The Job Interview

I’m nervous at a job interview, desperate to make a good impression. I really need the gig. My bank account has been wilting like a weed during a drought.

The office is spare, stark, and cold. There’s nothing on the walls but beige paint. The Hiring Manager’s heavy mahogany desk stretches empty before him, a trick meant to intimidate the applicants. It works.  He stands up and shakes my hand with a vigorous double-pump and tells me to. “Grab a seat.” He smiles at me with a feral-looking rictus and says, “Welcome to AdvanceTech Technologies.”

“Thank you,” I tell him.

To put me at ease (I think) he says, “Please don’t think of this desk as a chasm or an abyss between us. We’re just two bipedal humanoids coexisting on this crazy spaceship we call Earth. Try to keep that in mind.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He is a squat, square man with a light red beard. His hairline is receding but he still has more coverage than I do. At the rate of my hair loss, I’ll have an embarrassing comb-over in less than a year. Eventually I will resemble deceased comedian Zero Mostel.

Thinking about my hair (or its lack) disrupts my already shaky confidence. You don’t want to fall into self-critical quicksand during a job interview. Try not to be aware of yourself. 

Focus only on the guy in front of you. 

He tells me the position I’m applying for is not unlike a “flock of birds” and that I don’t need an “ocean of experience.” But I will need rigorous training. “Before you start, you’ll need to dismantle your personality down to its very foundation. Obliterate your ego and randomize your thought patterns. You’ll be given peyote at orientation to help you along. Have you by any chance had any experience with peyote?”

I lie and tell him, “Yes.” I don’t feel guilty about lying. It’s a job interview after all. I’ve already poured lies all over my resume.  

“And where was this?”

“Mexico. I met a Brujo there named Don Miguel. He was my mentor in peyote…” Lies, all lies. I maintain a bland face as I lie. It’s one of the few things I’m good at. Maintaining a bland face while I lie.

“Very good,” he says. He lifts my application and peruses it. “I like your poem,” he says. “Influenced by The Autopsy Tree by Conrad Brooks I’m guessing?”

“Yes sir.” Another lie. I’ve never even heard of that poem/poet. I don’t read poetry. The poem I wrote on the application was paraphrased from an old TV commercial I used to see. It was for a plumbing company. At least it rhymed. 

“Please, call me Mike. Mike Trent. Try to relax, I don’t bite. Would you care for a cola-flavored phosphate?”

“No thank you.” 

“We consider ourselves a functional family here at AdvanceTech.”

“That’s good.” 

“So, tell me. Why should our little family adopt you? Pretend you’re a foster child.”

Oh boy, here goes… “Well, I’m a hard worker. I mean, look at my hands.” I have rough, scarred, calloused hands. A result of my dangerous addiction to physical risk. It’s my strongest selling point.

“M-hm. Impressive. My own hands are smooth and baby-soft. But then, I’m a white collar worker. And I moisturize.” He looks down and studies his hands. “The threat of papercuts is a potential hazard around here, of course. But I try to be careful around any and all paperwork. “

I only nod.

“Now, how do you feel about working third shift? Does that present a problem?”

“No. Actually, I prefer working nights.” Finally, not a lie.

“M-hm. Now, we work like a band of chimpanzees around here. How do you feel about that?”

“I feel great about it. I like chimps.” Back to the lies.

“That’s definitely in your favor.”

“Thank you.”

“At a place like this.”

“Yes.”

“Do you sometimes hear voices?”

I lie again, “Yes, I do. Sometimes.”

“Good. That’s a requirement. Listen to those voices.”

“Oh I do. I do. Absolutely.”

“Are you comfortable with your identity?”

I think for a moment and then confess, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“I’m not sure I do either. But, you have no problem breaking through to new realms of consciousness? At minimum wage?”

“No, no problem.”

“And can you lift up to fifty pounds?”

“No problem.” I give him what I hope is a confident smile. I’m not sure what fifty pounds feels like.

“Please, just let the interview process sluice through you. Like a school of glittering fish. No need to be tense. Think of the water as warm.”

“Thank you. I’ll try…” Is my smile that uptight? I pull it back a little. My lips feel numb. I’m suddenly aware of my tongue. I hope I can still talk. I can almost feel mumbles bubbling up.

“At this point in the interview, we like to show applicants a short training film.”

He stands up and turns on a television I hadn’t noticed, pushes a button. The film he shows is Stan Brakhage’s The Act of Seeing With One’s Own Eyes (1971). He leaves me alone to watch it. I’ve seen it before but it’s no less unnerving. He returns as the film ends.

“That’s the kind of mood we strive for here at AdvanceTech Technologies.”

“I see.”

“So, do you think you’ll fit in here?”

“Absolutely.”

“Your personality seems false to me. Like mere protective camouflage surrounding a frightened, embryonic man.”

“Oh?” I feel something leaden in my chest, pressing my heart. He sees through me, dear god he sees right through me.

He smiles at me like a thug. Small shark teeth. I swear I can smell masticated meat when he speaks. “I understand,” he says. “This is a job interview after all. I realize you’re just trying to put your best face forward.”

“Yes sir.”

“Trent. Mike Trent.”

“Yes Mike Trent.” 

“We will change you.”

“Okay.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I feel great about it.”

“Then congratulations. You’ve got the job.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ve got the job.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“The job.”