The Interview

by Jesse Eric Whitehead

I see the orange ball crest the distant city skyline, and I look at my dashboard clock. Crap, I’m going to be late. 

I’m caught in the morning traffic rush, but there’s nothing rush about it–it’s moving at a glacial pace. With every passing minute, I’m getting more frustrated and impatient. 

I can’t be late for this job interview. It’s for the dream job I’ve always wanted, and I can’t blow it first thing by being late. First impressions last, they say.

I groan as we stop yet again at red. The stoplights are conspiring against me. They turn red at every intersection, mocking my urgency, trying to make me mad. Every time the light turns green, the traffic moves like molasses, only to be stopped again by the next light. 

And these drivers. Sheesh, they’re the worst! How can there be so many terrible drivers on the road at the same time? Where did these people get their driver’s licenses anyway, from a Cracker Jack box? I snicker at the thought. 

With every stop and start and slow creep forward, I get more impatient. This is so maddening. I want to scream. I grip the wheel with white knuckles, my heart beating wildly. I wish the cars were racing as fast as my heart is.

Why did I start so late this morning? I hate when I do this. I hate feeling rushed.    

“Oh, come on!” I growl as I shake my fists in the air, “you’re killing me.” I don’t know why I do that, nobody hears me. Nobody cares about me being late, but it makes me feel better, if just a little. 

“Hurry up, move, move, move!” I yell. As we inch forward, a driver makes a quick move to change lanes and cuts in front of me without signaling. I jam the brakes to avoid hitting him. “Idiot!” I yell as I flip him off. He’s so close in front of me I can see his eyes in the rearview mirror. Yep, he saw that. Good. I raised my finger again. “Learn to drive, jerk!” 

I’m losing it. I’m getting too mad, road–rage mad. I need to cool it. I take some calming breaths and feel the stress lessen a bit. The traffic thins and gains speed and we are finally getting green lights to keep the flow moving. 

Another twenty minutes and I finally arrive at the office tower, park in the garage and take the elevator to the 14th floor. I find the office, and before I walk in, I take a couple of deep breaths. First impressions last, I remind myself. 

I check in with the receptionist, and she tells me it will be a few minutes. All that hurry for nothing. Why do I get so angry? Not good for my blood pressure getting all worked up like that. 

My phone doesn’t have a good signal here, so I flick through the pages of an automotive magazine and wait for what feels like an eternity. Strange how time goes so fast when I’m late for something, but so slow when I’m waiting.  

Finally, the receptionist calls me, and I follow her into a sleek office with a stunning glass paneled high-rise view. 

The receptionist announces me and leaves. A middle-aged man in a crisp blue power suit stands from his desk and extends his hand. 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Richards,” he says with a big smile. “I’m Lee Jones.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Jones,” I say.

We shake and lock gazes. Mr. Jones’ smile falters. He looks at my hand, still in his grip, and back to my face. A hint of disgust tugs his lips downward. 

“I think we already met earlier,” he says. “I would recognize that middle finger anywhere. Have a seat Mr. Richards.” 

Uh oh. It’s the driver I flipped off earlier in traffic. The guy who is my potential boss. He recognizes me, and he doesn’t look happy. I don’t think this interview is going to go well. 

First impressions last.