The Interview
“What makes you so sure you’ll get the job?” Mom asked as she cracked three eggs into a bowl. The fat below her arm jiggled as she whipped the eggs into yellow foam, then set the bowl on the counter. It had been a long time since Mom had cooked for me. I usually didn’t make time for her in my busy life, but she wanted me to take a loaf of banana bread to my interview, and I knew it would butter up the CEO, although I had the job in the bag. As I waited for the bread to finish baking, Mom flipped the sizzling bacon, releasing a cloud of white smoke to hover above her head. My stomach growled.
“Well?” She asked.
My salivary glands had taken over, and I had forgotten she had asked me a question. I licked my lips. “I am the most qualified candidate. I have four years of medical service, eight years of administrative experience, and your loaf of bread.”
Mom set the interview up with her good friend Broc, the director of Orphans of Love, a for-profit agency that took medical supplies to orphans worldwide. Broc had an opening for vice president, and I needed it. I didn’t care about the orphans; I desired the fat salary and the chance to see the world on Broc’s dime.
“Chris, don’t go in with that cocky attitude of yours. Broc will see right through it. He is looking for more than just a good resume. He is looking for a heart. Take time to be caring, kind, and above all…”
“Blah, blah, blah, blah. Mom, I have this. Take a look at the situation. You are a stay-at-home domesticated servant, and I have the degree and experience.”
Mom’s eyebrows furrowed as she picked up the shaker and overloaded the omelet with salt. She had done that intentionally because I had belittled her, but I spoke truthfully. She shouldn’t have taken offense.
“Easy, easy.” I grabbed the omelet from her hand and used a paper towel to rub off as much salt as possible.
***
With a warm loaf of bread in my lap, I sat awaiting my interview, punctually early. The reception area annoyed me with everyone coming and going, much like a doctor’s office. I opened my laptop and worked.
A lady sat in the seat next to me when she could have picked a dozen other empty chairs. I glared at her and shifted a little to my right.
“How are you?” Her voice sounded pathetic, almost close to tears. I gave a weak smile, nodded, and continued working.
“This is a hard day. Such a hard day.” She stared at me. What does she want? Go blab to someone else, Lady.
“It’s three months since my husband died. I thought that with time, it would get easier, but it has only gotten harder.”
Why does she have to bring her dead husband into this? I looked up at her--my mistake. She took that as an invitation to deliver her sob story as if I cared. Why do people do this? Why do they seek sympathy from strangers? No one cares.
“…and now I have no income coming in, and my cupboards are bare,” she said. I had stopped giving her eye contact. I typed loudly on my computer to convey I had better things to do. She didn’t take the hint.
“Something smells really good on you, like a muffin or pastry. What you got there?” She pointed to the banana bread wrapped in a clean dishtowel.
Nervy? “Banana bread,” I said, glancing up, then went back to typing.
“Oh, it smells so good. I haven’t eaten for over three days. I am so hungry. I hope I can get some help soon. I don’t know how long I can do this.”
I looked at my watch. The interview should have started ten minutes ago. They were running late. Interviewers expect punctuality from you but hardly return it.
“This might sound bold,” she said as she squeezed her shirt in her hands. “Do you think I might just have a little slice? It doesn’t have to be too big, just a little slice of that bread. Maybe it will stop the intense pain.”
This lady is unreal!
“That is bold. Listen, lady, Saint Ann’s kitchen is three blocks from here. Go get yourself a handout and stop peddling. This is a place of business, not the street.”
“I am sorry. I am sorry,” she said as her sniffling grew louder.
I continued typing, and at some point, she left.
Within minutes, a lady balancing a baby and a toddler took the seat next to me. The waiting room was empty at this point.
“None of the other seats were open?” I laid on the sarcasm.
The lady crouched next to the chair, her gigantic diaper bag weighing down one shoulder and a screaming baby on the other. Great. This will be fun. The toddler took the seat next to mine and immediately shoved a toy in my face. Meanwhile, the lady dropped a bottle on the ground, and milk spilled everywhere.
“What you doin’?” The toddler said, almost leaning into my lap. The baby screamed as the lady tried to balance it and looked through her bag for something to clean up the mess.
She looked at me. “I am sorry to bother you. But I just spilled Evie’s bottle everywhere, and I can’t find any of my burp cloths to clean it up. Would you mind if I used that towel right there?” She pointed to Mom’s towel wrapped around the bread.
“I am sure you can find a bathroom somewhere with towels.”
Her face dropped. “Well, I’d have to walk around, and well,” She looked at my stone face. “Okay.”
“Pull up, Baby Shark,” the toddler said as his hand dipped toward my keyboard. I sharply blocked it and pushed his hand away.
“Don’t touch!” I had to stop myself from shouting. I hate kids.
“Come on, Michael, we need to go find a bathroom,” the lady said to her son. Meanwhile, the baby continued screaming shriller. I rubbed my temples. Just my luck. All these freaks to spike my nerves before my interview. I looked at my watch.
“I no wanna go. I wanna stay with my friend,” the toddler said.
“I am not your friend,” I growled lowly.
The lady tried to take her son’s hand, but he yanked his arm away and scooted closer to me. They repeated this for several rounds, and then she looked at me.
“Would you mind watching Michael just for a minute or two? I will quickly get some towels and return.”
“This isn’t a daycare, Lady.”
“Oh.” She tightly grabbed Michael’s hand and almost dragged him across the waiting room as he kicked and fought her while her baby seemed close to slipping out of her hands.
More people filled the waiting room, and at least the spilled milk kept people from sitting by me. At some point, the lady returned and cleaned it while I kept working. An hour had passed when an old man wobbled in and exerted great effort to take the seat next to me.
What, do I have a sign that says friendly?
The old man shuffled in his seat and tried to lean his crutches next to him, but of course, one slipped and knocked me on the head.
“Do you mind?” I shoved it back at him, landing on the floor beside his prosthetic leg. He awkwardly leaned over and fumbled until he just left it there.
“Hello, young man. I am Captain Dunwoody. Pleased to meet you.” He stuck out his hand, and I saw brown patches of something dirty amongst the wrinkles. I ignored the hand and went back to typing. He didn’t let my shun damper his spirits.
“Such a lovely day today,” he smiled. People filed in and out of the waiting room, most smiling and talking fondly. He would do better to meet up with one of them.
“Cough. Cough. Cough.” The man practically blew his lung in my lap. “Cough. Cough. Cough.” Tears ran down his cheeks as his whole body tightened with each cough. “Oh my, I do apologize,” he said, wiping the tears from his face on his hands. Good thing I hadn’t shaken those bacteria-laden hands. “Don’t worry, you won’t catch anything I have. I fried my lungs in the war.”
Here we go—another veteran looking for praise for their glory days.
“Everything just gets so dry. I just need a drink of water.”
“Hmm.” I looked at my watch.
“Cough. Cough. Cough.”
“You know, there is a water cooler over there.” I pointed to the corner of the waiting room.
“Indeed, there is.” He smiled at me as if he expected me to fetch the water for him. I went back to typing.
The old man bent over, taking over five minutes to pick up his crutch from the floor. He continued coughing and coughing as he did. What a rude man to cough all over me. It took him even longer to stand. Thankfully, after he got his water, he didn’t return. I had an idea. I put the bread and my computer on the chair next to me. I didn’t need any more chumps for the day.
After two hours had passed, the fury built in me. The receptionist helped a few people but didn’t appear too busy. She wore an overzealous smile as she stupidly sat there.
Enough is enough. This place is stealing my time. I wanted to stomp over to her and demand an interview with Broc that very minute, but I still needed to play nice. I stood in front of her, and although she was doing nothing, she didn’t respond to me. I waited. She just sat looking at a magazine.
Finally, I loudly cleared my throat.
“Oh, I am sorry about that. I sometimes get lost in these magazines. They do such a good job at catching the stars in Hollywood. I have been saving up my money and plan to go to Hollywood next summer. I want to walk along the sidewalk with all the celebrities’ star things. That would be so wonderful. What if while I was there, I run into a celebrity get a picture with them to put on my Instagram? My friend Debby was there last week…”
Will she ever shut up?
“…and then when she turned around, you will never guess what happened.”
It took everything I had to keep my voice even. “I am sorry, Karen, it is Karen, right? I don’t mean to interrupt, but I had a meeting scheduled with Broc Winehouse over two hours ago. Can you please check on that meeting for me?”
The receptionist looked at me. “You are Chris Thompson, right.”
“Correct.”
“Oh yes. You came in for an interview. The interview is over. Thank you. Mr. Winehouse will be in touch.”
A tinge of anger entered my voice. “You must be mistaken. I have not interviewed yet.”
She stared straight into my eyes and suddenly seemed more professional than she had just appeared. “No, I am not mistaken, your interview is over. Mr. Winehouse will be in touch.”
The nerve! The Gall! How could she? How could they? I would call Mr. Winehouse and clear this up. When I become Vice President, Karen will be fired.
I stepped outside, and the brisk air tickled my skin. I had baked in the stuffy reception area. The cars on the road sped by, and horns blasted while people pushed by me on the sidewalk. The aroma of coffee hit me as I pulled out my phone.
“Hello,” the voice said.
“Yes, hello, this is Chris Thompson. I am looking for Broc Winehouse.”
“Oh yes, hello, Chris.”
I dampened my anger and gave a forced chuckle. “Yes, it seems your receptionist Karen, a lovely lady, I might add, had become mistaken. I was scheduled for an interview with you at nine a.m. I don’t know if you are aware, but I arrived at eight-forty-five and have been here over two hours. Anyway, Karen just sent me away, stating I had been interviewed, which, as you know, didn’t happen. I am just outside your building if you are free for that interview. Otherwise, I will be happy to reschedule.” I gritted my teeth.
“Oh yes, Chris. We did have the interview.”
“How so?”
“The waiting room was the interview. As you know, we are a business of caring, and we carefully orchestrated your interview with the people you interacted with.”
I had nothing to say. What does he mean?
“We started with the widow, who was ever so hungry. You had a chance to give her your bread, but you turned her down.”
“I am sorry. That bread was baked for you by my mom.”
Broc continued, “And that distressed mother. She had a tremendous opportunity for need. You could have cleaned the spilled milk for her or at the least, allowed her to use your towel. You could have watched Michael for her as well, didn’t he do a lovely job, by the way? But you didn’t do one thing to ease her suffering.”
I could no longer feel the cold air as the heat rose under my collar.
“And then Captain Dunwoody, the war vet. He is my father-in-law, by the way. He didn’t have to do much acting. He always has that cough, such a sad result of the war. Would it have hurt you, Chris, to walk across the waiting room and get him some water? Again, you could have at least picked up his crutch for him and helped him out of the chair.”
Someone on the sidewalk bumped into me and shouted, “Stop blocking the sidewalk.”
“And dear Karen, she does love to talk. She just wanted to share the excitement of her upcoming trip, yet you wouldn’t give her two seconds.”
My head went light.
“You see, Chris, that was the interview. I don’t only need a brilliant businessman running my company. I need someone who will run it with love and a beautiful heart. You had plenty of times during the interview to show you had the capacity to care, and yet you failed every part of it. So sadly, Chris, I cannot offer you the job.”
I stumbled into the glass door.
“Oh, by the way, tell your mom hi for me.”
_________________________________________
The Interview
by Stephanie Daich
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