The interview (a work of fiction)

In the interview room there was a giant black clock on the wall and three oak tables. On one of the tables there was a bowl of pears. On the second table there was a white t-shirt and on the third table there were two apples. The interviewer wore a red shirt and a blue tie. His eyes were shifty behind his horn-rimmed glasses and his moustache bristled. At first he talked loudly and enthusiastically and then grew solemn.

I noticed his left shoe was untied and he knew it too.

“Do you think you will be a good candidate for the position?”

He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. He then touched his fat nose.

“I think I can do an excellent job,” I said, tense with expectant waiting.

“I have many concerns,” he said with a despairing gaze.

“How many concerns do you have?”

The man closed his eyes and then went into the drawer for a carton of cigarettes. When he fished one out of the box, he rolled it on the desk. He rolled it back and forth before putting it into his mouth. When he struck the match, he smiled. He was thinking about his supper, broiled snapper and roasted potatoes. He couldn’t wait to get home to his wife.

“Let’s begin with your demeanor. You are not upbeat.”

“I am sad a lot as of late, but I can do a good job.”

“I’m sure you can. Why are you sad?”

“Because of my girl friend…she was raped a few days ago and I haven’t gotten over it.”

“How badly was she raped?”

“Brutally,” I said.

The interviewer inhaled deeply on his cigarette and went to the table to pick up an apple. He noticed my distressed look and the revulsion in my eyes.

“Do you see this bruise?,” he asked.

I didn’t answer but just studied the dented apple.

“Yes…you are like this apple, young man,” he said in a conciliatory tone.

When I looked at him, I noticed that his bulbous nose turned bright red.

“I could start next week.”

“Well then,” he said, before stabbing out the cigarette in an ash tray.

“Do I have the job?” I asked with a gentle smile.

“If you are able to stuff this apple into your rectum, you may surely have it...starting at eight dollars an hour,” he said, laughing cruelly.

His eyes glinted with mean amusement and his mouth quirked in a half-humorous, half-bitter line. The man wanted to hoot with laughter but controlled himself.

I ran out of the room and went into the rain. All I remember is that the street boasted many street lamps that were already lit in the afternoon darkness.

I could not accept eight dollars an hour; I had a college degree.