The Interview

Wearing an egg mask to lift her face before the interview, Rose listened to EXILE ON MAIN STREET. The CD, fallen behind the entertainment center under an old New York Times Magazine, might have been there for months. As she dusted and polished the tables and shelves, she pondered the tough bluesy lyrics. She was able to remember “Tumbling Dice.” Had it been a Top 40 hit? But “Torn and Frayed” and “Stop Breaking Down” might bode ill for her interview day. Her favorite song? “Shine a Light.” As the egg white dried on her face and the corners of her face lifted, she sat and studied the liner notes. There was a weird narrative in tiny print, a kind of silent-movie-style comic book with photos. The scene 1 caption read, “mick and the stones arrive in exile, met by an auntie or two.” Some aunties. Once she would have thought the whole thing sexist. Now she wasn’t sure. The comic book ended with a fall and a retirement joke and was followed by a page of Joan Crawford photos. What did it mean? Exile and Joan Crawford? Forever theater and exile on main street?

Doubtful. It probably meant...nothing.

Rose was nervous. She knew it was hopeless The interview was this afternoon. How would she present herself? She could no longer be the passionate architect whose work was untouched by the realities of employers. She hadn’t written her script yet. She was script-dependent because she had no small talk. She had the suit but lacked the conversation. She realized she would rather spend all day reading liner notes than write her interview script. She and Ben had a lot of CDs. Why had she never read liner notes before? Some of the classical music albums had 30-page booklets. You could read Leonard Bernstein’s biography (the authorized version). You could read about symphony movements in English, French, and German.

Aha. She would open with that. Liner notes. Yup. Just the thing to chat about.

So she sat down and wrote it out. She would control the interview. She also expressed an interest in the firm’s bid to design the Tokyo branch of a dot.com headquarters. Her design was flashy: arches, winding staircases, windowed galleries and balconies. Windmills for electricity in the garden.

She showered and put on her suit. Her nylons snagged on a splinter. Just what she needed. Maybe she would call and cancel the interview.

Are you old enough to go to an interview without having a nervous breakdown? Yes. To talk about your career as an architect? Yes. Have you won prizes both at college and during your career? Yes. Get your ass out there.

She rushed to a convenience store and pulled on the pantyhose in the restroom, then to the architects’ office.. She tap-taped into the lobby in high-heeled shoes and through the door with the frosted glass window into the oak-floored waiting room.

They kept her waiting forty-five minutes. She finished PEOPLE and then picked up THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY. The receptionist apologized. A big shot had swung in from out of town. Out of the blue.

After an hour and fifteen minutes she was ready to go home.

Finally two men hustled her into a conference room. She made chitchat and got them to laugh with her about the joy of liner notes.

I should have brought some to read while I waited, she said.

Then they got down to business.

Did she want the job? It would mean travel. It would mean increased responsibility. There was a university building they thought she’d be interested in. They named a figure. It seemed low to Rose.

She hadn’t counted on having to negotiate salary.

I’m very interested. But I’ll have to think about it. When do you need to know?

Next week.

She went home feeling vaguely depressed, undervalued, and upset. She kicked off her shoes and tossed a ball to Binkie.