Day 158 to 160

Day 158

Sweet Christ, finally, a job interview. 

After having my self-confidence reduced to tatters by two email firings in six weeks, a second frantic job search had produced fewer options.  To date, I’ve done half a dozen phone interviews and a couple of face-to-face interviews, but this was the first time an organization was flying me in.  Without a job, I will run out of food within a month.  No pressure.    

OK, maybe some pressure.  The night before the interview, I was sitting in a nearby Marriott, trying to come up with some sound bytes that sounded brilliant yet unrehearsed, when it occurred to me that I was terrifically nervous. 

Grappling with anxiety, I pondered the solutions.  Generally, the most effective treatments for apprehension are the three B’s: barbiturates, booze and blowing a load.  I pondered the merits of leaving the hotel in search of recreational drugs, before rejecting the idea.  But there are few who can casually ask a gas station attendant where one can score some pot, and fewer still who can polish off a bottle of scotch without a hangover.  Fortunately, the hotel provided free Wi-Fi, allowing me unfettered access to the red-light district of the internet.  In no time I was relaxed and drowsing comfortably, swimming in the endorphin-induced feelings of goodwill that only a proper orgasm can summon. 

Over the course of the day I was scheduled to speak with no less than a dozen potential supervisors and co-workers of varying seniority.  By the time I’d reached the last interview of the day, I was tired but confident.  I was killing it, due in no small part to my stress-relieving exploits of the previous evening.  My final interviewers two potential co-workers.  At this point, I was playing the prevent defense that all confident applicants play: all I had to do was not say something stupid and the job would be mine.  This made even more sense in light of the fact that I had been interviewing for almost six hours and was flagging badly. 

The position I had applied for called for particular expertise in writing and editing.  Not unsurprisingly, one of the interviewers asked if I had any additional writing samples on me.

“Of course I do!” I bellowed cheerfully, tearing into my backpack and cracking open my laptop.  At no point did I think to question whether a spur-of-the-moment unveiling of my personal computer to two complete strangers would be a good idea.  At least until the unit finished powering up and the screen came alive to an open internet window of the rather explicit webpage I had so enjoyed so much the previous evening. 

Fuck.  Moving only slightly slower than the speed of light, I wrenched my laptop away from prying eyes.  “Hmm, let me find it,” I mumbled, desperately lining up the arrow over the “close tab” button and hammering desperately.  After a harrowing half-second, the naked figures on the screen disappeared.  Relief rushed through me for one blissful moment, only to be driven out by cold terror when another window popped up to replace it.  Like a death trap in an Indiana Jones movie, the designers of this particular erotic website built in a failsafe in the form of a pop-up window sporting a large-breasted woman in a nurse costume.  Even worse, this spectacle came complete with audio. Before I could quell the second window, a sultry woman’s voice emanating from my computer’s speakers asked everyone within earshot, “Who’s been a baaaad boy?”

Sound travels at a pedestrian 1,100 feet per second, far slower than light.  As such, I saw the danger before I heard it.  Sadly, this was irrelevant.  I had, as the saying goes, failed to keep my shit in the toilet.  

“What was that?” asked the first interviewer, a chunky redhead who thus far had not indicated a soft spot for hardcore porn. 

A properly functioning neuron transmits information at a rate of roughly 217 feet per second.  With a typical distance of six inches between the cortical processing centers of the brain, roughly a thousand permutations can be considered during a typical latency period following a question.  As such, the odds of giving a well-thought-out lie to a difficult question are, statistically speaking, rather long. 

Fortunately for frequent liars, the biophysical limitations of the brain does not discount the possibility of escaping such jams.  Enter the prepackaged lie, a ready-to-go story for the times we’re busted.  For some reason, most of mine involve claiming to suffer from some sort of disease.  For example, if a movie theater usher ever discovers the grocery store candy I am attempting to smuggle in, I claim to be diabetic protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act.  If I’m ever losing a fistfight, I will attempt to elicit sympathy from my attacker by claiming to have hemophilia.  Sadly, no disease – other than pornography addiction – could get me out of this one. 

Fortunately, there’s always a weapon of last resort: misdirection.  Like any good bullshitter, I knew that you could get people to drop just about anything – no matter how damaging – if you confused them sufficiently.  This is a delicate art, and a precise script must be followed.  It generally works if you say something stupid, but also is fairly handy if your computer does it for you.

Computer lady: Who’s been a baaaad boy?

Redhead: What was that?

Noah: About sixteen [note, this can be any bit of nonsense].

Redhead: Huh?

Noah: Sure.

Redhead: I’m afraid I’m not following.

Noah: [Here’s where you show confusion] No, no, what did you say?

Redhead: Huh?

Noah: Never mind, here’s the document you wanted to see.  

Day 160

They hired the other guy. 

Next Time: Another, slightly stranger job option emerges.