desperation

Ronald Reagan's voice was speaking to me. "Katherine, this is Ted Lane. I received your resume and would like to speak to you about the position. I will be in the office until 5 pm eastern. You can reach me at ###-###-####, extension 179. I look forward to talking with you."
Ted Lane's brother is the owner of the Palookaville Butcher Shop. The Lane family is from a tiny little town nearby. Coincidentally, my mother's younger siblings grew up with the Lane Boys (all five of them; Theodore, Edward, Fredrick, Jedidiah and Zedekiah. You got it; Ted, Ed, Fred, Jed and Zed.). My cousin Bill happens to be best friends with the brother/butcher, Ed, and mentioned to him that I was looking for a gig. Ed knows me because I got his daughter a summer job at the coolest clothing store in town, and because I always bug him to carry organically fed free range meats.
The Lane boys I have seen are a somewhat goofy looking lot. Gangly tall, large featured and oddly mannered. I was surprised at Ted's polished delivery on the phone. Trips to the butcher shop usually entailed some very badly disguised oggling from Ed and blatant oggling from Zed, who works with Ed and seems to have sustained a head injury or was born with some kind of developmental disorder. Upon entry, Zed greets most female customers with, "Hello. You are very beautiful."
Should you happen to go to the butcher shop and ask if Ed is in, Zed will say, "NO! BUT I'M HERE!"
I arranged to meet with Mr. Lane, who I assumed was the oldest and most accomplished of the lot given his professional and articulate demeanor and Gipper-whispery voice on the phone. I drove forty minutes to North End, where his business was located. It looked impressive, with several large trucks arriving and departing. I approached the receptionist and told her my name and that I was here to speak to Mr. Lane. She rang him and asked if I would like to sit as Mr. Lane would be just a moment. I looked at the bas-relief wall coverings depicting historical images of the indigenous peoples of North End. A tall older gentleman with white hair appeared in the lobby. I smiled and started to approach, but he frowned ever so slightly at me and looked perplexed, so I stopped. Obviously not Mr. Lane. The indigenous peoples of North End continued fishing in the St. Joseph river. The lovely receptionist acted like she didn't notice my faux-pas. Gracious. Just like a receptionist should be.
I turned to see a tall man approaching. He was 6'4" with dark hair graying slightly at the temples. He had large brown eyes and a prominent, but not beakish nose. He was well-proportioned and still had the remnants of his former college basketball player physique. He was oddly familiar. He had a passing similarity to Ed. If you stood them next to each other, you might think they could be brothers. Oh shit. Oh no. My potential new boss was hot.
"Katherine? Ted Lane." he extended his hand and smiled. white teeth. The Ronald Reagan voice now sounded more like Jack Nicholson. Younger Jack Nicholson. I placed my hand in his.
"Yes. Nice to meet you, Mr. Lane."
"Thanks for coming in on such short notice." He turned to the receptionist, "Martine, please hold my calls."
Martine smirked at me. "Don't let him lead you astray" she said.
Mr. Lane laughed over his shoulder.
"I'll call you if I need any assistance." I replied.