Ron Wetherington

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The Interview

 

                       We sat across from each other at a small conference table in a room at the end of a corridor lined with offices. Brian, my interviewer, had asked my permission to allow a trainee, Candace, to observe. My heartbeat was almost audible. Having Candace there would be a plus. She was young, maybe twenty-five.

​                    I studied Brian, a fortyish, clean-shaven guy wearing an off-the-rack tan suit, a white dress shirt nicely starched with monogrammed cuffs. We shook hands. I wondered if he would notice my moist palms.

​                “Please think of this as a casual conversation, Justine,” he smiled, his hands folded on the table, a lined notepad and pencil beside them. Notes filled the page. There was a water carafe with two glasses between us. “Do you have questions before we begin?” His smile seemed genuine; his words scripted.

​             "Thank you, Brian,” I returned his smile. “I’m fine.” I had rehearsed this, as most job seekers do, trying to anticipate the questions. Fingers crossed.

​                      “Well,” Brian said. “Just to get started, why are you interested in this position?”

​                 How many times had I sifted answers to this? “Job satisfaction,” I replied. For most applicants, of course, the best answer would have been the company itself. “Your employees seem to stick around,” I said. “That’s important to me.” I inclined my head. “How long have you been with the company, Brian?” I was hoping to push him a bit off guard.

​                   Candace sat in the corner, hands in her lap, smiling.

               “We enjoy employee loyalty,” he said, absentmindedly tapping his pencil on the notepad. “I’ve been here eight years.”

​           “Oh,” I said. “I would have thought longer.” I looked at him directly. “But you do like it here, right?” I wondered if baiting him this quickly was wise. Confusion, not suspicion, was what I was aiming for, and there’s a fine boundary.

​                “Uh, yes, I do indeed.” Tap-tap-tap. He glanced at his notepad. “Tell me, Justine, how would your coworkers describe you?”

                I hoped to segue from this one. “Well, Brian,” I creased my brow, “that’s subjective, isn’t it?” I paused. “Hardworking, I hope. Fair. Respectful, above all.”

​            But he didn’t follow through. Instead, he shifted casually, scribbling something on his pad. “Is there a personal weakness that you feel you should work on?” Good! I could use this approach!

​               “Gullibility, maybe,” I admitted. “I accept people at their word too easily.” I leaned forward. “But you know this about people, Brian,” I said. “Easily taken in.”

​              “Why do you say that?” he frowned slightly. Candace raised a brow with a quizzical look.

​                  “Well,” I smiled and spread my hands, gesturing, “being head of HR, you surely see this from time to time.”

​               “Of course,” he replied, somewhat relieved. But a wariness now crept into his words. “So, Justine, how does the recognition of your gullibility affect your relations with coworkers?” He was deftly asking how this character flaw curbed my effectiveness. Perfect.

                “I’m more skeptical of others, I guess. It probably dilutes my self-confidence.” I was handing him a second weakness.

              “Can you give me an example, Justine?” Brian smiled, pressing the issue. “How can you be skeptical and respectful at the same time?” I paused, allowing him to savor the moment. My tension receded. Here was my opportunity.

​        “I guess Louise is a good example,” I said, looking at him impassively.

​                 “Louise?”

​               “Works in sales. You remember her? Short, blond, twenty-seven? Gullible.”

​            Candace shifted uneasily. Brian turned a bright crimson. He picked up his pad, studying it. “Let’s talk about you, Justine,” he said. He cleared his throat and changed the subject, asking in a too-assertive voice, “How would you resolve a conflict with a team member?”

​           Inside, I was now relaxed. “Well, Brian,” I said in a more professional voice, matching his, “this depends. Are we talking about a personal or professional conflict?”

​            “Your choice, Justine.” He quickly caught himself. “Related to work, of course.”  He reached for the carafe, poured a glass of water.

​                “Of course.” I gave him a wry smile before continuing, “I suppose I would first remind him—the team member—of the policy against intimacies between employees.” I leaned back, crossed my arms. “Like between you and Louise.”

​              “I don’t know this Louise, Justine,” he sputtered, fear and anger in his voice. “I believe you’re the one being interviewed!” Tap-tap-tap. “Can we please stick to the subject?” Candace, trying to disappear, fixed her gaze on the floor.

​              “I’m terribly sorry, Brian.” My tone verged on smarmy. “I was just answering your question,” I straightened, spreading my hands submissively, “using an example I knew you’d understand.”

“Just a minute!”

​            I ticked off the points. “One, Louise was gullible, trusting, when you came on to her.”

​               Brian stammered, “That’s… absurd!”

​        “Two, when you continued to harass her for favors, she became skeptical of your true motives.”

​            He was shaking his head in denial, both palms flat on the table as if preparing to pounce. “What are you doing?”

​        “Three, she has remained deferential and respectful to this day, fearing retribution if she spoke out.”

​             I was staring at him, now slumping in his chair, shaking his head. “Not true!” he exclaimed. “Not true!”

​            “She needs her job, Brian, but she can’t complain to HR, now, can she?” I planted the seed: “You need to leave her be!” Candace was now in a quiet panic, eyes like saucers, both fright and anger in her face.

​           I stood up, sliding my handbag over my shoulder. “Actually, Brian,” I said, as sincerely as I could make it sound, “I don’t think this is the right job for me, after all.” I walked to the door, glancing back at the defeated figure. 

​         Outside, I leaned against the wall, shaking. My little sister, Louise, would never know.