are on the panel: Tortoiseshell Glasses Lady, Bushy Sideburns Guy, Red Turban Girl, and Man-Who-Has-Seen‑So‑Much-Sun‑He‑Resembles-Beef- Jerky. They introduce themselves as Amber (editor in chief), Capp (assistant editor), Briar (associate editor), and Reed (editor). There’s a phrase scrawled over the table in stenciled words: “To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.” There isn’t an attribution to the quote, but I have a smug private moment of recognition: Oscar Wilde.

Tortoiseshell Glasses sits in the center and lobs an easy, “So, Auden, can you tell us a little bit about yourself?”

Why, yes, indeed. In fact, I’m so rehearsed, it’s almost as if I’m reciting bullet points.

“Where to start? Let me see. I’m a twenty-one-year-old journalism grad from Aspen.” (Omit the whole depressing childhood asthma part, when I spent winters nose pressed to the ski lodge windows while snow fell on the slopes).

“I also held several different positions on the university paper with progressive responsibility.” (Don’t leave out the 3.94 GPA. That’s all in my résumé, but worth reiterating.)

“My grandfather was Dale Woods, one of the twentieth century’s most revered explorers.” (Ignore the pesky detail that I’m more enamored of Booker Prize–winning author Hilary Mantel than Edmund Hillary, the first person to summit Everest.)

Tortoiseshell Glasses Lady actually gasps. “Dale Woods? Oh my. I had the wildest crush on him during the seventies. His poster hung on my wall next to David Cassidy and John Travolta.” Beef Jerky Face snorts.

“Oh, shut up.” She shoots him a mock glare. “He climbed El Capitan in nothing but a pair of cutoff denim shorts. And oh good Lord, that Burt Reynolds mustache.”

“He was pretty famous for that ’stache, huh?” I say. Apparently it was his trademark.

“What was he like?” Tortoiseshell leans forward. “In real life?”

“Um, I’m not sure.” I fidget with the corner of my résumé. “His accident happened when I was still a kid.”

“Yes.” She nods slowly, drawing back. “The Alaska Affair.”

Grandpa disappeared down a crevasse with three other climbers.

Their bodies were never recovered, but our family erected a tombstone for him at the Aspen Grove Cemetery. Bushy Sideburns coughs into his fist. Red Turban fiddles with a pen cap. No one on the panel speaks or makes eye contact.

Death is a buzzkill.

Time to switch gears—fast. I mention that my identical twin, Harper, is heading to the Olympics (and conveniently overlook the not‑so‑fun-fact that our relationship sucks. When people hear the word twins, they often imagine besties who finish each other’s sentences. Yes, some twins behave that way. I’ve encountered a few, and they’re mystifying. Harper and I never shared a mirror- image relationship, unless it was one from a fun house).

My instincts are right. Their posture relaxes. Grandpa might be a hero to these people, but they want to celebrate his achievements, not his untimely demise in a blizzard or that his ambition may or may not have contributed to the loss of three other lives.

I dry my sweaty hands on my knees and on we go.

Beef Jerky Face: “Tell us about your experience with social media.”

Bushy Sideburns: “Are you OK working evenings and weekends?”

Red Turban: “Share an example of a time you’ve worked as part of a team to get something accomplished.”

Back over to Tortoiseshell: “What cartoon character best describes you?”

That last one’s random, but the by‑the- seat‑of‑my‑pants answer, “Scrappy from Scooby-Doo,” earns a few chuckles.

I’m on fire and they’re taking notes, smiling and giving one another subtle nods. My guard drops and I start mentally decorating my desk in the rustic but chic open-plan office space when it happens.

The unexpected turns up when—wait for it—I least expect it.

Guess it exists after all.

Red Turban (who would be my boss): “Tell us about a unique, personal adventure you’ve undertaken that would be of interest to Outsider readers.”

From the way the panel leans in, making direct eye contact—this is it, the money question. The proof in the pudding that I’m their people: rugged, exciting, interesting. The reality is this elite crowd isn’t going to be impressed with the fact that I’m a fair-weather day hiker, decent croquet player, and rock the house in darts, especially after a few pitchers of PBR.

Blow this moment and kiss Boulder good-bye. You’ll be living in the nation’s worst place to breathe, clutching your inhaler. Childhood asthma will seem like a time of rainbows and unicorns after a smog-filled year in Bakersfield.

A framed woodcut poster hangs on the mud-brick wall behind their heads. The image is of a massive stone tower, below which are printed the words “La Aguja, Torres del Paine, Patagonia.”

Wait . . . What if?

My tongue forms the next words before my brain can slam on the brakes. “You know . . . traveling to South America is a personal aspiration.” There are a few faint frowns. “One I’m about to make a reality,” I amend hastily. “To see the dream-maker mountain.” Seriously, if I had a firstborn child handy, I’d offer it up to get this opportunity.

My quick thinking works—the four frowns turn upside down.

I start rattling off upcoming plans to visit South America’s most famous mountain even though the idea never crossed my mind until sixty seconds ago. Many cultures around the world revere high places as possessing supernatural aspects. I took a special topics seminar on sacred landscapes during my final semester, including Mount Olympus in Greece, Mount Taranaki in New Zealand, Tibet’s Mount Kailash, and Chile’s La Aguja—also known as “the Needle.”

The Kaweskar, or indigenous people of that region in Patagonia, believed that if a person stood alone on top of La Aguja, they’d find their heart’s desire. A pretty good deal except for the fact the summit is perpetually shrouded in impenetrable clouds and no one in living memory has made it there and lived to tell the tale. According to my professor, meteorological predictions suggested that this enigmatic peak might experience a once‑in‑a‑generation clear-weather window around the New Year, and hotshot climbers from all over the world were expected to come flocking for a chance at glory.

Maybe this mountain could be a dream maker for me, too.

“I want to do a story on La Aguja, profiling climbers attempting the summit,” I blurt. Who knows where these words come from? It’s like I’ve been plotting the trip for years. I’m even getting excited about the outrageous prospect. My Spanish is better than decent, and this internship isn’t set to begin for another month. This could be a perfect way to get out in the world, live a little, and land the perfect story to build my street cred.

Plus, there are huge bonus points to being on another continent during the lead‑up to Harper’s Olympic bid. A Patagonian trip is an acceptable way to avoid Sister Dearest’s mounting stress and her inevitable wire-hanger-esque meltdowns. Imagine not having to be her human punching bag for once?

I hike on weekends (fine, like once or twice a month), but I am in pretty good shape, so getting to climbing base camp isn’t out of the question. It only requires some stamina, not actual technical ability. Damn it. I want this internship: the freaking koi ponds with Japanese-style footbridges, the environmentally responsible toilets and cappuccino on tap.

Tortoiseshell Glasses sits back and crosses her arms, studies me with an assessing expression.

Have I done it? Have I convinced them? I cross and recross my legs. Come on, come on, come on.

At this point, I’ve almost half convinced myself.

“I must say, I’m impressed, Miss Woods,” she says. The others nod in unison.

“Thank you,” I answer quickly, nerves exploding like miniature bottle rockets.

“La Aguja has the potential to be of great interest to our audience,” she continues. “There is another vacant position here at Outsider, one we are vetting during the internship interviews. It’s for an online content writer, putting out one to two items a day on our website with a guaranteed byline.”

“Um . . . yes, I’d be very interested in that,” I manage to murmur even though my mouth rivals the Saharan Desert. A paid position building clips for my portfolio?

Glory, glory hallelujah.

Tortoiseshells gives me a tight smile. “I’m sure you are. So are the other thirty-five applicants we’ve interviewed. We are hiring three interns, and the one who electrifies us the most will secure the position.”

It takes a massive effort, but somehow I keep my nod more casual and less desperate. An internship would be a dream come true. An actual job here would be akin to discovering a pot of gold.

It’s a tight fit inside my pointy flats, but I cross my toes with a quiet plea to the universe.

Please.

Fate must have taken pity on my sorry butt, because the next day I get the call from human resources. “Miss Woods, congratulations. We are pleased to inform you that you’ve been selected for an internship with Outsider magazine.” She keeps talking, but it is hard to register anything else over my silent screams and fist-pumping booty-shaking victory dance.

“Miss Woods? Are you still there? I asked if you are happy to accept the position.”

“What? Oh, oops, sorry! Yes, yes, a hundred, no, wait, a million times yes,” I blurt as the woman laughs.

I’m starting the position after New Year’s. My grandfather left me a small inheritance, and I think he’d be more than happy to see his money fund my adventure. I’m going to do it. I’m going to book my ticket and live life a new way, without a list of rules and regulations. My story doesn’t have to be ho‑hum, safe, and predictable anymore.

OK, I stretched the truth—fine, outright lied—to get here. Perhaps I should feel guilty, but I don’t. For once I’m going to be the one who takes a risk, reaches out to grab opportunity with both hands. Growing up, I never picked the more daring path while reading Choose Your Own Adventure books. High time to take a different direction.

It’s now or never.