The Interview

Something lighthearted and whimsical.

Today, I had to interview 3 people for a job that would make the lucky winner my supervisor. How it came to this, I’m not quite sure, but the task was pawned off to me after going through a long chain of lazy, self-righteous, stuck up superiors of mine. So now I had to do up the top button of my wrinkled shirt, tighten my tie and button my jacket. And, according to the girl in the cubicle next to me, zip up my fly. Terrific.

I’d be given a small office to do the interviews in, containing a desk and two chairs on either side. At least whoever had finally assigned me the task had the decency to make my chair slightly more comfortable than my opposing number. I sat, opened my briefcase and took three thin manila files out.

I opened the first file, and groaned. The first page read:

Sarah Greenfield (My ex-girlfriend, bloody hell…)

Unemployed (Ha!)

43 Brent Lane, London, E17 (Back with the parents, I see. Mooching bitch.)

07989 483 656 (Oh, so you’ve changed your number.)

DOB: 12/5/89 (This somehow makes you evil now.)

I thought wisely to get this out of the way first, so I stood up, walked to the door, poked my head out and called; “Ms Greenfield.” Her head rose sharply at the sound of my voice, and her face turned sour when she saw me. I smiled innocently, and motioned her into the office. Enter the dragon.

I sat back down on my chair and waited for her to walk in, and when she sat down, she stared at me for a good few seconds. I continued to smile broadly; I think I’ll enjoy myself now. I slowly flicked through the pages of her CV, leaving her to sit in what I imagined to be a painful silence. Occasionally I would tut at something I would barely even read, and glance up at her reddening face. Finally, as she cleared her throat, I closed her file and looked up at her, attempting and probably failing to look professional.

“So, it says here you’re unemployed. I do wonder, how did you come to find yourself in such a position?” I asked her sweetly. If looks could kill.

She muttered something under her breath.

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.”

She cleared her throat, turning even redder, and spoke quietly; “Um, personal problems.”

“Could you share with me the details of these ‘personal problems’?”

She stared at me again, and I raised my eyebrows. “Ms Greenfield, please, if you expect us to hire you without assurance of complete honestly, I’m afraid to say you are severely mistaken.” I was enjoying myself now, and this must’ve been quite evident, as her face was now an unpleasant shade of scarlet. I moved on, not wanting to risk her reporting me.

“Now, what can you tell me about the position you are applying for? I trust you’ve done your research?” In truth, I had no idea what the position entailed, but she didn’t know that. She stayed silent, so I raised my eyebrows again, coaxing her into an answer.

“Erm, well, I know I’ll, erm, be supervising the, uh, the people, and er, checking their, um, their work and-“

“Yes, you clearly have an excellent understanding, don’t you?” I chuckled to myself, tutting and shaking my head in disappointment. I would’ve continued, but I didn’t want to push it. “Well, that should be all for now, I’ll let you know via telephone if you have the job or not. Thank you for your time,” I smiled at her pleasantly, and dismissed her. She got up, furious, and stalked out of the room.

Putting it out of my mind, I looked at the next two files. There was John Samuelson, a 43 year old man with plenty of experience in supervising doormats like myself, and Adam Marquez, a 25 year old Spaniard with a first rate education and a history of sucking up to his superiors, probably how he got to this interview. I called them both in, wanting to speed things along, and watched to see who would take the seat and who would stand.

Samuelson walked with a cane, but this apparently didn’t warrant the need for a seat, as Marquez sat down, oblivious to the now venomous stare he was receiving from Samuelson. I made a mental note to mark him down for this, then an idea came to me; both were suitable for the job, so I’d use the interview to decide which one I liked less. So far, Marquez was heading down hill.

I took out a small pack of sweets from my briefcase, and offered them one each. Samuelson declined, smiling in thanks as he did so, but Marquez grabbed both from my hand and threw the wrappers on the floor as he ate them. The outcome was becoming quite clear; this arrogant little swine was not getting this job.

I continued the interview, asking both of them different questions, and while Samuelson passed smoothly, his experience telling, Marquez was sweating within minutes, stuttering like Greenfield had been but under considerably less pressure. I concluded by offering them both a sweet again, and this time, they both declined. Samuelson had enough savvy to realize he has the job, but Marquez not so much; “Maybe when you hire me I’ll have one, eh?” He winked at me, and they both left. I sat for a few minutes, before writing the verdict on a small notepad and sticking it on the top of the pile of files. I dropped it off at my boss’s secretary’s desk, and walked back to my own cubicle.

The next day I was called into my boss’s office. I sighed; I guess Greenfield must’ve opened her mouth. I walked over and his secretary told me to go in. Dreading the next few minutes, I opened the door and entered.

My boss, Mr Robertson, welcomed me in with an unreadable face. He motioned for me to sit down, and as I sat, he started talking; “I didn’t know Sarah Greenfield was applying for the job.” He paused, observing me. “Had your current supervisor told me, then things may’ve gone quite differently.”

I’d stepped over the mark. What was I thinking, abusing power I didn’t even have? An incredibly stupid thing to do. But why did Robertson care?

He remained silent, studying the visible regret on my face with a stern look on his own. Then, slowly, he started grinning. “Ha! She told me how you conducted the interview, and I must say, my boy, good show!”

It turned out that she had once been involved with Robertson’s son, a while back, and that hadn’t ended too well either! I didn’t relax, unsure of what was coming next, but he then scanned over the files and nodded his head while doing do. “Yes, Samuelson does seem to be better suited, I think I agree. Well done, my boy!”

And that was that, I’d gotten away with it, out of sheer luck.

My first short story this year, not amazing but was fun to write.