Read Online Pounding the Pavement by Jennifer van der Kwast - Free Book Online Page A

my vast experience, that a cover letter is best when kept simple. Short, direct, and to the point. But desperate times do call for desperate measures.
    Hence, I won’t even bother to share this particular letter with you. After all, it’s none of your business. This letter is personal, it’s private—a matter between myself and
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alone. An unrelated party might deem it wordy and excessive, whereas I find it eloquent and assured. Aggressive, you say? I’d call it passionate. How else am I going to make it plainly clear I am an APPLICANT SERIOUS ABOUT RELOCATING?
    I spell-check the letter. Not a flaw. I reread it. Brilliant! But maybe I should cut it down from two pages to one?
    No, no, no. The letter flows, it sings, it has charm. Editing, pasting, cutting? It’ll only rob the words of their magic.
    I hold my breath and close my eyes. I hit send.
    When my breathing returns to normal, I peer out of one eye to squint at my computer screen. The e-mail has vanished. Yet its spell on me remains.
    The grating trill of the intercom tears me from my trance-like state almost immediately. Begrudgingly, I shuffle over to my front door.
    “Hello?”
    “Messenger!”
    “Yeah, come on up.” I buzz him in.
    The messenger takes his time trudging up the staircase. When he finally arrives at my apartment, I am already lingering in the doorway with my arms crossed. He balks.
    “Sorry. I woke you up?”
    “Huh?” I glance down at myself. I’m still wearing the college T-shirt and my Victoria’s Secret boxer shorts. What, I am supposed to get all dressed up to meet the messenger? “No, I’ve been up,” I snip, more embarrassed than angry. I make a mental note to trade in the boxers for gym shorts by noon.
    The messenger hands me a manila envelope. It’s much lighter than I expected. Still, I feel that familiar tingle of excitement—you know, the excitement that comes with having to open something, anything! Uncorking a bottle of champagne, peeling security strips off a new DVD, squeezing the pus out of an explosive pimple. I don’t even wait for the messenger to leave before I rip into my new Jiffy sealer like it’s a chocolate truffle with a rich, hazelnut center.
    Miami Beach Murder?
Of all the manuscripts stacked high on Princess’s desk, this is what she sends me? Some breezy detective novel or, worse, a teen sex romp with a twist? I toss the manuscript with disgust on the coffee table to worry about later. I’ve got more important matters to attend to anyway.
    I spend the rest of the afternoon exhaustively researching each and every Aspen real estate ad I can find on the Internet. I foresee no problem whatsoever with sticking Amanda with my share of the rent for the remainder of the year. She could probably afford it too, what with her lousy promotion and all. Maybe her new boyfriend could move in with her. When the lease is up, they can get married and buy a place in Connecticut and raise a family. God bless them!
    It doesn’t take me long to find my dream home. A condo I couldn’t afford even if the asking salary for an associate editor were twice what I would expect from a similar position in New York.
    Still, I let my imagination run wild and treat myself to the luxury spoils I have been unfairly denied for too long. My very own washing machine? A fireplace? A backyard?
    A backyard! I could have a dog!
    I click out of my real estate websites and ready my computer to launch a brand-new search for my new best friend.
    I don’t get up from in front of my computer until 6 p.m. And then, it’s only because my doorbell rings again.
    I buzz the intercom without answering, because for a split second I assume it is Amanda stumbling home drunk, claiming she can’t find her keys. It occurs to me only an instant later that even though 6 p.m. is plenty late enough for someone like me to have turned one sip into five glasses, your regular working stiff doesn’t start sampling the vintages until after