I'm guided into a sleek, expensive looking office with thousand dollar ergonomic chairs and edgy desks made of exotic, state-of-the-art materials by a secretary named Elise. Elise's ass sways in her tight designer skirt like a perfect pear suspended in a drawstring bag, swinging like a pendulum. The view is of downtown Manhattan from the 40th floor and on this day the sky is ominously dark, full of swollen clouds and distant lightning flashes.

"Ms. Barnes will be in to see you shortly, and just FYI? She prefers you call her by her first name; Karen," the secretary says with the sharp clip in her voice only years at the top of the corporate assistance heap will teach you. "May I get you anything to drink? Tea, sparkling water?"

"Sparkling water," I say, my voice cracking. She goes to the small executive bar near the entertainment center, leaning down to pop open the small fridge to snag a Calistoga. She twists the lid, pours the contents into a waiting glass of ice. When she hands it to me I'm transfixed by her impeccable French manicure and her ten thousand dollar gleaming white veneers.

"Thanks," I say lamely.

She steps out backwards with a pert nod, shutting the door with a little too much force. For a moment I'm left alone with only the sound of the gurgling aquarium keeping me company. My eyes wander over to Ms. Barne's - Karen's - desk, which is a granite-topped monster devoid of a singer stapler or pen cup. In fact, the only thing on the surface of the desk is a recessed flat screen control panel. I get up to go take a closer look, leaning in to try to read the tiny inscription on the plastic paneling when suddenly the door opens behind me.

"You must be Mr. Lamaar."

I turn, slightly embarassed as if I were caught snooping, to find an early-40's woman in an expensive designer black pants suit striding forward with the confident swagger of a major league pitcher, her arm outstretched and thrusting toward me like she wants to reach through my chest and squeeze my heart into motionlessness. After an akward pause when I realize she wants to shake my hand and I finally shake hers, I say, rather lamely, "and you must be Karen,"

Her eyes twinkle with a tiny hint of sadism when she replies, "Ms. Barnes, if you please." She squeezes my hand so tight we can both hear the bones pop, and though I wince she offers no apology, circling her desk and descending into her chair like an Olympic sprinter between events.

"Please, sit down," she says, indicating the fifteen hundred dollar chair in front of her desk, a reclining slab of green plastic suspended on 36 steel posts. I do my best to make it look comfortable, although it's clearly meant to make her visitors feel physically inferior when faced with the imposing gargantuanism that is her granite desk.

"I understand you're interested in partaking in the program," she says, punching a few buttons on her recessed control panel. All the windows in the office begin to dim as a flat screen monitor flickers to high-definition life on the wall behind her. "Let's take a look at your qualifications."