George cut himself shaving. Of course he did. It was only the most important day of his career. The one that could end it all, send him back. . .well, not really send him back, because he was already unemployed and living with his folks. There wasn't much further back he could go, not without turning in the sheepskin that was his medical degree, handing over his high school diploma and re-joining the Dungeons and Dragons Club.
No. He wasn't doing that.
He was moving forward.
He picked up his cell phone and replayed the message that he'd saved two days ago. Just checking, he told himself, ignoring the self-mocking alter-ego that reminded him that this was the fifth time he'd 'just checked' today.
And his appointment was still today. At 11:00. In the morning.
Yes, I made sure that it was in the morning.
Wouldn't anyone?
He told the mocking voice not to answer.
The suit was hanging in his closet, the interview suit. The same suit he'd worn as he interviewed for medical schools, and it mostly still fit. It's not like he was a suit-wearing kind of guy, someone who could wear a suit and not look like he was some sort of imposter. No, he was George. George the Dependable, George the Loyal. George the Average.
He took out the shirt—that at least was new—and removed 16 straight pins. He hoped he wouldn't find another (or that it wouldn't find him) in the middle of the interview. He tied the tie—also new—in the same knot his dad taught him when he was 17 years old and taking a date to a nice restaurant. His shoes looked okay, he guessed. Need a shine. Too late to worry about that.
When he got downstairs, his mom was in the kitchen. No sign of his dad or brothers, and that was just fine with him. He snuck out the front door, and was able to drive his beat-up Rabbit out the driveway without having to go through the "Georgie, you'll do great" portion of the show. Thank God for the small blessings.
When he got to Seattle Grace, he stopped at the front desk to get directions. He was directed down the hall, up the elevator, across the skywalk and into a smallish office.
You'd think that the Chief of Surgery would rate something a little larger? He introduced himself to the receptionist. Patricia. She ushered him into the office, where he was greeted by three men.
Confidence. And sincerity. Fake those convincingly, and I'll have it made.
"I appreciate your time meeting me today." George had been rehearsing those words in his most mature tones the whole way here. "I'm sure I can be an asset to your surgical residency program and your hospital."
"Take a seat," said the older black gentleman, gesturing to a chair as the rest of them seated themselves. "I'm Richard Webber, Chief of Surgery here at Seattle Grace."
"We happen to have a single vacancy here at Grace, and your application did catch our attention, since you ranked us first on the match. But we have some questions about your application and your record at Seattle University."
And then it began. The questions and answers, testing him. George was able to hold his own, at least he thought, through a large part of the process. The men reviewed his grades, questioning him about each class he had taken. And he had the answers. He remembered his mother defending him to Mrs. Welch, the third grade teacher after a flunked spelling test. Georgie just doesn't test well. And that was true; he didn't. George tended to second guess himself when given time. He knew this. But he also knew that whenever he was able to forget his essential Georgieness, he was able to float to the answer. Or the answer floated to him. Either way, he connected with the answer and it worked out for him.
Just as this interview, this essential interview was working. Until the end. Until Dr. Webber pulled out one page from his file.
"Here's your letter of recommendation from a Dr. Collins at Seattle U. However, his letter is actually quite weak. Take a look."
George looked. A scribbled arrow showed him the damning portion.
"At this writing, Mr. O'Malley shows every indication of being a thorough and responsible doctor. With time and maturity, he has every chance of becoming a good surgeon."
Crap.
"Dr. Webber, Mr. Jennings, Dr. Burke. I'm surprised at what Dr. Collins wrote. Well, you know that, because if I'd known he would write that, I'd have asked someone else for a rec." George enjoyed the moment as the men chuckled at his honesty. "But he's only partly right. Yes, I will be a thorough and responsible doctor. And yes, I'm only 26 years old, just like every other intern walking through those doors will be this summer. And I've made some mistakes, some stupid mistakes that probably led Dr. Collins to this letter. But I am. . .I will be a great surgeon. All I need is a chance.
"Let me prove myself to you. Let me go through this program, show you how I can be the kind of doctor that you need here at Seattle Grace. One who is thorough, who is responsible and dependable and all that—but also one who knows his stuff. Because no one is a doctor on paper—it's when you are with the patient that you are a doctor."
He realized that he was standing up, gesturing with both hands in the small room. He quickly stuck them in his pockets, and began fiddle with the junk stashed there.
"Sorry. Um. I'm sorry, I get carried away." He sat down, and tried to make himself invisible Things to think about. Prime numbers. One, three, five, seven, eleven, fif—
"Mr. O'Malley?" Dr. Webber had obviously said the name more than once, trying to distract George from his prime numbers. "Your passion speaks well for you. Much better than this letter."
George lifted his head up from looking at the blues and greens and yellows in the grey carpeting. He saw an encouraging smile on the face of the older man. The other doctor (Borke? Burke? Dammit!) still had a skeptical look on his face, but Webber was the one who counted. And Webber was smiling.
"I would be happy for you to fill our empty slot in our surgical residency program. I must warn you—I believe I'm taking somewhat of a risk. Don't prove me wrong."
By some miracle, George did not jump out of his chair. He did not shout, whoop or howl at the moon. He remained calm, and said—in his most mature and time tested voice—
"Thank you so much, Dr. Webber. I'll see that you don't regret this. Thanks." And he shook the hands of all three men, barely hearing Dr. Webbers remarks about getting a letter of confirmation with all of the details. He remembered later, though.
The day his letter and the other information came, George stood at his mailbox, holding the invitation to a Meet and Greet, a chance to get to know the other interns who would be his coworkers for the next six years.
The people who would change his life.
A/N: I had to write this before I could continue with What Do You Hear in These Sounds? for reasons that should become clear soon. I hope.