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.”
Copyright © 2021
Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.
