Success in our career is something we try hard to achieve. Yet, for most of us, it doesn’t come easy.

 

Then we apply for our dream job, and are invited to . . .

 

 

The Interview

 

     It was a bright, sunny, but chilly day. A cold breeze blew against my face, as I walked down Seventh Avenue, through the center of the business district. My heart beat fast and my head pounded. This was my day and my opportunity to make a significant change in my life. The interview I’d been waiting for was minutes away. The position I’d dreamed about—Account Executive at a prestigious executive search firm—would be mine.

     It was 1:28 p.m. My appointment was at two. I approached the three-story brick building, which housed the offices of Jensen, Babcock and Lyman, and entered. I made my way up the stairs to the third floor. At the top of the stairs, I turned left, looking for Suite 311. It was halfway down the hallway on the right side. I pulled open the large oak doors and went in. 

     I found myself in the stately outer office of my future place of employment. At least, I hoped that would be the case. I approached the front counter. A woman, with her head bent down, fidgeted with the papers on her desk.

     “Excuse me, Miss,” I stated with confidence.

     She lifted her head, stared me straight in the eye, and said, “Yes.”

     “I’m Wilson Avery. I’m here for an interview. I’m supposed to meet with Ashton Babcock at two o’clock.”

     “Ah, yes, Mr. Avery, you’re on my calendar. Please have a seat. I will let Ashton know you’re here.”

     “Thank you,” I replied.

     Hmmm, I thought. Calling Mr. Babcock by his first name was quite impersonal for such a large, professional firm. But I guess each organization handles things in its own unique manner. I turned away and walked to the seating area positioned around a majestic fireplace, which was ablaze. It was what I needed, because I was trembling from both the cold of the winter day and the anticipation of an interview that could take my career to the next level.

     My wait seemed like an eternity. I twiddled my thumbs, played with my tie, and counted the slats in the hardwood floor. My anxiety level was elevated beyond my wildest imagination.

     My mind raced—interview, how to succeed, be yourself. Yes, that was the first principle I’d learned in the seminar I’d taken in preparation for my job search. Don’t pretend to be something you’re not. The interviewer will see right through you.

     I looked at my watch. It said two thirty-six. But my appointment was at two. And the receptionist said Babcock was expecting me. What was taking so long?

     I heard a noise and noticed the front office door had opened. An elegant woman entered. Dressed in a bright red business suit, a white blouse, and patent leather high heels, with an impeccable hairdo, she was quite stunning and professional.

      She approached the receptionist, and said in a soft, but firm voice, “I’m Salina Scully, Ashton Babcock’s three o’clock appointment. I’m a bit early.”

     “No problem, Ms. Scully. Just have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

     “Oh, my God! She’s my competition. I can’t compete with her,” I murmured. She looks like she belongs here—a perfect fit.

     Chills ran up and down my spine. I started to shake. “Maybe I should blow off this interview,” I muttered.

     I stared at her to see if I could identify any apparent weaknesses. But none jumped out at me. She lifted her laptop from beside her chair and propped it up on her lap. She appeared so self-assured; it was scary.

     I, on the other hand, had brought just a hard copy of my resume I’d submitted—no computer, iPad, iPhone, or iAnything. She was a winner. I was a loser.

     Looking at my watch again, I discovered it was three o’clock. Why was Babcock avoiding me? Maybe he already knew I wasn’t the one he wanted to hire. Then the phone at the front desk rang. The receptionist answered it. “Yes. Yes, I’ll tell him.”

     She put down the phone and looked in my direction. “Mr. Avery, Ashton Babcock has a favor to ask of you.”

     “Favor? What favor?” I stuttered.

     “Because of an emergency that had to be attended to, your time slot for the interview was preempted. Since Ms. Scully has an appointment at four o’clock, she needs to be seen ahead of you. Your interview will begin as soon as her meeting is completed. Is this okay with you?”

     What could I say to this request? I didn’t want to appear unreasonable. So, I replied in a high-pitched voice, “That’s fine.” But it wasn’t. By this time, I already was a nervous wreck. My stomach was upset. My head ached. Nothing was working for me.

     I watched, as the women who would deprive me of my chance at greatness was shepherded into Babcock’s office by the receptionist. “Why did I ever think I had a shot at this job?” I whimpered. I sat back in my chair and waited . . . very uncomfortably.

     Finally, the door to Babcock’s office opened. The exquisite woman exited. She glowed as she said, “Thank you,” to Babcock, whom I couldn’t see. Then, in a vibrant tone, she stated, “See you Monday, . . . eight o’clock sharp.”

     I mumbled to myself, “She’s been in there just twenty-eight minutes.” Yes, I clocked it. It was a quick interview. That, and the “See you Monday” comment, could mean only one thing. She got the job—my position.

     With my head in my hands, I moaned, “How could this get any worse?” Looking up, I saw the receptionist standing in front of me.

     “Mr. Avery, please come with me.”

     I stood and followed her into a plush, well-appointed office. I faced a huge, antique desk, but no one was seated in the large, leather desk chair behind it.

     “Please sit down,” she sighed, pointing to a high-backed, cushioned chair facing the desk. “Ms. Babcock will join you soon.”       

     I took my seat, as directed, and looked up at her with a puzzled expression on my face. “Ms. Babcock?” I queried. “I’m here to see Mr. Babcock.”

     She gave me a weird look. “There is no Mr. Babcock.”

     “But the letter I received inviting me to the interview was signed, ‘Mr. Babcock.’”

     “Either you misread it or ‘Mr.’ was printed in error. If that was the case, I apologize.”

     She turned and exited the office, leaving me stunned by the unexpected turn of events. I tried to compose myself. I took a deep breath, as Ms. Babcock, an engaging woman in her mid-to-late fifties, appeared from a door behind the desk. I started to rise . . .

     “Please, don’t get up,” she said in a soft, pleasant voice.

     She sat down in her chair and pulled it up to the desk and spoke in a direct manner. “I apologize for keeping you waiting.” She paused. “Now, let’s begin, Mr. Avery.”

     “May I ask a question first?”

     “Yes, by all means.”

     “Can you tell me how many other candidates are being interviewed for the position?”

     She had a perplexed expression on her face. “What other candidates? Weren’t you told? You’re the only one.”

     “But, . . . what about the attractive, very professional woman who interviewed with you at 3:00 p.m.” I stammered.

     She chuckled. “Oh, you’re talking about my daughter, Salina, our firm’s attorney.”

     “But the receptionist didn’t seem to know her.”

     She laughed. “She’s not the company’s receptionist. Our receptionist is on maternity leave. She’s a temp who started at the beginning of the week. And she’s never met Salina.”

     Shocked by this revelation, I stared at her in awe. “You mean . . .”

     “Yes, you got the job.”

 

 

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