The Final Interview

“Don’t speak,” said the thing behind the desk. The desk was made of bones and hearts. Hearts still sputtering. “The way it works is: you don’t tell me your qualifications. We know them already, see?” It said this quietly, but strong and absolute.

I shut my mouth. The stench made me open it again, to breathe without smelling. What did he say next? I almost fainted from the onslaught of odors: bile, urine, blood, shit — nothing I didn’t expect. In such a place.

There were two doors behind the thing at the desk. With a surprisingly pleasant smile (for such a face) it pointed to the door with the red formica pitchfork icon, and returned to its paper work.

And I sat there in pure torment, enduring a thousand feelings of unfairness, injustice, betrayal, helplessness, and self-loathing — all burning behind my eyes, tossing my stomach around, as I frantically (and unsuccessfully) rehearsed the ways in which I would rectify this situation. To walk out, liberated, truly not caring, and be greeted by something better, in spite of it all. To simply go through the other door, despite protests. To leap up, launch across the desk, grab lapels, shout or hiss, to convince the — the — thing otherwise. A hundred different variations of the same scene, inallofwhich I emerged victorious.

And I sat there in pure torment.

The thing behind the desk looked up again. Its face had a piece of plea in it.

“I’m not goin’,” I said, before I realized what I was doing, and crossed my arms. “Whatever that paper says about me — it’s wrong. You guys’ve made a mistake, is what. I’m not going in there.”

“You don’t get it,” the thing said, and looked down at its papers. Which were not papers, but skin. Human skin. (Which was my guess, but seemed quite obvious. In such a place.)

“Oh — I get it, I do,” I said, “I get it good. I get it loud and clear.”

“Shut up.” Viciously polite. Not needing to look up. “You don’t.” Matter-of-factly. No argument.

I was more shocked than impressed with myself.

Minutes burned away. I had not moved from thethe velour-covered chair, so the thing behind the desk looked at me again. With eyes that made me want to leave. Quickly. It leaned forward, and, so sweetly I forgot the eyes, whispered, “They’re dressing rooms.”

“Dressing r — ” I started in my seat. “Now, hey — hey, that’s still not right. I never — ” I kept gesturing to the other door — the one with the yellow halo — but my words were blathering.

“I know. Look, I understand you’re confused. But it’s designed to work that way, see? Yours was a life of forgiving, and that’s precisely why you get this.” It glanced down, like my name was written there somewhere. (In blood or fire, no doubt.) “It’s the way all job interviews work. It’s the nonsense of the hiring process. No different here.” It finished. I must have looked confused. “Than it was back there,” it added.

“Back there?” I was always a little slow. With the obvious.

“Before the drunk driver swerved into your lane.”

“Ah.” Though I couldn’t remember much else, I now understood the looping vision in my head. “Back there.” The little movie. The last one. The Pontiac Firebird logo crashing through glass and rushing up to my face at 65 + 74 = 139 m.p.h.

The thing behind the desk settled, even smiled. It moved my file into another stack. We were through. “Okay kid, it’s time to be fierce and cruel.”

“But — I can’t — I’m not ready for — I’ve never — ”

It was shaking its head. “I know. Like your résumé says — ‘a lifetime of relentless forgiveness.’ But I told you — that’s exactly why.”

I sighed. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

“It’s all punishment,” it whispered to me, indicating both doors.

“It won’t be so bad.” I tried to inject myself with some confidence.

“That attitude helps like you wouldn’t believe.”

I got up and, chest high, sneering a grin, headed for my dressing room. I kicked the door open. “Gimme my uniform!” I barked, rude (and liking it!)

“Yes, uh-huh, I can see you were meant for this kind of work.”