The Job Interview by Tom Jorge (Cont'nd)
In that moment, I can’t think of the right words, my train of thought derailed. I don’t point out that we weren’t talking about the qualities of a good salesman when I was outlining my expectations, though I suppose he could have assumed that any rational person would want to interact with a good salesman. But the purpose of this interview is at least in part to determine how rational I am.
“Well, no,” I continue, “it doesn’t make him a bad salesman.”
“But you said he needs to know his stuff to be a good salesman.”
I stare at the blonde man. He seems seriously concerned about what I’ve said. Somewhere in my wordless subconscious it occurs to me that this asshole is playing with language to put me under pressure. I smile a big, fake smile and think my way through a long, awkward pause.
“It’s hard to know everything,” I say, finally. “But you can still try to be honest.”
The man nods and smiles. He thinks I am an idiot. Still, he shows me the vast list of 1-800 numbers he sells and sells again, as if bragging. He can resell each number to every major city, so that a Toyota dealer in Dallas and a Honda dealer in Boston could share a number, but no customers in Texas would dial it and reach someone in Massachusetts. He shows me a map of all the cities that carry some of his numbers. He tells me about the history of the company, of how he just happened to notice that a huge quantity of numbers were still unclaimed, many of them spelled in generic, easy-to-remember combinations. The man continues in a way that is clearly not for my benefit, since we have both silently decided that I am not going to get this job. He waves his hand around the vast southwestern United States as if to say, “See this area? Lots of money flows from these states into my pocket.” And then he waves his hand around the Midwest and says, “Ditto for these states.” And so on.
“So,” he says, “do you have any questions?”
I decide that since he has wasted my time showing me the map, I could at least waste a little of his by asking about the work atmosphere, the camaraderie among coworkers, and other stock questions the Internet told me I should ask. I ask them. He responds. He smiles. He is proud of his company. I think it sucks. He thinks I suck. I also think of how lucky I am to not have to care about 1-800 numbers, which are really idiotic things to care about.
I maintain this thought after the interview, when I firmly shake the blonde man's hand, walk past the receptionist, past the kitchen I will never use during break, out the door I will not pass through again, and onto the sidewalk of downtown, on a bright and happy March afternoon. The sun is out, the air is cool, and people clog Pine Street Marketplace. I find lunch somewhere and sit by the window and watch the people walk by and wonder why they aren't at work. It is the perfect afternoon to have no obligations at all. Except, of course, to browse the classified ads for more jobs. But that can wait. Because I know in my gut that today just isn't my lucky day. nth