The Interview

   A little background is in order, I suspect, before I set to rambling.
 
   It turns out that there all sorts of student competitions taking place in high schools and universities across the country that do not occur on athletic fields. I’m not talking about Quiz Bowls or Spelling Bees. I’m talking about competitions where student teams design and build things. Interesting things. It might be a robot that navigates a maze, or a Rube Goldberg machine, or a miniature bridge, or a solar-powered car or what have you.

  These competitions don’t get much press. Unless you’re an engineering type, and/or happen to be in the know about these endeavors, they’re just quietly churning away backstage.
 
   In any case, occasionally I get an invitation to be a design judge for one of these deals, and, if time allows, I’ll say yes. It’s always a hoot.
 
   OK then. I think that’s all the background that’s needed.

*          *          *

   Just a few weeks back, I was asked to assist with a high school STEM team that was practicing for their upcoming competition. “STEM” stands for Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics. This particular team – consisting of eight kids – had designed and built an amazing semi-autonomous robot that senses and navigates its way around a small arena, with the goal of quickly and accurately collecting a bunch of tokens and organizing them into neat little stacks. My description here doesn’t do the team or their creation any justice, by the way. It was an absolute marvel to see this robot hustling around, doing its thing. Truly captivating. And the kids that built it were off-the-charts cool and smart. A real Scooby Gang.
 
   Anyway, this was basically an acting gig for me. Rather than serving as a real design judge, I was asked to turf up at the high school one afternoon to play the role of a design judge, of the type that they might expect to face in their competition. The whole shebang lasted just a couple of hours, in which time we managed to get through several practice runs of the team doing their presenting and me doing my asking of judge-like questions. I thought they did an excellent job, and I told them so.
 
   After all the official stuff wrapped up, we had some leftover time to relax, mill around, and chat, so we did.
 
   It was during this time that the team captain said to me, “I feel like today was really good practice for a job interview.”
 
   “What do you mean, Katy?” I asked her.
 
   “Well, you were asking us all those tough questions, and we really had to explain ourselves without being nervous,” she replied. I noticed the rest of her teammates turning an ear toward us.
 
   Hmmm, I thought to myself. Should I give it to them straight?

*          *          *

   I decided to go ahead and lay it on ‘em. Why not? I can remember how daunting job interviews seemed to me at that age – and way beyond that age, if I’m being honest. I sure could have used some hand-me-down wisdom along the way. It would have saved me a lot of grief.
 
   So, I said, “You’re totally right about the judging part of your competition being a lot like a job interview.” While saying this I made a subtle gesture with my arms and did some eye-scanning in hopes of including the rest of her teammates in the conversation. “That’s really insightful. But this experience only covers one part of a job interview. There’s another part you should know about.”
 
   “Whaddya mean?” of few of them asked. I was baiting them a little. I’ll admit it.
 
   “Well, here today – I mean, in what you just practiced doing – what were you really doing? I mean, what were the steps to it? The parts of it?” I asked.
 
   One of the kids answered without hesitation, “We’re introducing our team and describing the design of our robot and telling you our philosophy for how we did it. And we’re answering your questions. I mean, the judge’s questions.”
 
   “Disco,” I said. “That’s exactly what you’re doing. And there’s a name for that. What you’re actually doing is selling. You’re being salesmen.” I noticed a few twitches, but nothing too serious, so I continued. “You’re trying to convince someone how great your robot is, and how great your team is. It is a great team and it is a great robot, by the way – just so you know. You should all be really proud of what you’ve accomplished. Seriously.” I paused for a second to catch my breath and get myself back on track. “But what I mean is that selling is just one part of what you can do when you’re in a job interview. That's the part where you’ll need to introduce yourself, describe your education and skills and personal philosophy, and you’ll have to answer some questions. This is what Katy’s picking up on.”
 
   “But why are you saying it’s only one part of a job interview,” asked a kid named Joel, one of the team’s computer programmers. “Isn’t that the whole thing? Like, the goal is to make yourself look good in a job interview so they’ll believe you’re a good fit for their company, right? And that means being a salesman. Of yourself.”
 
   “Over the years I’ve kind of learned the hard way that there’s more to it than that,” I offered. “Here’s the thing: A job is like a contract where you’re agreeing to exchange some of your time and energy for a paycheck, right?” After I saw some heads nodding in agreement, I carried on, “But is money all that you’ll really hope to get out of a job? I mean, if it’s a full-time job where you’re going to be spending three-quarters of all your waking hours, wouldn’t you also want it to be a pleasant environment, with friendly people who respect each other and get along? Wouldn’t you want the work itself to be somewhat interesting and perhaps even a little inspiring and gratifying, on a soul level?” I saw some more nods. “Well, if so, that means that you are into it for more than the money, and that you’re not just selling in a job interview – you’re also buying. It means your potential employer ought to be trying to sell themselves to you. During the interview they should be telling you about themselves and their philosophy, and trying to convince you how great they are. It means you get to ask a bunch of questions too. You get to be the judge of how good a fit they are for you.”
 
   “That’s awesome!” Katy and Joel blurted at the same time, and then looked at each other and laughed at their identical throw-back word choice. And then, as an afterthought, Katy added, “You know, if I think about a job interview like that, like where I get to ask some questions too, it makes me feel a lot less nervous about doing it.”
 
   “Disco,” I said. I was happy to hear her say that.

*          *          *

   As I was driving home from the high school that afternoon, I started thinking about some of the job interviews that I’ve had over the years. There have been some real doozies. The ones I remember the most are the ones I bombed in one way or another. I think that’s because they’re the ones that taught me something about myself at the time. I’ve also been on the other side of the fence, as an interviewer. On that side of things, I mainly remember the interviews that made me laugh. For instance, I remember receiving a résumé once where someone included a few of their all-time favorite quotes. That’s a funny thing to do on a résumé. Funnier still, was that one of the quotes read, “Fisherman have longer poles.” I kid you not.

*          *          *

   One of the toughest interviews I ever had was in San Francisco back in the late 90s. I had already been working professionally for a number of years and had some decent experience under my belt, so I walked into the interview feeling pretty confident. Big mistake.
 
   I remember taking a seat at a huge conference table in front of a panel of four suits, all of whom were deeply wrinkled and serious, like CIA interrogators. The interview consisted of them taking turns at skillfully floating paperwork at me from way across the enormous tabletop, like bartenders sliding shots of whiskey to a cowboy at the end of the bar.  The papers were a bunch of Mensa-like puzzles that they wanted me to not only solve on the spot, but also “talk it out” as I did so. They said they wanted to observe my thinking process in action.
 
   Problem is, my brain is definitely not wired that’a way. Problem-solving and talking at the same time? Forget about it. Not only did I bomb all the puzzles, but since I was incapable of float-sliding the papers back across the table to them, I had the humiliating task of getting up and walking around the whole goddam table to hand-deliver my half-assed scribbles each time I completed one of the puzzles. I was sweating like a bastard by the end of it all. Needless to say, they didn’t offer me the job.

*          *          *

   Another weird interview occurred in Houston. It may have been around the same time as the San Francisco debacle, but I can’t say for certain. This one was a round-robin deal, where I had to have a sit-down with several different big shots in their individual, private offices. All these guys were serious Texans, with easy smiles, death-grip handshakes, and deep-fried Southern drawls. I could tell they were all a little unsettled at having to interview a longhair like me. Yes, folks, it’s true: I had the balls to go down to Texas with my 90s ponytail flapping around behind me like some dipshit. What a greenhorn I was.
 
   Even though it was rather tough going, I can remember skillfully fielding a few questions, building some confidence, and even getting to the point where I started to feel like they kind of liked me. Then came the grand finale, where I got to chew the fat with the CEO. Hand to heart, the guy looked just like Boss Hogg from the Dukes. He had this white suit jacket and he was gnawing on a big, fat cigar and everything. Straight away, he gave me the old Freemason handshake with his Texas grip strength thrown in for good measure. I knew what the handshake was, alright, but since I’m not a creepy Mason I had no clue what the secret response was supposed to be. So, I just shook his hand vigorously while trying to match his grip strength, and smiled like an idiot. A profane idiot, I gathered. I figured I was already a goner, so I went ahead and made my peace with that.
 
   Then, Boss Hogg actually went ahead with things and said the following: “I’ve talked to everyone here, and they all seem to like you just fine. So, I only have one question for you, son. If I ask you to cut your hair before you come to work here, will you do it?” I can proudly say that I stuck by my guns that day and told Boss Hog “no” because I was wary of any enterprise that required a change of clothes. I stole that line of reasoning from Thoreau. I left that interview convinced that I’d never hear from them again, but surprisingly they called and offered me a job a few days later. I had a funny feeling about the whole thing, though, so I didn’t accept. I felt uneasy about all those easy Texas smiles.

*          *          *

   Unfortunately, I haven’t always stuck by my guns in job interviews. I’ve sold out a time or two. Live and learn. As we all know, selling out usually results in landing the job, and here’s a prime example from about 15 years ago. I was already making an OK living being self-employed by then – as I thankfully remain to this day – but I was in the midst of a relocation to a new state, and I figured I had better try to get myself a “real job.” Whatever that is. For financial stability and such, I told myself at the time. Again, whatever that is.
 
   Anyway, I decided to interview for an engineering instructor position at a community college. I was a peculiar candidate for the job because I had no background in academia – but I could tell the Dean liked me, and he seemed willing to take a chance on me for some reason. I wanted the job, too. I actually thought it might be fun to work there (indeed it did turn out to be fun – in some ways) and I jumped through all the interview hoops without too much fuss. That is, until I got to the Director of Academic Affairs. This guy was as pedantic as they come, and had the living-dead pallor of a mortician.
 
   He expressed his deep concern about the according-to-him low count of women enrolled in their engineering program, and asked me, with his fingers strumming away, what I would do about it if I worked there. My trusted little voice whispered the round-peg-square-hole truth of the matter, right inside my head: The numbers probably are what they are because most women would rather do something else with their life than be engineers, and that’s perfectly OK. The inverse is true when it comes to, say, being psychologists, a profession where, if you look at the numbers there, it’s apparent that men would rather do something else with their lives. And that’s OK too.
 
   But … instead of listening to my little voice and speaking my truth, I coughed up the kind of standard rhetoric that I knew this guy was fishing for, some fluff to do with creating a welcoming environment and so on. Pure malarkey, I’m embarrassed to say.

   I only worked at the college for four semesters before I had to quit. What a booby hatch the college was – on the administrative side, I mean. The only fun part was teaching and working with students, which only made up about ten percent of the gig, as far as I could measure. Academia is no place for me. Nor is the place called Untruth.

*          *          *

   My favorite interview story, though, is not my own. It’s a story that belongs to my college buddy, Bill Butler. Bill once worked really hard to snag an on-campus interview with a big company, and then ended up torpedoing his own boat out of the water. Something tells me it was General Motors, but that’s neither here nor there.
 
   According to Bill the problem had to do with how cute the interviewer was, and how he couldn’t stop thinking about asking her out on a date the whole time he was being interviewed. He did, in fact, end up asking her out at the end of the interview. After he knew he’d bombed the Q&A, he figured he had nothing left to lose.
 
   He got himself flat rejected, of course, and had it delivered to him with a look of stony disgust – which is hilarious in and of itself. But my favorite part of Bill’s story occurs in the middle, while he was still being interviewed by his fantasy date. She asked him what he would do if he found himself stranded on a small island with two people who argued all the time. Now, we all know that the correct answer ought to exude a penchant for solving people problems and demonstrate some conflict resolution expertise and such. But poor Bill, with his head in the clouds, staring at his interviewer’s red lips but not fully connecting with what was coming out of them, answered – or perhaps channeled from some higher dimension – that he’d ... wait for it ... build a boat and leave.
 
– O.M. Kelsey