Interview

First day was next Monday; he just had to make it through The Big Interview. The office was in a house, renovated into an art supply store. It was just starting to get cool. Only a few days of summer left. He was glad to be getting inside soon.

The receptionist was quick to direct him to a set of offices in the back, just behind the fingerpaint supplies. The main one was carved out of the house’s former dining room, and it held three desks behind a beige wall with sales charts hung up on it. The desk to the left was occupied by an elderly man who didn’t move an inch when he stepped inside.

“Hi, name’s Greg,” he said, extending his hand over the man’s in/out box. The man licked his fingers and turned the page of the book he was reading.

Greg took a seat in front of the middle desk, occupied with a 1990s-era computer and sets of papers neatly stacked. There was a large, brown radio an arm’s length away. Greg nearly tripped over its cord as he sat down.

It didn’t take long for Mr. Nash to come in. He was wry with thick glasses and hair more white than black. His gaunt face showed no emotion as he greeted Greg, nor did his hand indicate any strength when he shook it.

“Morning, Mr. Nash,” said Greg.

“Morning, Greg,” Mr. Nash replied. His voice was higher pitched than it was on the phone. “Have a seat.”

Mr. Nash shuffled through some of the papers on the desk. Greg noted how pleasantly warm the room was as all the chills he had from outside were gone. They were directly under the heating vent, though, and some of papers on Mr. Nash’s desk twitched with each minor surge of air.

“Well, Greg, you’re one step away from taking the desk to my left,” said Mr. Nash.

“Yes sir,” said Greg, tapping his thin satchel that held extra copies of his resume. Mr. Nash already had a copy, though.

“I like the objective you have here,” said Mr. Nash, not looking at Greg.

“Yes sir,” said Greg again. He was proud of that objective: “To be the absolute best salesman I can be for any employer.” He had a feeling this job would be easy, but he wasn’t in it for the challenge. Mel’s Surplus Art Supplies was a good start for his three years’ experience.

“Y’know Greg,” said Mr. Nash, “We haven’t had a young salesman here since we began, and we began in this house over 30 years ago.”

“I understand, sir,” said Greg.

“Yes, so in a way this is going to be a challenge for me.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You see, nothing in this office was made after 1984. Not even the pens. Yes, we bought them all in 1978 and we’re only just now getting close to running out of them.”

“Wow, that’s… that’s impressive,” said Greg. He was actually more weirded out than impressed, and his fingers began tapping the satchel again.

“I’d like to think so,” said Mr. Nash. He was still looking at the resume, not reading it. His eyes were fixated. “I’d like to think that we’ve been doing something right–”

THUD. Greg heard it through the wall to his right. He glanced over, and it was only now that, just beyond the empty desk that was to be his destination, he saw a wooden door there. He guessed something fell over.

“–and that means that we don’t need to change. But we do. I hate to say it, but my dad founded this business and prided himself on selling quality art supplies. It’s a very simple thing we do. We sell quality art supplies. We don’t have a mascot or a, uh, a website. Everyone in town knows who we are.”

“That’s great, sir,” said Greg.

“It used to be great. But even though we save a lot of costs, the pressure is getting to us. It’s just not safe servicing a small town anymore, not in this economy. And, I guess, like a reminder from on high, we lost one of our salesmen of over 20 years.”

“Uhhh,” said Greg, tapping the satchel again. “Died, sir?”

“Hm?” Mr. Nash’s eyebrows went up, but his eyes didn’t follow. “No. No, he retired. And now we need to fill his shoes. But I won’t take anyone older than 25. It’s kind of a risky thing I’m doing, I think, but this business needs a fresh perspective.”

“I’m flattered, sir, and I’d like to think I could provide that.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” said Mr. Nash. He finally set the resume down and looked up. His eyes looked as if they were wider than his skull from behind his lenses. “I don’t want to say that we’ve fallen behind, because we still turn a profit. But as you’ll see, if you get the job that is, the profits have been going down, down. And I know that if the trend keeps going, we’ll find our backs up against the wall sooner or later.”

“Is it that serious?” Greg asked. Shit, maybe three years wasn’t in the cards. What were his options again? Oh yeah, this was the only option he’s had for the past three weeks.

“Heh, I don’t mean to alarm you,” said Mr. Nash. His mouth formed what could be described as a smirk. “It’s just that–”

THUD. Greg nearly jumped out of the seat when he heard it again. It was the same sound in the same place. He tuned it out and went back to focusing on Mr. Nash, who seemed to not notice it.

“–I mean, I want to keep paying people here a good amount of money. When I first got started in this business, you could be, hell, you could be a clerk and you could live comfortably. I mean on your own, in an apartment, with a big-screen TV. And if you had a spouse that worked, well, there you go. Some people don’t make a big deal of that, I think. But I’d rather–”

As Greg’s attention drifted back into the air, he began hearing something else aside from Mr. Nash’s droning. It was coming from that room again. What was it? It was a constant muffled noise, something like a saw cutting through a piece of wood?

Then there was something else. It was a voice, it had to be. Someone speaking slowly, but loud enough to be heard. He couldn’t hear what they were saying. His attention drfted back to Mr. Nash when

“AHH!”

Greg definitely jumped, almost to his feet. His satchel fell on the floor. He hurriedly picked it up and looked at Mr. Nash as his heart beat fast and heavily.

Mr. Nash’s eyes went up to the clock on his desk. He flinched a bit and reached out to the radio, turning it on. It was on a jazz station, a very low volume, but he could hear the bass well enough.

“Uhhh,” said Greg.

“As I was saying,” said Mr. Nash over the trumpets. “Well, so yeah, we’ve been here for a very long time, and we value consistency. Hell, we still have some customers still coming to us, just as they did when we first opened up. I’m proud of that.”

He could definitely hear a voice now, muffled and scratchy. It seemed punctuated by bouts of heavy breathing. It was hard to tell over the saxophone.

His eyes went back and forth between Mr. Nash and the door. Mr. Nash was looking at something else now… his cover letter?

“–Hey now, I’ve done a lot of talking here,” said Mr. Nash. He leaned back in his chair and looked at Greg for what had to have been the second time all interview. “I know what you’re looking for out of this job, but what are you looking for out of us?”

Greg had prepared for this question, but he could still hear the voice in the other room. His brain frantically searched for the answer, but time was wasting.

“Yeah… So, I, uh, well, I really want… to get a start on my career,” he managed to say. His fingers were piledriving a row of holes into his satchel.

“Of course you are!” said Mr. Nash with a grin. “This is your first ‘real’ job, and all. I like the honest answer.”

“Well yeah,” said Greg. “I mean, it’s–”

“RRGGH!”

Greg stopped cold where he was. He could feel the ground vibrate a bit, with a few dull thuds coming rhythmically from the other room. After a while, there was the faint sound of moaning.

“I mean, uhh,” Greg said. Mr. Nash was looking right at him, but his smile faded. He was waiting for Greg to say something. Greg was waiting for him to say something. But he wasn’t.

“What I meant to say was,” said Greg. “I love doing sales. I mean… I mean I really like to do it. And I want to know how to do it, uh, the right way. So…”

Mr. Nash’s eyes never left Greg. The thuds began again.

“Yes, we’re the training wheels, I guess? Or did you do much sales in college? Not a lot, I bet,” said Mr. Nash. “They didn’t train us too well at the school I went to.”

“Oh,” said Greg. He glanced over at the other man in the room. He was still reading whatever book he was reading. He must be hard of hearing. Mr. Nash must be hard of hearing too. That’s it, they can’t hear whatever that is.

“AH! AHH!”

Greg looked back at Mr. Nash.

“When I was in school, they focused purely on the technical stuff. I mean, the really technical stuff, like how to use a Xerox, how to calculate compound interest, things like that,” said Mr. Nash as he leaned over and slightly raised the radio’s volume. The DJ, his voice too soft to overpower the heavy breathing he could hear in the other room, droned on in the background.

“So I say to myself, ‘Man, did I accidentally take the accounting track or what?’ And they kept telling me that I’d need this stuff when I made my own business. They’re right, but I always felt they were missing the real essence of selling things. Did you feel the same way at Vanderbilt?”

“I, uh…” said Greg. He could hear someone talking in the other room, a frantic staccato voice, high-pitched. He couldn’t make out what he was saying. “I mean, I think you’re right…”

“Did they ever suggest you pick a minor in your ‘true’ passion?” said Mr. Nash, using airquotes.

THUD. “AHHH!” More heavy breathing, coming from him. Coming from whomever. Coming from the door, like a saw going back and forth, with sweat and spittle erupting from the cutline.

Oh for God’s sake, just say something.

“My dad sold golf clubs,” said Greg. “But… he was never any good at golf. I mean, he knew how to sell his clubs. ‘This putter really helps you on slick greens,’ he’d say. Or something.”

The voice warbled behind the door again. Greg could hear desperation.

“Heh, my dad wasn’t a salesman,” said Mr. Nash. “He was a bus driver. But I never wanted to be a bus driver. Every day he’d come home, sweaty, even in the winter. Of course, we grew up in San Francisco. But anyway, every day, he was a sweatin’ mess…”

The DJ gave way to another song, a staccato saxophone number. It was hard to hear. Mr. Nash’s voice settled into a drone; the heavy breathing had returned.

“NRGGGHHH. RGGGHHHH. AAHH!!”

Now Greg was gripping his satchel, cutting through the flimsy leather. His fingernails were turning black.

“Why… why’re you doing this…”

Then there was sobbing. Deep sighs, maybe. Mr. Nash pushed the volume up some more.

“So anyway, like we discussed, you’d be working mostly in here,” said Mr. Nash. “We haven’t sent anyone out ‘into the field’ for over a year now. It’s not necessary. We’re a fairly established name now.”

“Oh, good,” said Greg. The saxophone jumped up and down the scale, a very fast rhythm. Kinda catchy, actually. Greg didn’t normally listen to jazz.

“And of course you’ll be handling our northern sales division. It’s actually a bit of a struggling sector for us. Well, that is if you take the job, of course.”

“What kind of–”

“Oh god, I don’t know. I don’t…”

“I mean,” said Greg. “I mean, umm, what kind of competition am I seeing?” It was actually a stupid question, but Mr. Nash didn’t seem to mind.

“Now we’re getting nervous?” he asked.

“I’d say so. Wait, no.”

“It’s okay,” said Mr. Nash. His smile was not reassuring.

“Well, I, uh, I’d really like this job, so…”

THUD!

“Of course you do,” said Mr. Nash. “I don’t mean to brag, but we are a pretty established name. Not a big name, but people know us and respect us. And if you attach your name to us–”

“Oh God no, not again. Wait, wait–”

“–people will notice. Future employers, I mean. Not that I think you’d jump ship, but there is one thing I do know about this job market, and that everyone is always looking to move up. Maybe to the city. Maybe to–”

The lights suddenly went dark, but only for a split second. They flickered, barely noticable, but Mr. Nash’s face went on and off like a strobe. The radio strained to be heard.

“RGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!” Heavy breathing. Spitting. Vomiting?

Mr. Nash pushed the volume up more.

“…Maybe to another state. You ever wanted to move to another state?”

“Umm…” said Greg. He glanced at his fingers. The nails were black with scratched, melted leather. His satchel’s handle looked like a pair of rats feasted on it. He wanted to put his hands in his pockets, but then his satchel would fall off. Just put the fucking thing down. No wait, answer him first.

“Not really,” he blurted out. “I… I never really thought about it, even when I interned.”

You idiot, you interned in the state. Wait, no, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care anyway.

“What about the city? We’re a small outfit compared to some of the firms in LA,” said Mr. Nash.

“I hate LA,” said Greg. “Sacramento was more fun.” Anything is more fun than Modesto, though.

Mr. Nash picked up his resume again. “Hmmm,” he said, scratching his nose.

“Why won’t you believe me… Why–RRRGGH!”

The lights went brown again. The saxophone became a tuba for a few seconds. The singer, his voice slurred like a retard, warbled on through his song. “Whennn I leaave youuuuu baabyyyyyyyyy, couunt the daaaays I’mmm gooooonnnneeeeeeee.“

Mr. Nash stayed smiling in his seat as the lights regained full power. He set the resume aside. “I feel the same way about Santa Barbara,” he said.

“Yeah… Santa Barbara’s nice,” he said, not having ever been there.

Mr. Nash put his hands together and pushes his chair back. “Well, Greg, I like what I heard from you today,” he said.

“You, you do?” said Greg, standing straight up.

“Yes! You showed me that you’re really interested, and I really value that at a place like this one. We usually don’t attract young candidates.”

“Oh, well, I’m glad.”

“When will you let me go? I can’t… I can’t… ugh.”

Mr. Nash put his hand on Greg’s back and led him towards the door. The safe one, the one to the exit.

“Greg, I’ll let you know when I’ve made my final decision. I really hope you consider us, and I have a feeling we impressed you,” said Mr. Nash.

“Oh, thanks,” said Greg. He heard a loud pop, but he wasn’t sure if that came from Mr. Nash slapping his back.

“Take care,” said Mr. Nash as he pushed the door open. Greg walked through, holding his satchel in both hands, sprinkling bits of hacked leather on the floor behind him. He didn’t make eye contact with the receptionist. He walked to the parking lot, looking back every few steps. The lights through the doorway flickered, winking at him as he made it to his car.

*     *     *

The next Monday, Greg sat in his kitchen, dressed up in a sweatshirt to protect against the cold. He checked the job listings and found something he had missed before.

“Hello, is this Angela Murray? Modesto City Schools? Hi, I’d like to know if that site maintenance job is still available.”