The Interview

I passed a pair of ducks on the way to my interview.

They were lounging on the grass and when I paused to observe them, they looked at me lazily. Ducks cannot speak but if they could I imagine they would say something like this: 

"Oh, look Thomas, another human gawking at us. Why do they always stare? It's as if they've never seen a duck before." 

"It's jealousy Lillian, really, who wouldn't want to be us? We can fly for heavens sake. Humans love us for that, they give us free bread all the time."

I held my hands up like I would to a beggar in order to show my lack of spare change, or in this case, bread. The ducks waddled off and left me standing there pondering what sort of omen this was and what it meant for my interview.

I had responded to an ad posted in the classified section of the newspaper some three weeks before:

WANTED ASAP

Part-time worker; 20 hrs wk 

Must be able to lift 40 lbs

Good Work ethic, must be willing to work morning shift (5-10am)

Bring Resume and Cover Letter to The Market on 9th
Pls include references!

I printed out my resume and lamented the fact that it contained the history of my three previous jobs, all of which began and ended within a six month period. I knew it didn't look good, but I get extremely paranoid when it comes to lying on forms and resumes and such, and anyway, I could just explain that I wasn't fired or anything, but that I just didn't like those other job and kept finding a new one. That doesn't sound much better but at least it was honest. 

The bag girl I handed my resume to looked it over with an indifferent glare as she loudly smacked her bubble gum. She she put it aside on the counter and didn't bother to look at me. 

"I'll give it to Weston." she said as she went back to lazily stuffing bags into an old woman's cart. 

At that point I didn't feel much hope for getting the job. I doubted whether the bored bag-girl would actually get my resume to Weston, whoever that was, and even if she did she would probably say something like,

"You know boss, he wasn't very impressive this one, just sort of moped in here and threw it at me. And three jobs in six months boss? Yikes, I wouldn't call this kid..."

After two weeks of not hearing anything I determined that this is precisely what happened. My resume had either been accidentally bagged alongside a box of macaroni and cheese or otherwise discarded into a heap of dead end applications that shared in my lack of enthusiasm and job retention. These thoughts are why I was surprised to get a call on the Monday of the third week. 

I was woken up by the ringing and when I answered I made no attempt to hide that fact. 

"Hello?" I said groggily, the word being formed in the phlegmy chambers of my tense throat.

"Have I reached Jacob?" The other voice asked. It was the voice of a young man, one that could not pronounce his R's.

"Yes you have, how may I help you?" I should work at a call center, I have an unusual knack for sounding pleasant on the phone when in reality I want to send a bullet through the receiver.

"Hi, Jacob, this is Weston, I'm the manager of the Market on 9th and I was just wondering if you were still interested in the job you applied for?"

It took me moment to register what he was saying, I was slightly distracted by all the R's he was unintentionally replacing with W's.

"What? Oh! Yeah, yeah of course!" I said, trying to sound less tired.

"Great, can you come in for an interview Thursday morning at 9:30?"

I don't keep a schedule but I pretended to look at one when he asked. I just sat there and made noises with my tongue as if I were looking to find a way to clear all my appointments around 9:30 on Thursday morning.

"Uhh Yeah, Yeah I should be able to make it." I said. Unfortunately I think the enthusiasm in my voice matched the enthusiasm I felt.

I actually was able to feel more optimistic throughout the week. I figured that a job would be good for me and I looked forward to having more than a dollar and thirteen cents in my checking account. Anyway the pressure was on from my Father and the clock was ticking on how much longer I could continue living on his dime.

That optimistic feeling evaporated when I saw those ducks.

"Come, Lillian, we have a pond to swim in. Care to join us human?"

"I have a job interview!" I called out after them.

A woman across the walkway heard me and thought I was talking to her.

"Congratulations!" She called back sarcastically.

"I wasn't...oh whatever." I cursed the ducks and continued on my way to the interview.

I got to the store ten minutes early. I feel awkward when I'm just waiting around so I walked the perimeter of the parking lot in order to kill some time. That only took two minutes though so I just went into the store and sat at an empty table near the deli. I picked up a newspaper that someone had left behind and amused myself by considering the plight of those whose lives were deemed interesting enough to be featured in the Thursday morning edition of "The Daily Informer".

I was in the middle of a story about an innovative new irrigation system when I was approached by a man wearing an apron and carrying a clipboard. His name tag said "Weston Smith, Clearburn, Idaho". I knew more about him than I needed to before he even opened his mouth.

"Are you Jacob?" He asked consulting his clipboard.

"Yes I am. " I replied.

I stood up and shook his hand. I had watched some videos on the internet on how to make a good impression at a job interview and they all said that when I shook the interviewers hand I should make direct eye contact. It was harder than I thought it would be and even though I made eye contact I exuded anything but confidence. I was off to a great start.

"Great, I'm Weston, I'm in charge of the stockroom and its' staff. Just follow me, we're doing the interviews upstairs."

He led me to the back of the market and through a set of double doors. We climbed a narrow staircase into what was more of a glorified crawl space than a second floor. We had to bend over to avoid hitting our heads on the wooden beams that held up the roof. There was a pair of old beat up office chairs crammed between a stack of boxes and a conveyer belt that he had us sit down in.

"Ok Jacob, so why don't we jump right into it, what do you think might set you apart from the other applicants?"

I immediately began to have doubts about how much I wanted this job. It was something about that question that made me feel sick. I tried to imagine who the other applicants were and how they could have possibly answered this same question. In reality there is nothing that sets me apart from anyone, let alone the types who would apply for this job, which would be relevant to the skills required to lift boxes and stock shelves.

I just looked at him for a moment, trying to grasp an answer.

"I guess I would have to say that I think my work ethic would set me apart from others because I have a good work ethic."

It is a horrible answer as evidenced by my own sickened feeling with myself and the marks that Weston makes on his paper. He is holding the clipboard in such a way that I can see everything. There is a list of questions and next to each question are the numbers one through five. He circled the two next to the first question.

The interview continues and as time goes on I grow increasingly frustrated. They are leading questions, designed to provoke a formulated response. I try to paint myself positively but as a result, I am forced to abandoned any sense of individuality. My answers reflect what any person trying to get a job would say. I am a dedicated worker who would pay great attention to detail. Of course I would never be late or not show up for work!

Near the end of the interview I no longer have a desire to get the job.

"One more question Jacob" Weston says, "this question actually tells me a lot about who you are as a person and what kind of worker you might be."

I try to keep from scowling when he asks:

"If you could be any superhero who would you be and why?"

What got to me is that he felt as though he had a solid enough grasp on basic psychology to decipher any applicable meaning behind the superhero I would most like to emulate.

I was ready with my answer.

"Darkwing Duck." I said.

I got up out of the chair and walked past Weston who had a quizzical look on his face. I was done with the interview and I didn't want to be there anymore. As I opened the door leading to the stairs Weston turned to me and asked,

"Why Darkwing Duck?"

I looked him in the eye and saw that he was genuinely confused. I hated him in that moment. I despised everything that he represented, that he propagated the illusion that any of this mattered, as if there were more riding on this interview than a part time, minimum wage, warehouse job.

"Because," I said as I shut the door behind me, "he's a duck."

As I passed by the lawn where I'd seen the ducks on my way home I noticed they were no longer there. They didn't have any reason to stay. There was something more out there for them, even if it was only a different patch of grass to hang out on. At least they did something, they went somewhere.

And I couldn't help feeling just a little jealous.