I recognize Marjorie Lewis-Kohl from Broadway.com opening night photo galleries. I’d put her at sixty-two, sixty-three. She is wearing a crocheted cape in wheat, and from the self-impressed way she moves in it, you can tell it is her trademark, like a monocle. She traces along the job application’s small lines onto which I have been humbled into reducing education, employment, and three professional references.
“You’re a teensy-weensy bit overqualified,” she says, squeezing together her thumb and index finger.
I’m comfortable enough with how our discussion has progressed to squeeze my two same fingers together.
“Maybe a smidge. But I already feel like I own this place.”
She roughly rubs those two fingers together like she’s trying to spark a fire. “Don’t. I own. You would manage.”
Tha
