The Interview and the Fat Man

I know you didn’t ask, but I feel inclined to share with you here today: My Worst Job Interview Ever.

(All names, locations, eye color, hair length and weight are pretty close to the absolute truth.  Only just fake enough to prevent me from getting my butt sued right off my body.)

Okay.

Up north in Yankee Land, I used to be an escrow and closing officer.  Yeah.  Wore suits and everythang.  And pantyhose.  The nude colored ones.  Because there were rules saying fuscia fishnets were not permitted.  Anyway, when I moved to the south, I was informed that attorneys were the only people permitted to commit a closing.  But I was encouraged to apply for the job of Overworked Grunt.

So I mass-mailed my resume to every law firm within a 50 mile radius, then sat back and waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.  Started hanging out in wig shops with Chinese people during the day out of sheer boredom.

After a couple of months I got invited to an interview at a local law firm and gladly accepted.  I got all gussied up in my black Christian Dior suit that I bought at Goodwill when they were having that Stuff-a-Bag-for-$5 sale…and off I went.

I’m not a fan of old houses that have been turned into an office facility.  It’s just weird.  This was one of those places.  I walked in and was greeted by a girl who had probably dreamed of going to college one day, but her red-neck boyfriend knocked her up their senior year and she had to go back for a GED because her parents were Baptist Republicans and couldn’t bear the shame of having people see their daughter of ill-repute wandering the halls of the local Christian Jesus school.

“Hey.  You have an appointment?”

“Why yes.  Yes, I do.  I’m scheduled for an interview at 1:30 with Mr. XXX.”

“Okay.  Well he’s not here, but Mr. Q will be doing his stuff till he gets back.”

“That’s fine.”

So she nods and hollers down the hallway….

“1:30 is here!”

Do I sit or stand, sit or stand?  I decided to sit.  Good thing too, because it took Mr. Q about 30 minutes to do his quarter bag of cocaine before he came sniffing around the corner, rubbing at his nose like he had lice up in there or something.  Oh this oughtta be gooood.

So he ushers me in to what would have been the parlor…had it still been an actual house.  There was a fireplace in there blocked up with some beige filing cabinets.   He scans over my resume, nods a couple of times.  While he’s busy rubbing his knuckle all up in his nostril, I take note of his earring and ponytail.  Not the “cool” kind either.  The old biker dude kind.  Like those creepy dudes who wear leather chaps and hats and say lewd things to the ladies who pass by.

“Now, you’d be working directly for me.”  Mr. Q informed me.

I nod.

“Yeah, I think this’ll work, I think this is good.  You think this is good?”

Again…I nod.  Only this time it’s slower.  Like, “Dude, you’re tripping and scaring me all at the same time.”

I figured now was the time to discuss pay…what with his being high and all.  I opened my mouth to speak, when all of a sudden, what to my wondering eyes should appear?  A fat, red-faced, short, sweaty, smelling like a ham sandwich, angry man who looked like he’d just been forced to pay his ex-wife more alimony so she could get her left deflated boob fixed.

He wiggled his fingers at Mr. Q as if to say, “Get out of my chair.”

So Mr. Q got out of  Fat Man’s chair and handed him my resume.  Fat Man scanned it over like a menu.  Mr. Q tentatively leaned forward and spoke.

“Um, I think April is going to work out here.”

Fat Man sat my resume down, leaned back, put his fingers together like the Godfather and shook his head NO.

“But sir, I’ve already essentially offered her the job.”

Fat Man flipped around to face Mr. Q.

“Well, you shouldn’t opened your mouth, eh?”

Fat Man flips back to me.

“We’ll be touch.”

I stand up and extend my hand to Mr. Q, who looks like he’s in the sad part of his cocaine high.  He mouthed the words, “I’m so sorry.”  I nod to let him know I’m sympathetic to his plight.

I’m halfway out the door when I pull a Columbo and turn around, like I’d just remembered something of great importance.

“I do feel I should let you know that another firm here in town has made me a generous offer, but I wanted to give THIS firm an opportunity to meet me before I made any final decisions.”

Oh look at Fat Man’s face.  His jowls were beginning to tremor.  He was like a little bald ‘n fat volcano fixin’ to spew something vile and un-christian.

Now, I’ll pause here to let you know that I have NO idea what happened after the jowl tremors.  I mean, I do….but it’s fuzzy.  I just remember getting nose to nose with this jackass while he screamed at me so hard that white spittle formed in the corners of his mouth.  Stuff about me being presumptuous and full of gaul and audacity.  Then me hollering back something about him not being able to afford me even if he got a loan and re-financed his house.

That poor little girl at the front desk gave me a ‘Take-Me-With-You-Please” look as I walked past her.  On my way out the door, I heard his screech:

“I’ll tell you this….I won’t forget your name!  You hear me?!  NEVER!”

Needless to say…I didn’t get a call-back.  I saw him at Walmart about a year ago.  He ran and hid out in the cat food aisle while I circled him like a white shark, pretending to look at fish and hamster food.

I kind of secretly hope he peed in his pants a little.

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4 Responses

  1. Hysterical. If your godforsaken town didn’t sound as bad as my godforsaken town, I’d move to yours.

  2. i once went for an interview where my potential future boss spent an hour telling me his business woes, how his partner spends too much money an bought a ferrari so they stopped working together and then how he fired this one and then fired that one and how the business nearly went under.
    after all this he then gave me a test in an office the size of a store cupboard, some of the furniture was piled on top of each other, actually like a store cupboard and i was by now so nervous and disheartened about i completely ballesed up the test he set me. for the best though i should think.

  3. What was Mr. Big-Ass lawyer doing at Walmart’s in the first place?

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