It’s odd to write with the knowledge that someone will read it. It sometimes changes things. Sometimes you cease to write for yourself and you begin to write for your audience. It can be the death of you trying to decide who your audience is and what they’d like to read and if you are writing something worthy. Well, I’m not used to it – I’ve been writing for only me for too long. So, dear internets, this one was for me. Taken straight out of the stacks and posted for your approval (or not).
The Job I Never Wanted but Almost Got
I arrived at the law offices towards the end of the work day. People were leaving the building as I walked in and no one recognized me from the last two weeks I had temporarily spent in their midst filling their database. That’s ok, I tried to be invisible while I worked, who really wants to make polite chit chat with a bunch of people you don’t care to know. I walked in and the young lawyer I had found occasional witty banter with flashed me a thumbs up and a smile through his doorway while he paced, his shoulder pressing his phone to one ear. The secretary led me to the door at the end of the hallway and smiled faintly as if trying to tell me not to be nervous. I wasn’t, I hadn’t really been after a job, I wasn’t even sure what the job was but they had called Marissa at the temp agency and said they would like to see me.
I went in, was introduced and shook hands with two of the partners. I sat down in one of the hard brown chairs opposite Mr. Interviewer. He surveyed my resume and I surveyed him. What kind of boss would he make? Would he be willing to let me wear jeans to work on Fridays? Would he grant NPR a presence at my desk? Would he care if I asked for an occasional Monday off because we would be going to Vegas on a long weekend? Would it be a job I can quit without remorse? Looking around his office revealed no secrets, the leather club chair screamed MASCULINE, the rows of leather bound books behind the desk yelled SMART, his shiny desk top shouted MATICULOUSE. I would have to just hear the answers to my questions.
We talked about my job history, the data base I filled for him, mine and his son’s common schooling, we were pleased with the conversation, and it had flow. He asks how fast I can type. I admit I really don’t know. I attempt a guess, 30 words a minute? I really don’t have any idea. “Pretty fast,” I offer “I can think and type at the same time without stopping the thinking part to catch up with the typing part”. He seems surprised that I didn’t know, but moves on to ask the golden question to which all interviewers are waiting for the perfectly brilliant, deliberate, groveling reply “Jenny… what makes you think you’d be good at this job?” I respond “I don’t know that I would be.” He laughs long and hard. He is laughing at his own implied importance and my unimpressed and plain answer. “That’s the best answer I’ve heard all week!” he tells me. We shake hands now genuinely smiling at each other and wishing each other good luck and I believe we both went on to have some – good luck that is.