The Interview

As I listened to the incessant ticking of the clock on the wall in the reception area, I actively repressed the urge to vomit. There’s just something about office spaces with their reflective linoleum tile, fluorescent lighting, and cheap Renoir knockoff paintings hanging on eggshell-painted walls that makes me physically ill.

The tapping of my shoe against the floor could surely be mistaken for nerves but in reality, it was what one fired therapist referred to as a “grounding technique” a physical gesture that supposedly centered my mind on the present, thus preventing it from ruminating on the traumas of the past or the potentially terrifying pitfalls of the future. Little did the shrink know that I am an excellent multitasker. 

In fact, it said so right on the resumé that sat neatly folded in the leather-bound binder I kept on my lap to give the impression that I was intelligent, sleek, organized, and professional rather than an unemployed 31-year-old with limited prospects, hard skills, a diminished bank account, and crippling anxiety. It had been 18 months 17 days and 16 hours since my last paycheck –– a new personal record, set from the last round of layoffs at some multi-national corporate conglomerate that proudly claimed its staff to be a “family”, before hacking away their livelihoods to save a few bucks. It really makes you question the virtue of the “family” moniker. The Manson family was a family after all. And when old Charlie pays a livable wage, contributes to 401Ks, and provides decent health insurance, you tend not to see the dead-eyed, madman with a swastika tattooed on his forehead. 

So no, I was not nervous just because I was suppressing my gag reflex and actively using fakakta grounding techniques. It was my first interview in 10 months and I would not let the mere build-up of stomach acid rain on my parade. The phone at the reception desk cut through my thoughts with a piercing ring. The apathetic, orange-haired receptionist let it ring for what felt like an eternity before picking it up. She barely brought the phone to her ear before placing it back down again.

“Mr. Mullens?” she asked between phlegm-riddled coughs. 

I shot up from my chair in the waiting area. 

“Yes, M’am that’s me.”

“Mr. Tanis is running a few minutes late. He’ll be right out.” 

I sat down and got back to my foot tapping. I tried to make a game of it. I’d see how fast I could tap my foot, how many taps I could fit into 30 seconds or a minute. I barely made it to 50 when I finally noticed the other sad sacks that sat in the waiting room. It was a whose-who of cliché losers, a room full of Willy Lomans with clip-on ties and thinning hair, still holding out for their one big break. The man to my left was easily 400 pounds. He sweat through his shirt and breathed as if an elephant sat upon his chest. Meanwhile, the man on my right rocked back and forth, chanting something under his breath, finally sitting up to reveal streams of blood pouring out of his nose. He laughed manically as he placed two tampons in his nostrils to stop the bleeding. 

It was startling enough to wonder if perhaps I was the most viable candidate. While the thought filled me with a brief sense of hope, it quickly faded as I remembered that I too was in this room amongst the dejected crowd of the unwanted. Did it really matter if I didn’t have a sweaty shirt or a blood-soaked tampon in my nose? 

“Mr. Mullens?” The receptionist called out, coughing into a napkin. “Mr. Tanis will see you now. You can head back.” 

I took a deep breath and walked through the door and into a narrow hallway decorated with one-word motivational posters like STRENGTH, INTEGRITY, DISCIPLINE, etc. The light was blindingly bright. I could hear the sounds of copy machines and clacking keyboards but saw no cubicles or workstations. I finally arrived at a large wooden door flanked by two narrow potted plants. The door was affixed with an onyx-colored plaque that read: LUCIUS TANIS, CEO, TANIS INDUSTRIES. 

I took a deep breath and slapped myself across the face to get psyched up. Come on, you can do this…you can do this…so what if you’ve applied to 200 jobs in the past year and gotten zero feedback? So what if you’re qualifications look like shit in comparison to others? So what if other people your age have wives and children and mortgages and take trips to Italy? This is your chance to have it all. This is it…You can do this…

I reached for one of the potted plants and vomited before knocking on the door. 

“Enter.” A voice called out. 

Mr. Tanis’s office was offputting to say the least. There were no windows, furniture, or decorations, just a simple wooden desk with a large black leather chair on one side and a weathered barstool on the other. The plainness of the walls was disorienting. Their shade of white physically intrusive. The only color in the room was a deep bright red painted into a single and large box that sat on the wall behind Mr. Tanis’s chair. 

Mr. Tanis himself wore a black suit and silver tie to match his jet-black hair. He rose with a pleasant smile and the tall, thin man reached across his desk to greet me. 

“Mr. Mullens, I’m Lucius Tanis.

I shook his hand and felt a chill run down my spine. You can do this…You can do this…

“Please, take a seat.”

I obliged, attempting to get comfortable in the rickety barstool as Mr. Tanis perused my resumé. 

“Hmm. Interesting… I see you worked at DHL Consulting. Robert was a good friend. Shame he died in that boating accident.”

“Yes sir, I was –” Mr. Tanis held up his hand. 

“Mr. Mullens, do you have experience in auditing? Advanced projections, outlooks, reporting, things of that nature?”

“Yes sir, as you can see I was a corporate auditor for 7 years at one of the largest consulting firms and handled diligence for over $1.2B–.”

Mr. Tanis once again held up his hand.

“Your numbers mean little to me.” Mr. Tanis rose from his seat and casually walked towards the red square painted on his back wall. He sighed with his hands in his pockets. 

“Mr. Mullens, do you know what it is we do here?”

Finally, a question I had prepared for. I sat up, radiating confidence. 

“Yes sir, Tanis Industries is a leader in technical aspect development and consulting, reframing critical infrastructures for emerging revenue streams and markets.”

Mr. Tanis nodded. “Impressive…and wrong.” He turned to face me and walked to the front of his desk. 

“Mr. Mullens, would you like to know what we really do?”

He leaned down to whisper in my ear. 

“We do bad things to people and benefit from their suffering. We revel in their misery. Take joy in it even. I care not for money or profits or material gains. The world is full of ants and I hold the magnifying glass. Do you understand?”

I did not. 

“Absolutely, sir.” I nodded my head unconvincingly. 

“You see, my auditor doesn’t measure P&L’s or taxes, they do diligence of a different nature. Such information is sensitive, vital, and swiftly consequential. The kind of information that can impact millions or even billions, cause immeasurable amounts of pain, and wreak havoc on the planet, its resources, and those who rely upon it for life. If you were to be hired, you Mr. Mullens would be in charge of gathering this information. So, do you have any questions?”

Per the advice of the fired therapist, I tried to nod assuringly as he spoke to “signal my active listening”. 

“Yeah, do you guys cover dental?”