The Interview

A piece about life, anxiety, and reality. Insecurities never go away, they just change shape. In high school and college it's relationships, image, and grades, after it's career and success.

They said they'd call.  Or at least that's what he thought they said.  He can't remember if they said that they would call whether or not they were still considering him, or if they would only call him if they really did want him.  He fears the latter.  Why else would it take this long for them to call?

He's at home, not really doing anything, too nervous to focus on one thing for very long.  Restlessly he looks at the clock. It's passed five in the evening.  

Not today, he thinks they wouldn't call after five, even if they are technically still open.  Business was usually done before five.  

Not today.  And not yesterday for that matter either.  Had they said "Thursday"? It was Friday.  Thursday had come and gone with no call.  The knot in his stomach tightened.  He went over the interview in his mind.  Rerunning every detail.  He had been cordial, whitty, honest, intelligent.  They had been kind, and smiled, and they seemed to enjoy it.   Enjoying it doesn't mean they would hire me.  'He'd be great to have out for a drink, but he's not really the candidate we are looking for'. WHY NOT?! He fumed. What is wrong with me?

His phone buzzed.  Just once.  It wasn't a call.  Did it go to voicemail without telling him he had a call?  It had done that before.  He woke the screen, but no notification of voicemail was there.  Unlocking the screen he saw that he had an email, and an unimportant one at that.

What is wrong with me?  He thought once more.  He'd gone to college.  He graduated with high marks.  He just didn't have any experience.  That dreaded word when looking at a job description, "experience".  'Required qualifications: at least 5 years of experience in…'  

But how do you get that experience?  I need to be hired by someone who will train me so I have experience.  There in lies the problem: no one was hiring him.  He'd been applying for months, he knew his name, social security number and address really well.  He even knew most of the information for his work history off the top of his head.  Application after application.  Résumé after résumé.  No result. 

That is, until they emailed him.  They set up a phone interview.  Then an interview face-to-face.  They said they'd call.  And now he's here.  He pulls up Netflix on his computer.  His eyes scan the page of movie and TV choices without really seeing them.  He doesn't really want to watch anything anyway.  He just hates waiting.  He looks at the clock.  Almost six.

Not today.  It hurts.  He got his hopes up and now he fears they will be dashed.  He used to think not hearing was the worst.  When he was just an application that wasn't answered, a résumé that was discarded.  

Just give me a chance! He had thought.  But now he wonders which is worse: never being given a chance, or having been tried and found wanting.  Like at the end of a break up when you want to hit the guy who said "it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all".  It's much easier to bear the righteous indignation of thinking that if they only knew you they would give you the job, rather than knowing they did know you and they don't think you are cut out for it.

He glances at the bookshelf.  He finished reading a really good book yesterday.  He wants to read something, but he's not sure what.  He's still mourning the loss you feel at the end of a story, like moving away from friends and a place you knew for a while.  A place you could escape to and feel relaxed.  The space in between books reminds him of the angst of transitions in life.  Without the stability of knowing that the next chapter follows the one you are ending.  Without the narrative that supersedes the current trial. 

He just hoped that his narrative was one that was well written, with a fulfilling end. Not a happily-ever-after ending, those didn't interest him any way.  They were too flat.  You can feel happy and not have purpose.  He wanted purpose.  He liked endings that had a dynamic emotion, not necessarily happy or sad, but uplifting because it was so well written.  An ending that you can't forget.  That makes you think.  That gives you purpose. 

Most of all he feared an ending that was hastily written: it's not happy and it's not inspiring nor does it evoke deep emotion.  It's predictable, unrealistic.  It lacked purpose.  He looked at the clock.  Ten passed six.

They said they would call. 

Reviews

[Marie]

This was very interesting, I hoped they would call. I wish the story had gonee on to more of a conclusion.

[William Fields Issac]

Thank you. I wanted them to call too. The piece is about anxiety in life and often we are left in situations for a while that don't seem to have a conclusion, so to leave the reader with that anxiety, that open-ended feeling is really the goal. I tried to work some repetition in there to give it some continuity in the midst of the the back and forth of his thoughts, if you have any suggestions for improving that I would gladly welcome them.