2021-02-12 - A Job Interview

Roxy has only been back in town a little bit, after being gone for almost a year. The ballerina was in Manhattan, choreographing for a show, but that has ended and she felt the pull of Gray Harbor drawing her back to the town. She's just finished up a beginning ballet class with a small fleet of little girls, and is waving them off to their lockers with a gentle smile. "Very good, everyone. I'll see you again soon! Keep practicing at home!" She's in ballet shoes, a leotard with a little gauzy skirt around it, tights, legwarmers, and her coal black hair tied back with a blue ribbon.

Wren opens the front door, pausing to collapse and shake off his umbrella just outside. He steps in, casting about for an umbrella stand or somesuch while fluffing out his tweed overcoat, replacing the air within for warm, studio air. Hm. No stand that he sees, so he leans the handle against the side of the doorjam. Woops! He steps aside prior to trampling by a hunger of bunheads. (That's the plural of ballerinas, right?) He smiles a bit as they flow past, clearly a little wistful and lost in memories. After a moment of being an impediment to driven little beasties, he looks about for a receptionist or anyone clearly working here. Ah! Primus Bunheadus located. He smiles broadly and waves at Roxy, "Hi. Nifty studio you have, here."

Roxy looks up from an iPod setup that she uses for music selection and nods to Wren. "Thank you. Is there something I can help you with? I'm Roxy Kivela, I own Dance Evolution." Well she owns half of it. But Joey isn't here right now!

Wren ahs, stepping forward to offer his hand, "Fantastic! So, glad to meet you, Ms. Kivela. Wren, Wren Van Blaricum. I was actually hoping to find the owner or manager. Well, that is..." He looks a tad awkward for a moment then shugs, "That is, I am looking for a job. I was wondering if you could use an instructor. I do the social dances." He beams at Roxy, "I never had the discipline for ballet."

Roxy shakes the hand professionally with a bright smile. "I'm always looking for new instructors. Where did you train? What styles can you teach?" she asks, beckoning him to follow her to the back hall where her office is. She opens a file cabinet and pulls out a job application, handing it over to him.

Wren follows, unbuttoning his coat. The first question draws a chagrined chuckle, "Heh. It was just a little studio in Seattle. Ever been? Great town. I took ballroom as an elective in Junior High and never shoot the habit. Bounced from teacher to teacher, to pick up different styles. I even had a studio over there, for a while." He accepts the application with a nod of thanks while digging in his inner pocket for a pen. "I have taught waltz, foxtrot, tango, East Coast and West Coast swing, cha-cha, rumba, mambo, merenge, hustle, pasa doble, quickstep, viennese waltz, samba..." says, pausing to think, ticking off fingers. "Oh, and country two-step, though country swing is an abomination." Again with the grin. "But then, once you know a couple smooth dances and a couple rhythm dances, the rest pile up fast. Oh, and cumbia!"

"I was in Seattle for a little while here, while I made my way to Gray Harbor the first time," she admits. She wasn't working at studios at that time though. She had no legal ID, so she was dancing in less wholesome places for cash tips. "Well that sounds great. We have a lot of people interested in ballroom for both competition training, and just couples preparing for weddings and such. I definitely need a good instructor for those dances." She sits in her chair and folds her hands on the desk.

Wren is obviously pleased. "Oh, good. I have a few routines tucked away for First Dances and the like." He leans forward and fills out the paper while he chats, "I'm happy to teach for competition, it's a great sport, amazing exercise, but I find it a little soul-less." He looks up and shrugs in apology should he have offended. "Some things should be for the joy of it more than for being better than someone else in a fourth person's eye. It feels like competition kissing to me, you know?" He laughs and goes back to the app. "Oh. Oh, bugger. Um, I'm not settled in. I'm staying at a motel, at the moment. Honestly, I was just passing through." He tugs at an ear ring with his left hand, "But this seems like a good place to clear my head, you know?" Yup. Wren is a talker.

"Dance needs all sorts. Some of the television competition shows in the last decade have really brought it to the forefront, and it's been good for business," Roxy notes. She has an accent from somewhere OVER THERE. In those Nordic type areas of Europe. As for just passing through? "I think most of us where were not born here were 'just passing through' at some point. Gray Harbor has a way of...sticking with you." And not a good thing all the time.

Wren shifts into a Nedelanian accent, "Yer tellin' me, yah for sure." He grins, "May I ask, are you Skandihoovian? My granny was from the Nederlands. Blaricum, in fact." He leans back in his chair, "I've been through a few times. I'd love to immigrate, but they're a bit stingy with it." Oh, right. App. He goes back to filling out details.

"Finland. I'm originally from Finland, but I haven't been back there in many years," Roxy notes. "There is an interesting diversity of people here from other countries and cultures. Not something typical for a small town, from what I understand." She watches him fill things out. "You can leave the residence part blank and just add your hotel information on a post-it- for now." She opens a drawer and pulls a sticky note off a pad of them, handing it over.

Wren accepts the post-it. Ah, perfect. "Thank you." He jots down data. "Is there? Huh. No, small US towns are definitely not known for their diversity. So, rednecks and hicks are not so much a problem, here, then? That's good. Though, I caught a pretty odd conversation at a bar the other night. Something about arson and possibly a gunfight? Kicking in doors? I mean, how violent is this town or were those just gun nut macho types blustering?"

"It is the Pacific Northwest. I am fairly certain rednecks are on the other side of the country. Here there are, what do they call them...lumbersexuals?" Roxy is clearly not that up on terminology. At his comments she looks over at some walls that have drywall patched up, waiting to be repainted. At least the windows were all repaired already. "There was a violent crime wave for a bit, but I believe the person behind it was recently arrested."

Wren chokes on a laugh at 'lumbersexuals.' "Wow. I may have to keep that one. Ahem," he chuckles. Whew. "That's good to hear. About the violence, that is. But I would say there are plenty of the redneck, hick, bigot types around, though you are right in that they gather on the other side of the Cascades." He crosses his legs at the knee, tipping his head and glancing at the patched drywall. "So, were you all mixed up with what Leon, August, and Joseph were taking about?

"I was not. My co-owner was present though, here in the studio, and some stray bullets did some damage to it." Not entirely the truth, but the truth as Roxy is willing to tell it. Joseph Kelly is her best friend, and she is protecting him fiercely. "And which Joseph? Kelly or Cavanaugh?"

Wren buuhs, "No clue. He liked good booze, built like me but stronger, rather scarred, some tats. He seemed like a pleasant rough-neck. I certainly wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley if he was mad at me, though." He shrugs, smiling away any tension that may have built up. "He knew the most important word in a cocktail. 'And.'"

"That could be either one of them. Blond or brunette?" Roxy asks with a chuckle. "And in their fifties or thirties?" Joey is the younger, darker man, Cavanaugh the salty older sailor. "I am friends with both of them, nice people. They have done a lot to help me settle in here in town."

Wren is chuckles, "Oh, good. Blondish and in his fifties, I think. I'll be sure to mention you the next time I see him. Oh, speaking of settling in, the motel is going to get old, soon, I imagine. Do you know of anyone renting out a small, cheap, space?"

"That is Joseph Cavanaugh. He is a good man. He was an astronaut!" Roxy beams happily talking about the sailor. "There is a motel but I don't recommend it. It may be the only option for now. But there is also a trailer park, and the Broadleaf apartments." She collects his application. "I'll look this over and give you a call soon, ok?"

Wren grimaces and gives a small shudder. "I may already be at the motel you have in mind. Not. Favorite," he says as he stands, tucking away his pen and offering his hand. "Thanks for the tip and for being willing to chat with me. What do you prefer to be called, by the way? Roxy? Ms. Kivela?"

"Roxy is fine, outside of classes. If I'm teaching, Ms. Kivela is preferred, just for the sake of discipline with the dancers," she says with a smile, shaking the hand and standing to walk him out.

Wren grins, "Perfect. Respect lost is difficult to regain." He buttons back up while aiming to his languishing umbrella. "Thanks again for chatting with me. It was a delight to meet you, ma'am." He beams, "I look forward to your call. Ta!" He opens the door to leave.

Roxy waves farewell, closing the door behind him, and then going back to her office to call Joey and let him know they may have a new instructor.