By Hazel Pearson
“Name?” I ask.
“Zai Witz.”
“With a Z?”
“With two Zs!”
I rub the cheap pencil eraser against my clipboard, then write in the Z I’d missed. The S is still faintly visible, but I’m guessing this paper will go in the wastebasket anyway.
“And, where did you say you were from again?”
“Armonguard.” The small man before me casually blows a dark wave of hair back from his eyes.
“Armonguard,” I repeat. People have told me my voice is dry and monotone. I take it as a compliment.
“Yes.”
“And where could I find Armonguard on a map, may I ask?”
He looks at me quizzically before bursting into merry laughter.
I wait less than patiently for an answer. I’m starting to think this is a spoiled teenager on a dare, or someone else coming in with nothing better to do.
“You’d have to use an interdimensional portal first,” he says. “Actually, do you know where one of those would be, perchance? When I came here to defy my father, I didn’t realize how hard it would be to get out!” Zai laughs at his own joke. I’m still staring blankly at him.
“I see. And why do you want to work with us?”
“Well, the small picture on your building is much nicer than the one on the building across the street.”
I detect no trace of a joke on his face, but what else could this be? “Across the street is a mom-and-pop car rental. You’re interviewing for a position on a team of high-level financial analysts for Fortune 500 companies.” I don’t mention the fact that of all of them, I’m the least high-level. Treated like an assistant and made to do interviews. “If I’m not mistaken, the small picture you referred to is an image of our founder. What did you say was your specialty?”
“Oh, I didn’t say.” Zai offers no more, instead choosing to pick up a red dry-erase marker from one of several coffee mugs of writing utensils I have arranged at my desk. One of the mugs was a gift from my niece, who painted it herself. I like it, though it doesn’t fit the neutral palette of my office, so I keep it behind the others, which were mostly gifts from TopDog. One of them reads, “Keep up the grind,” another, “All work no play will save the day.”
Zai rises from his seat, and uses his marker to draw a mustache on the poster of Mr. Madden hanging in front of my desk. The poster has the TopDog logo on the front, to remind me of who owns my existence. It’s meant to “motivate harder work,” as if I’m not already working as hard as anybody else at TopDog. I only found out after being hired that the company needed a female employee “for PR reasons.” I have to admit, Mr. Madden looks better with a red mustache.
“Sir, I value my time.”
“Well, I can’t be expected to value your time! I’ve only just met you!”
According to TopDog policy, I have to deal with each interviewee for at least ten minutes. I look at the clock. Four minutes down, six to go.
“Are you happy?” Zai asks me abruptly. “You don’t seem happy.”
“I’m very happy with my job here,” I lie, looking into my boss’s eyes on the poster. Zai should’ve used the red marker to draw some devil horns, too.
As if reading my thoughts, Zai looks where I’m looking and draws a pair of horns poking up from Mr. Madden’s wax-like white hair. It’s a shame I’ll have to wipe them off when he leaves.
“That wasn’t the question,” Zai says. “I asked if you were happy.”
Three minutes left on the clock. Zai sits back down, placing his dry-erase marker in the colorful mug with a bunch of pencils. As if inspired, he starts to add other writing utensils, overstuffing the mug and making what looks like a bouquet of office supplies. Two minutes.
“Were you ever happy?” Zai asks.
“I’m the one asking the questions. This is an interview.”
“How long has it been since someone interviewed you?”
I think back. I’ve gone on a couple of blind dates, at my family’s prodding. They usually feel more like interviews, especially at forty-eight. “I interviewed for this job.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Twenty-eight years,” I say, looking at the poster of Mr. Madden once more. He and I are approaching our thirty-year anniversary of working together. Maybe soon he’ll be able to remember my name.
Zai whistles, but I’m thinking about when I first interviewed here to be a big-shot financial analyst. My dream was always musical theater, so I assumed this would just be a temp job. My supervisor thought that, too. He died at ninety-six, still working here because the top dogs at TopDog didn’t pay him enough to retire. Financial analysts who work with CEOs. Go figure.
“Will you ever be happy?”
I flinch in my chair. “Go back and tell your friends their prank was successful. Tell them you wasted a good ten minutes of my time. This interview is over.”
Zai nods, grabbing the dry-erase marker again before lazily walking over to the poster. I know I should stop him, but I’m curious what he’ll draw next.
Enlarged nostrils, with bubbles rising to the top of Mr. Madden’s head. At least this interview has provided some entertainment.
Zai leaves, still clutching the marker.
I think about his questions, looking at the arrangement of pens, pencils, and dry-erase markers arranged prettily in my niece’s mug, the company mugs sadly empty.
Grabbing a paper towel, I start walking toward the poster of Mr. Madden. As I wipe off the last bits of red, I think about requesting a raise. It’s about time.
I’m going to leave the writing utensil bouquet as it is for now. That will motivate me to work harder.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I could nail this interview.
Interviewer: “And where could I find Armonguard on a map, may I ask?”
Me: “In an atlas.”
Job please!
Nice; a different take on Zai, and a different type of bounty he’s hunting. But he seems to have made a catch. Love the atmosphere; anyone who’s worked too long at too boring a job will relate!
Gives a new perspective on Zai, certainly.