To+Whom+It+May+concern

To Whom It May Concern,

It has taken me an exceptionally long time to write this letter. I have slaved over it, trying to find the right words to put in the right places. All I’ve done is waste some good stationery, but it’s to be expected, I suppose. There are instances when I feel thoughtless and thoughtful at the same time, mostly whenever Gabriel comes to mind, and that’s when I’m the most compelled to write. But, it’s so difficult to write about how deserving someone is, especially when that someone is as cold and aloof as Gabriel. He was always so hurtful to others. There wasn’t a thing he couldn’t handle, though, and everyone ran to him. For all his insults and thoughtless actions, I believe he deserves something more than this, something more than a short letter that he won’t even read. I met Gabriel on my first day of work. I remember having gone to my interview and feeling disappointed that he wasn’t there. He was a busy man, though, so I talked myself into being polite and somehow managed to get the job. It could have been my father, who took it upon himself to call in a favor, that convinced the management to take me, but I digress. A lot. Anyway, I was fresh out of college; a bright new kid with clear eyes, something every business wanted, and I didn’t hesitate to jump. The building was huge, so much so it made me dizzy just looking at it. The inside was extravagant, somewhere between classy and in-your-face business, nothing less than I would have expected. I made my way up to the seventh floor, Advertising, and found myself in a maze of cubicles. There seemed to be nothing but endless rows of gopher holes, but when I stood on my toes I saw, at the very end of the corridor, a wide, curved desk. Behind it sat a woman, who I later learned was Tracy Evans, busily typing away with her hair against her shoulders. When I approached, she popped her gum in salutation; I remember the smell, something juicy, like watermelon. I cleared my throat, “Miss? I’m James Moore, Mr. Isaac’s new intern?” She looked me up and down, clicking her gum in what I hoped was approval, and stood. Her introduction was brief, but there were only so many steps until we arrived in a new office. The lettering on the glass door said his name was Gabriel; I had never known anyone by that name. He was already different from everyone else in my life, and I hadn’t even met him yet. It wasn’t a large office, but there was till plenty of unnecessary room for miscellaneous belongings. A dark desk was centered towards the back of the room, behind which stood a wall lined with books. The titles were uncategorized, mostly about human behavior and with a few extra comic books tucked in between. A large bamboo plant was settled near the door, along with a sofa and coffee table. Leaning against the desk was Gabriel, dispassionately flipping through a magazine. He was a man of average height, though still a few inches taller than I was, with gelled black hair and an unshaven chin. When he caught sight of us, he smiled wide and threw the magazine behind him; his smile was blinding. “Hey, there,” he said, extending a hand. His voice was both smooth and rough at the same time, and in that moment I really envied him. Why couldn’t I sound like that? “I’m Gabriel Isaacs, Head of Advertising, We haven’t met, have we?” It’s very nice to meet you,” I squeaked. My voice was cracking beneath the intimidating force of my own anxiety, and I prayed he hadn’t heard it. If he had, the man didn’t show it. “I’m James Moore.” “You’re also late, Jimmy.” I furiously fought the compulsion to look at my watch, and by the look on Mr. Isaac’s face, he knew it, too. He stared me down with a crooked smirk, a singular eyebrow curiously arched. I was faced with a dilemma; bow down like the unworthy peon I was born to be, or charge head-on into battle. I chose neither. “My name is //James// .”

I’m not quite sure what his face said at that moment. It was a mixture of several things, the most prominent of which was something like intrigue, though more subtle and quiet. I like to think that it was grudging admiration, but I digress. Again. In truth, this was my first glimpse of the conundrum that was my boss. He was a walking contradiction, a man of many words, but with none that were cohesive. I often found myself confused by his words, wondering if his latest insult had more than one meaning. I soon figured that they did. They all did. After a month of meaningless errands, I was assigned an actual job. I was very nervous about it and made the mistake of voicing my disquiet. Gabriel ordered me to sit on his sofa and told me about his first presentation, how he was so nervous that he chewed all of his nails to the quick. The worst part was when the presentation was finished, when the clients started asking questions about the product. “What fabric is that?” “Is the dye hypoallergenic?” “How well do you think this product will sell?” I was mystified by the pep talk he had given me, and throughout the week I tried to get more advice, but he had returned to his insults ant his dark looks. He was unmovable on the subject, going so far as to even deny he ever said anything. The day of my presentation, I was a nervous wreck. I was sweaty and couldn’t sit still, and whenever I said something it would decide to stick its legs out and lodge in my throat. Gabriel must have seen how anxious I was and pulled me aside. “My philosophy on these things is real simple,” he straightened his suit, then licked his thumb and flattened his eyebrows, “Don’t lie. Clients hate to be lied to. Be the nice guy, you’re good at it, Jimmy.” “It’s //James// ,” I stressed. He had followed me in the room and watched me talk, leaning against the windowsill with his arms folded loosely over his chest. Every once in a while he’d glance at the overhead projector and roll his eyes, something that was very distracting, but I held my own well enough. At the end, when I thought it was all over, a client tentatively raised his hand. I felt like a kindergarten teacher, nodding at him encouragingly even though I secretly wanted him to sit down and shut up. The pudgy man smiled and stood, looking down at his tie and patting his pockets, “Do you think your suits will look god on me?” “I can’t see why not!” Philosophy’s tricky, I reckon. From the back of the room, Gabriel gave me a thumbs-up, then left. God, I felt like I was a prepubescent teenager again, trapped in the illogical drama of high school. Everybody lies, I told myself, and Mr. Isaac’s really wasn’t any exception. But, the question was, why? Did he lie to see if I would fail, or to see if I would pass? I hate exams.