I spend the next twenty minutes talking myself out of it.
This is insane. Midnight shifts at a mysterious clinic that requires "extreme confidentiality"? That's not a job. That's the opening scene of a true crime podcast. I can already hear the narrator:Tamsin Beck was a struggling massage therapist in her mid-twenties. She was last seen applying to a Craigslist ad that promised financial salvation. Her body was never found.
But then I look at my phone again. The eviction notice is still there, glowing like a little beacon of doom.
Seven days.
I open my email. My hands are still shaking, but now it's not from exhaustion—it's from the adrenaline of doing something monumentally stupid and knowing I'm going to do it anyway because the alternative is being homeless.
I pull up my resume. It's depressingly short. Licensed Massage Therapist, three years of experience, certified in deep-tissue, sports massage, and trigger point therapy. I worked at a luxury spa for six months before they downsized and laid off half the staff with two weeks' notice. Now I'm at a walk-in clinic that smells like eucalyptus and desperation, where clients tip in crumpled singles and sometimes just change, and the owner takes forty percent of every session fee because he "provides the space and the client base."
I start typing the cover letter.
To Whom It May Concern:
No. Too formal. I delete it.
Hi,
Too casual. Delete.
Dear Hiring Manager,
Fine. Good enough. I keep going.
I am writing to apply for the After-Hours Specialist position listed on your job board. I have over three years of experience in deep-tissue massage therapy, with a focus on chronic pain management and high-intensity bodywork. I am comfortable working with high-profile clientele and understand the importance of discretion.
I pause. Read it back. It sounds like I'm applying to work for the CIA, or maybe a very exclusive brothel.
I keep typing.
I have a high pain threshold, both professionally and personally. I'm used to long hours, difficult clients, and non-standard work environments.
I stop. Consider adding:I'm also used to bizarre employment situations and mysterious midnight clinics, so this feels right in my wheelhouse.Delete it. Too sarcastic. They probably want someone who sounds professional, not someone who sounds like they're one bad day away from a nervous breakdown.
I retype it.
I am available to start immediately and can provide references upon request. Thank you for your consideration.
I attach my resume. Hover over the SEND button.
This is stupid. This is so, so stupid.
But I'm also seven days away from being homeless, and my hands hurt so badly I can barely hold a fork, and I'm eating ramen that tastes like the concept of giving up.
I click SEND.
The email whooshes out into the void. I stare at the screen, waiting for an immediate bounce-back, some automated reply that saysThis listing has been removedorYou have been flagged as spam.
Nothing happens.
I close my laptop. Set it on the table. My ramen is cold now, congealed into a solid mass at the bottom of the bowl. I dump it in the sink, which is already full of dishes I can't afford to run through the dishwasher because my water bill is also overdue.
My phone buzzes.
I pick it up, expecting another automated threat from my landlord.
It's an email.
