The Interview

As I walk through the oversize doors of the gray-stone building with its wrought-iron fence and pristinely manicured lawn on the west side of town, I catch a glimpse of myself in the panes of glass in its frame.  I am wearing a long, straight navy dress—nothing too fancy or revealing—with navy shoes that have a small heel.  I say a silent prayer to myself that I don’t catch the heel of my shoes in the hem of the dress.  I glance at my hair; I had broke down and gone to the salon to have it done.  Lately, I haven’t had the ability to style it any fancier than a ponytail.   I enter into a lobby with genuine leather chairs and cherry end tables placed precisely around the room.  An aquarium filled with lots of colorful fishes, coral, and rocks sits along the far wall.  Paintings of flowers that look like someone with a vision problem painted them hang on the wall in gaudy gold frames. 

I see a woman sitting behind a sliding glass window to my left.  She doesn’t look up from her magazine that she is thumbing through with long, red fingernails.  I clear my throat, not too subtly, and she over the rims of her glasses disdainfully at me.  (I get the feeling that we’re not going to be the best of friends.)  “May I help you?” she says, giving me the once-over.

“I am here to see Barbara,”  reply as politely as I can. 

 Gesturing me to have a seat, she closes her window and picks up her telephone.  She opens the window long enough to tell me that Barbara would be right out.

 I walk over to one of the burgundy leather chairs close to the aquarium and sit down.  As I wait, I pull out a mirror from my small navy purse and check my make-up.  I hope I didn’t over-do it.  I don’t wear it very often any more.  I can feel my palms start to sweat—they always do that when I’m nervous.   I’d better check my clothes, and by that, I mean making sure they don’t smell like formula or anything else undesirable.  I apply a little more perfume.

 After what seems like an eternity, I am ushered down a long corridor to a large office that is decorated similarly to the lobby.  I take a seat, as the woman introducing herself as Barbara, looks over my resume. In a crisp black suit with a white silk blouse underneath, she appears to be in her late forties with her frosted hair and brown eyes that are hidden by zebra-striped glasses that take me by surprise.   I try not to stare.  I notice she has rings on almost every finger.  Suddenly, it explains the garish décor of this entire office. 

 Abruptly, her voice startles me back to reality.  It is smooth as honey, as she tells me that I’m not really the “kind of person” they’re looking for.  She gives me an apologetic look.  It’s sort of like the one my mother used to give me when I tried to do something and failed.  “You’ll do it someday,” she’d say in a singsong voice.  I remembered how I came to resent it as a teenager.  “I don’t want to do it someday—I want to do it now,” I’d screamed back at her stunning her for a brief moment.  “Then go after it,” she had quietly replied. 

 Sitting in that office, I can feel my cheeks start to burn.  “What exactly are you looking for?” I ask pointedly. 

 She stumbles on her words for a minute before stating them to me.  They need someone who is able to work different positions, someone with good communication and math skills.  They need someone to file and schedule appointments—someone that’s organized, creative and flexible—a problem-solver.

 “Pardon me,” I said, “but I have three children and have managed the household for the past eleven years.  I can schedule a doctors’ appointment, settle a fight, wipe a runny nose, kiss a bump on the head, argue the nutritional value of cookies, cook dinner, and set the table—all with a baby on my hip.  So I’d say I’m flexible.  I can negotiate time spent on the Play station and integrate Cheerios into the problems of potty training.  I believe that makes me a problem-solver.  I have been sleep deprived, over-worked, under-appreciated, and definitely under-paid, but can still balance the checkbook and see that the house is clean and the laundry folded.  Not qualified?  If anything I’m over-qualified.”

 “Do you have children, Barbara?” I inquired, when she didn’t respond. 

 “Yes, I have two.  And three grandchildren,” she said softly.

  “Well, then you can vouch for these qualifications yourself.  Can’t you?” I challenged. 

She swiveled her big leather chair to where she had her back to me.  I had caught her off guard.  She was speechless.  After a few minutes passed, I could feel my courage starting to wane.  Had I made a complete fool of myself?  Finally, she turned to face me.  With a knowing look, she asked, “Can you start on Monday?”

 Dana Scott / English 101, Summer 2001

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