The Interview

by

Bruce Petronio

As time runs down for him to appear, Toby wavers. He's on a third loop of his hometown's half-boarded-up commercial block; one moment he feels hopeful, the next skeptical. He'd heard from friends who'd been through the interview: one scoffed, Mere formality! You'll get it! while the other--incredulous, red-faced--bellowed, Where the fuck do they get the balls! Debating now whether to call his wife, Grace is cheerleader-supportive, Toby steps off a curb and almost gets struck by a silently speeding Tesla Stealth. The drive-by whoosh and suck of air delivers a sucker punch of mortality and in the next instant he decides: Why not me? Good references. Two graduate degrees. Having reasonably reasoned it out, he strides to the interview.

From the outside, the repurposed Planned Parenthood still looks featureless, still a low-profile kind of place. He'd been here eight years ago, to support his best friend from childhood, Mara, who'd been abandoned by her decade-older "manfriend." Toby had held Mara's hand in the standing-room-only waiting room, drove her home afterward and slept the night on her couch. Now, the only hint to what's inside this place is a sunshine-yellow smiley face stenciled on the plate glass door. It seems retro to Toby; at once lame and encouraging.

The waiting room isn't how he remembers it. It's bright, and pleasant, with several potted snake plants and alternating pink and baby-blue molded chairs. But the room is empty, and when Toby approaches the desk the receptionist pops up as if she'd been hiding, waiting to surprise him. If so, it's effective, he's doubly startled, she's tall, attractive, dressed in a grey pin-striped business suit over a low-cut scarlet top. Before he can announce himself, she exclaims, "Welcome, Mr. Sharpe!" She bends from the waist to hand him a BezoSlate, her cleavage like a sudden and alluring internet pop-up, before he catches himself and lowers his eyes. Is she some kind of test? Eyes averted, he feels the Slate she puts into his hand, retreats, and overcoming a contrarian impulse, sits in a blue chair.

And quickly finds the Slate dated. It's somehow reassuring that they're using tech that'll soon facebook into the dustbin of cyber-capitalism. He smiles at his witticism. But the form on the Slate is in a small font. And he forgot his reading glasses. Closing one eye, squinting the other, he makes out that it's the very same form he sent via SecurIt a week ago. He clicks the audio option, listens grudglingly and answers Clio's annoyingly faux upbeat questions in a faux upbeat voice, then, eyes averted, he returns the Slate to the desk and retakes his seat.

The wait is reminiscent. Except now he's the only one waiting. And the receptionist has disappeared. The room is midnight quiet, as if everyone has long since gone home. The longer he waits--five minutes seems like thirty--the more intentional it feels. Another test? This one of patience? Patience will be critical to them. I can do patience! He twists his neck side to side to loosen his tie. "The noose," he had scoffed, when Grace insisted he wear one. He hears something, looks up. The receptionist is back at her desk, eyeing him as if waiting for a response. When he lifts his chin inquisitively, she says, "They're ready for you."

At the door, he steels himself, opens it, puts on a congenial face as he enters. The room is institutional and monochrome beige, empty save for two people in chairs, the student kind with desk surfaces, twelve arranged in a circle, as if for a support group. The two interviewers sit opposite each other, each halfway around the circle. Facing him at 3 o'clock, a colorfully-dressed, fortyish Hispanic woman, who offers a welcoming smile. At 9, with his back to Toby, a white guy, comically large for the desk, his butt spilling out of the seat. When the man turns, Toby pulls up, unsettled by the guy's mirrored sunglasses. Like a Southern sheriff's in a chain-gang movie. It's an interior room, no windows, and the artificial lighting isn't bright. The mirrored glasses move slowly up and down. Feeling like he's being frisked, Toby straightens, unsmiling….

"Please, have a seat." From the woman.

Relieved, Toby restarts, considers where to sit, can't appear indecisive, chooses a chair at 6 o'clock, so that the guy is to his left, the woman his right, each two chairs removed from him. "Symmetry," he says with a smile that grazes past the man and settles on the woman.

She returns his smile. "Welcome Mr. Sharpe." She places a flat hand on the Slate atop her desk surface and segues, "We've reviewed your application and attendant materials and would like to ask you a few follow-ups."

Attendant materials? He makes his face smile.

"A formality," the man deadpans.

Toby forces himself to look at the guy, avoids the sunglasses, focuses on his mouth--thin and slash-wide--like a catfish.

"To start," he hears the woman say, "please answer on a scale of one to ten, ten being the most positive."

"Understood," he says, and thinks, like one of those inane online tests, the answers add up to reveal your true character!

"For candor," the man adds, "your answers must be spontaneous." He shifts his ass cheeks and with a grunt, reaches back and produces from a back pocket an old-time coach's stopwatch. He palms it in his meaty hand, thumb hovering. "Five seconds to respond."

Before Toby can absorb this, the woman's voice to his right: "On a scale of one to ten, how financially secure are you?"

Wait. Huh? What's financially secure these days? He can actually hear the stopwatch ticking! Total assets? Property.... "Time!" the man exclaims, as a half beat late Toby blurts, "Eight point five?"

Both peer at him doubtfully. Then both finger-tap rather than speak something into their Slates. Toby, fixated now on the stopwatch in the man's fat hand, hears the woman, "Your five-year adjusted gross income has been volatile. How stable an income can you expect from securities?"

He feels himself bristle. They have my tax returns! He has to bite down, hard, on a propulsive fuck off. But in his mind's eye: Grace in tears. He can't challenge them. The self-conscious part of him that observes himself, from outside and above, sees a chump. And the chump now must kowtow, must pretend he's accepting the implication of attendant materials.

He hasn't answered the question and yet the stopwatch isn't ticking. Are they giving him pause to grasp the reach of their power?

The pause becomes taut. Competitive.

Until the woman says kindly, "Please, Mr Sharpe. Compose yourself."

Right. Okay. It feels like he made a stand. Showed some backbone. Again he thinks of Grace, her faith that he will, must, succeed. He takes a calming breath, rolls his shoulders, tries to stretch the tension out of his tie-constricted neck. Reboots his face.

The woman looks across to her colleague: "Let's do without the stopwatch and numerical answers." She turns, gives Toby a compassionate look, asks, "You okay?"

She has seniority over the sheriff! He feels positive vibes from her, imagines her a patient, hard-working mother of teenage kids. He sits up, says, "Good to go."

The woman nods approvingly.

"A-hem." The sheriff. The woman and Toby turn to him. He gives Toby a conciliatory smile and says in a conversational tone. "Just curious." Pause, one beat, two, three too many. "What's your personal belief system?"

Toby jolt-stiffens in his chair. He looks to the woman; her head is down, a hand obscuring her face as if she can't believe the sheriff's question. Still, she doesn't intervene. She must be required to hear his answer. He can't say atheist. Agnostic? Humanist? "Humanist!" he says too forcefully, yet pleased with his answer.

"Really?" The guy says, as if he's impressed. "A humanist!"

Toby tries to read the guy but can't penetrate the mirrored lenses. When he doesn't answer, the sheriff's tone changes: "Sharpe, describe your personal ideal of an 'actual' humanist."

Toby's impulse is to defend himself. But the impulse weakens and again he's standing outside himself, again sees a chump. He gives the sheriff an exasperated look. Makes him wait. Enjoys that, making the guy wait. Finally, "My senior year at Cornell I became convinced we had to promote the well-being of all men and women. Humankind."

"Promote the well-being of all men and women. Humankind," the sheriff quickly and flawlessly repeats. Mimicry obvious. A hand to his brow, as if confused, he purses his catfish mouth, then comes out of it, pins Toby with his blank visage. "What does humankind mean to you?"

"All races, colors, creeds, genders," and can't stop himself, "gay, trans, fluid, binary…"

"All ages?" the man interrupts.

It strikes Toby like an accusation. Gramps! He hadn't been helpful several years back, too busy, when his grandad was dying of DeltaV-22. How could they know that?

"Let's switch gears," the woman abruptly intervenes. She sits back in her chair. Waits. Allowing the tension to drain away. Like a professional therapist. Smiles at Toby, apologetically, as if for her colleague. "I meant to ask at the start." She shrugs. "It's a little poll we take now that we have this new space. Did you have any trouble finding us?"

Toby rushes to appear amenable, "No, no trouble."

"So you've never been here before?" the sheriff sideswipes him. Toby looks at the guy, the catfish mouth seems smirky, and all at once it hits him, what the sheriff is after, and he does what he can not to appear rattled. But he's got to answer. A sweat droplet slides down the ridge of his spine into his ass crack, his flesh prickles and he hunches his shoulders.

"We should have him on the stopwatch," the guy admonishes the woman. He holds the stopwatch high, poised, eager.

Can they possibly know? Did I sign in with Mara? He locks eyes with the woman. Decides to gamble. Makes a what's this all about face. "I've never been here," he tells her. The woman's eyes narrow and he hears himself say, "I honestly don't recall ever being here before." Even to him it sounds like a response from a congressional hearing on CNN. But she gives a slight dip of her eyelids and chin, and when the sheriff starts to protest, she puts up an open-handed stop signal. Toby thinks she believes him. Or at least that she, a woman, back in the day a young woman, understands: whatever the circumstances, there were different options then, at the time still legal. She and Toby hold each other's gaze and something passes between them. She nods, smiles, says, "We thank you, Toby. You'll hear from us soon."

Toby! He returns her smile. "Thank you," he says to her, ignoring her subordinate.

On his way out, the receptionist is gone, the waiting room empty, no other candidates waiting, and he feels a surge of confidence. We're gonna get it! Grace will be so relieved!

The next morning, he wakes late. Grace not in bed beside him. He feels loose-limbed and fuzzy from the night's wine and sex (albeit, oral only). The smell of coffee brewing gets him out of bed. He slipper-scuffs down the hall to the kitchen. She's standing at the far end of the island counter in her pjs. Hair pillow-flattened on one side. Staring gape-mouthed and wide-eyed at her phone. Her brother in trouble again? He gently clears his throat. She jerks up. A baffled, put-out look, she thrusts the phone's screen toward him and cries, "It was only you!" He makes a huh? face. "So why text me? Why send me their verdict!" It takes only an instant; he's back in the room. Questions…the fucking stopwatch. "Their verdict?" he says, his face already tightening in anger. When he looks to her, she shoots him an aggrieved look. "But why?" she pleads. "Why?" her voice rising. He asks softly, "What's the text say?" and moves to her, but when he spreads his arms to hug her she thrusts the phone in his face and he recoils, now he's put out, he snatches the phone from her, instantly says, "Sorry! Sorry, hon. Truly." Then, after all that, the text's font is too small. "Fuck's sake!" he bursts out, glancing all about for his reading glasses as if there were a chance in hell they'd be close at hand. She snatches the phone back. Reads, emphasizing as she goes,

And before Toby can react, "But wait!" she cries, "there's an asterisk!" She reads silently. He knows it by heart even before she chortles maniacally and says, "The asterisk! Oh, do allow me to refresh." She gives him an overwrought smile that distorts her face. Toby rubs his face with his hand, and all at once, with no warning, he understands this verdict might derail them. The thought of it breaks open in his chest…as he hears Grace's faux cheery voice, "The birth of an unsanctioned child carries a Post-Adujsted Gross Income correction of two hundred thousand dollars." Again that distorted smile. "Well, my love, we'll just have to manage the correction."

It's only after that long day into night--after Toby opened their financial spreadsheet (too many red numbers) and reasoned rationally that they couldn't afford both the two hundred K and a child; after Grace's sobs segued into bitter recrimination; after he then reasoned it would only pour gas on the fire to tell her about Mara; after they spent the day apart and ate a spartan dinner separately and went to bed as far away from each other as the queen mattress would allow--that Toby, staring up at the ceiling at 3 A.M., pondered: It was because he had helped Mara years ago. That's why they interviewed only him and not Grace. But if they knew, why bother with the interview? Did they hope he and Grace would accept the two hundred added to their AGI? Would they benefit somehow? Some kind of commission? He gropes for his reading glasses on his nightstand, rolls back toward Grace and reaches over her prone body, and takes up her phone from her nightstand. He punches in her password and finds the text and flicks down to the closing. Luz Ruiz-Taylor, Senior Counselor, Parenthood Planned. Her decision. So he'd misread her, imagined sympathy that wasn't there. About to close out, he notices the text's time stamp: 3:17 A.M. He doesn't know what to make of that, of her, texting Grace at 3:17 A.M. But without giving it another thought--because it's less complicated--he decides that she must have insomnia.