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The Interview

By H.G. Miller

It’s bad enough that I’m stuck here in this suit for the fourth time in three days. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a nice suit. Visa owns it, but I try not to let that bother me. I look good in the suit, it’s just that… well, it’s a suit.

I’m not really this guy.

I’m not the guy who wears a collared shirt and tie. Shoes that cost more than my last six meals. Socks that match the belt that matches my shoes that match the hints of black in the tie that matches not only my collared shirt but also the charcoal suit I’m wearing to pull it all together.

I am not this guy.

Yet, here I am: decked out in the suit and lying through my teeth for the fourth time in three days.

“So,” he looks down at my resume, “Heath. What makes you want to work here?”

“I don’t.”

Let’s see how he handles a little honesty.


Too honest? How about a half-truth.

“Oh you know, the paycheck.”

“Excuse me.”

I’m losing him. Better just lie like he wants.

“I think I can be a valuable asset to your company.”

“Oh yeah? How so?”

I can’t help myself

“Well, I’m really good at stealing office supplies. You’ll hardly notice they’re even gone.”


He’s not even listening to me.

“And, when I ridicule your management style, I’ll be sure to do it behind your back, and only to people who I know dislike you, so you’ll never find out just how much of a schmuck you really are.”

“That’s good.”

He’s looking up from his day planner. Better go with another lie while he’s paying attention.

“Plus, I have experience on a variety of accounts, and a strong background in media.”

“Tell me about some of your accounts.”

“What would you like to know?”

They say it’s good to ask questions yourself. I think I’ve stumped him, though.

“Um, the usual stuff.”

He quickly retreats into his day planner. Time for some more fun.

“Right. Well, I’ve hated them all about equally. But, you know. I hate some of them more than the others.”


Still in the day planner.

“It’s not just the clients, though.”

“Go on.”

Still in the day planner.

“I hate being inside an office all day. Artificial light and insincerity from every person you come in contact with. It gets to you. Endless paperwork, and pandering to the whims and egos of people with longer titles than mine.”

“That’s pretty common.”

This asshole’s using standard-issue lines on me now?

“I know. I mean, do any of you ever realize how much passion has to be suppressed just to make it through a single day in one of these climate-controlled boxes?”

His head snaps up. I think he actually heard that last part.

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, I was just saying that having dealt with local market franchisees on the one hand, and having attended dinner with the CEO of the company on the other, I’ve learned how to deal with all types of clients.”

“That’s great.”

I know, jerk. That’s why I said it.

“So, Heath. What makes you want to work here?”

“You already asked me that.”

“Oh, well then…” he looks down to my resume for some guidance.

Despite the fact I spent hours upon hours of work wordsmithing every line in the thing, not to mention the twenty-odd people who looked it over and provided further suggestions for manicuring it into the perfect document for getting invited to these lovely interview sessions, he can’t find a single thing he wants to ask me about.

“Um,” he digs deep for the most hated interview question there is in this industry. “What are some of your favorite commercials right now?”

Of course, I’ve learned how to handle this. So, I flash a smile, tell him about how much I like the commercials that I researched on the internet this morning that happen to be spots his agency has produced.

He tells me that he worked on a few of those spots.

“Really?” I say with feigned awe. “Wow.”

He’s happy now. He extends his hand and tells me that he’ll be in touch.

I thank him for his time, ask what else I can do for him, make sure to secure a business card so I can send him a thank you note in the mail, and then leave the office and head out to my car.

Once there, I fall to a knee and dry heave for a few moments.

The fake smiles, firm handshakes, stupid questions, insignificant gestures, deflected responsibility, embellished reality, circuitous explanations, and lies, and lies, and lies…


I am not this guy.