Swamp Thing In Tweed - First Encounter

What could go wrong on a job interview?

I was excited about the interview. My current place of employment was a freak show which I deemed to my advantage to escape while I still had my wits. (I may write about it someday but I might get sued and you might not even believe what you read.)

 

I would be interviewing at a research institute which I had heard was a great place to work. Besides, after a year's absence I was ready to come back to Fairmont, West Virginia. I'd spent seven years at the NASA facility working for a couple of contractors and was now waxing nostalgic.

 

Although the day of the interview was in November, the weather was more like summer, which in West Virginia means hot and muggy. Maybe wearing that brown tweed jacket wasn't too smart but my wife thinks it makes me look distinguished.

 

I showed up at the building a few minutes early to find a good place to park and, finding the signs confusing, gave my best guess as to where I was allowed. The sidewalk to the entrance had a few steps, which ordinarily would not be a problem but for the damp heat, so that by the time I reached the reception area I was warm and damp myself. The air-conditioning was a welcome relief.

 

Just to make sure, I asked if I had parked in the right place. I hadn't. Ordinarily, it wouldn't be a bother, but there was that nasty heat out there, laying in wait.

 

I parked the car and walked back to the building, and I swear someone managed to sneak in a few extra steps. When I got back to reception, I had a couple minutes before my meeting so I chatted pleasantly with the receptionist, but something had started gnawing at the edge of my consciousness.

 

I was hot. Very hot. Encased in tweed, and hot. Perhaps this would be a good time to remove my jacket but I hesitated. My soaked armpits would tend to negate the dignifying aspect of the tweed.

As I was having this thought, moisture was becoming visible on my shirt. Oh, if only I had removed the accursed jacket when I first sensed trouble.

 

I started to feel light-headed as the room dimmed and became a little less stationary. In my accumulating delirium, I thought I could see miasmal gases escaping my tweed cocoon. Beads of perspiration were gathering on my forehead. As pride and practicality waged war, I could almost hear Zydeco emanating from my armpits.

 

The receptionist could by now see my predicament. Nothing for it now but take off the damned jacket and crack a joke to ease the tension. I asked her to make my excuses to my first interviewer. Defeated to the bone, and soaked to same, I slunk into the men's room, jacket hanging on my forefinger.

 

Okay, fine, just give it a few minutes and let the sweat evaporate. It was nice and cool in that men's room. The heat outside was no match for good old air conditioning but nothing could touch the humidity. In a couple minutes I was nice and cool and was quite safe from passing out. In fact, now I was freezing because all that sweat had taken up residence and claimed squatter's rights.

 

The clock was ticking. I was late for my interview and still soaked to the skin from head to toe. With paper towels, I soaked up the excess streamers on my face and beard and marched to my interview, jacket over my arm, while forcing myself to look as natural as the situation would permit. Presenting myself at the door of the interviewer's office, and smiling brightly, I said "My jacket just tried to kill me."

 

Luckily he was good natured. Evaporation managed to rid me of my burden as we talked. I ran a gauntlet of other interviewers and left with the feeling that, considering what had happened, I hadn't made too bad a showing for myself.

 

My wife found their response in the mail a few days later. "You didn't get the job," she said. "But this is the nicest rejection letter I've ever seen. You should frame it".

 

The story does have a happy ending. I got a job for another company in Fairmont on the same project, probably doing what I would have been doing had I been hired at the institute. At project meetings, I got to sit across the table from some of the people who had interviewed me that day.

 

The meeting room was nicely air-conditioned, so every once in a while, they would see me across the table luxuriating in brown tweed, dry, smiling brightly, and distinguished.