THE INTERVIEW -SHORT FICTION

Untitled Part 1

"What makes you so sure you'll get the job?" Mom asked as she cracked three eggs into a bowl. The fat below her arm jiggled as she whipped the eggs into yellow foam, then set the bowl on the counter. It had been a long time since Mom had cooked for me. I usually didn't make time for her in my busy life, but she wanted me to take a loaf of banana bread to my interview, and I knew it would butter up the CEO, although I had the job in the bag. As I waited for the bread to finish baking, Mom flipped the sizzling bacon, releasing a cloud of white smoke to hover above her head. My stomach growled.

"Well?" She asked.

My salivary glands had taken over, and I had forgotten she had asked me a question. I licked my lips. "I am the most qualified candidate. I have four years of medical service, eight years of administrative experience, and your loaf of bread."

Mom set the interview up with her good friend Broc, the director of Orphans of Love, a for-profit agency that took medical supplies to orphans worldwide. Broc had an opening for vice president, and I needed it. I didn't care about the orphans; I desired the fat salary and the chance to see the world on Broc's dime.

"Chris, don't go in with that cocky attitude of yours. Broc will see right through it. He is looking for more than just a good resume. He is looking for a heart. Take time to be caring, kind, and above all..."

"Blah, blah, blah, blah. Mom, I have this. Take a look at the situation. You are a stay-at-home domesticated servant, and I have the degree and experience."

Mom's eyebrows furrowed as she picked up the shaker and overloaded the omelet with salt. She had done that intentionally because I had belittled her, but I spoke truthfully. She shouldn't have taken offense.

"Easy, easy." I grabbed the omelet from her hand and used a paper towel to rub off as much salt as possible.

With a warm loaf of bread in my lap, I sat awaiting my interview, punctually early. The reception area annoyed me with everyone coming and going, much like a doctor's office. I opened my laptop and worked.

A lady sat in the seat next to me when she could have picked a dozen other empty chairs. I glared at her and shifted a little to my right.

"How are you?" Her voice sounded pathetic, almost close to tears. I gave a weak smile, nodded, and continued working.

"This is a hard day. Such a hard day." She stared at me. What does she want? Go blab to someone else, Lady.

"It's three months since my husband died. I thought that with time, it would get easier, but it has only gotten harder."

Why does she have to bring her dead husband into this? I looked up at her--my mistake. She took that as an invitation to deliver her sob story as if I cared. Why do people do this? Why do they seek sympathy from strangers? No one cares.

"...and now I have no income coming in, and my cupboards are bare," she said. I had stopped giving her eye contact. I typed loudly on my computer to convey I had better things to do. She didn't take the hint.

"Something smells really good on you, like a muffin or pastry. What you got there?" She pointed to the banana bread wrapped in a clean dishtowel.

Nervy? "Banana bread," I said, glancing up, then went back to typing.

"Oh, it smells so good. I haven't eaten for over three days. I am so hungry. I hope I can get some help soon. I don't know how long I can do this."

I looked at my watch. The interview should have started ten minutes ago. They were running late. Interviewers expect punctuality from you but hardly return it.