The Job Interview by Casey Holliday

The Job Interview by Casey Holliday

“Shit. Dammit,” Charlotte muttered as she stumbled through the door, dripping like a wet rag. “It’s pouring out there.””

She stopped.

Pale and slim, Charlotte stood with rain soaking into the faded peach dress that clung to her skin. You could just see the slight rise of her hip bones beneath the fabric. At closer examination, the dress’s color had clearly been dulled from too many washes, and along the hem, threads had begun to fray. Her bob haircut teetered on the edge of overgrowth. From afar, Charlotte might pass for polished; up close, the imperfections showed.

A dozen dreary people sat staring up at her. They all had slack faces and shared the same sallow look. One forty-ish woman sat with her head tilted back, drool dribbling from the corner of her mouth.

“Sorry,” Charlotte mumbled. She looked around the room. The bland brown walls consumed any and all light, dimming the room. Black scuff marks smothered the yellowing tiles. Blank-eyed people occupied the cheap chairs that lined all three walls. The room sucked the energy out of her. A suffocating desire to whisper enveloped Charlotte, just like it did in bookstores.

Across the entrance was a cutout in the wall revealing the reception area, a low desk inside, just large enough for one person. An old lady sat there, staring, unblinking, at an ancient computer monitor that was as large as a bus and looked like it was from the ’90s, her hands lazily drifting over the keyboard. Next to this cutout was a single narrow door.

Charlotte’s shoes squeaked against the tiles as she stepped farther into the room. It was narrow, and she had to maneuver sideways to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes. No one moved to make room for her; they were already uninterested in her and back to staring off into nothing.

A single sliver of a window to the left, as narrow as her palm, showed a gray smear of rain that was just enough to make you crave the outside world.

Charlotte approached the front desk, her steps forced. She stood there, waiting for the old lady to look up from her computer and acknowledge her, but nothing.

“Um, I’m here for the interview,” Charlotte said, and the words felt sharp in the silent room.

Without looking away from her computer, the receptionist grumbled, “Everybody is here for the interview.” Charlotte could see the glow of the computer monitor in the old lady’s glistening skin. Her neck fat wobbled with every word. Her fingers, moist like raw chicken, kept their slow clicking march on the keyboard.

“But I’m here for a job with Cascade Industries.”

“Everybody here is waiting for an interview with Cascade Industries,” said the receptionist, still not looking at her.

Charlotte looked back at the rest of the people in the lobby. They reminded her of goldfish that had gone through the shock of having their fish bowls shaken by feral children. “Everybody is here for the interview?” she said, turning back to the receptionist.

The old lady turned, her chair screaming from strain, and looked at Charlotte. In that moment, turning toward her with effort and skin still glistening, she reminded Charlotte of a slug. “Honey,” her voice came out low but with a steady grumbling rev, “you’re late.”

A pause.

“Late people don’t get to do the interviews. It’s very strict.”

“I guess I’m fashionably late,” Charlotte joked. The lady didn’t laugh. “Umm, all right. I was only a few minutes late. It’s pouring outside, and with Portland traffic being what it is…”

“I don’t make the rules.” Then the slug lady, as Charlotte now thought of her, looked back at her computer, the chair letting out a wail again with the effort to turn.

“Look, I need this job, please.”

The receptionist didn’t look or reply.

Charlotte could see all her stuff packed, ready to be put out on the curb, with her begging her mom to let her in. She couldn’t let that happen. She leaned forward, putting one hand on the computer monitor and one on the desk. “Please, I need this job.”

The old lady’s eyes flickered, gleaming under their glassy film. Slug had been wrong. Charlotte maybe had misread this lady; she felt like a fly that had been spotted by a spider.

Charlotte took a step back from the intensity of those eyes. And the old lady, her voice sharp now and piercing, curled her lip like she had tasted something deliciously sour.

“You pretty girls are all the same: come in here, go everywhere you want in life, and think everything will be handled for you.”

“No, no, I don’t.”

“Yes, yes, you do,” the receptionist said. “Okay, now you can just see your way—”

The phone rang. The old lady looked at a camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling behind her desk, then glanced back at the phone, letting it ring one more time before picking it up. “Yes, ah, ahh, yes, okay.” She hung up, her energy reverting from spider to slug once again. She looked at the computer, her expression as blank as before, and said, “Please sit for your interview; getting up will mean disqualification.”

“Umm,” Charlotte muttered, “thank you.”

The receptionist didn’t look away from her computer; her slick stubby fingers kept going, the click click click of the keys echoing in the room.

Charlotte glanced at the camera, its red light glowing like an eye. She turned and went to one of the few vacant chairs in the lobby, sitting next to a plump man who was staring dead-eyed at the ceiling, breathing hard.

“How inefficient, right?” she mumbled, keeping her voice low. “Who thinks it’s a good idea to schedule everyone for an interview at the same time?” Nothing; the man didn’t react, not even a glance in her direction.

Charlotte looked at the woman on the other side of her who was copying the same act as the plump man. She was middle-aged, lipstick smeared on a bit heavy. The woman turned her head to the tiny window and stared. Maybe it was best to just sit in silence.

Charlotte took her phone from her purse and put it back after seeing there was no service.

No service, no signal, no one available, just like the people in this waiting room. She felt antsy.

“Williams!” Charlotte almost jumped in her seat as the receptionist’s voice cut the silence.

A spindly man’s head bobbed before jolting back up before he could snooze again. He shook his head like someone waking from a deep sleep. He blinked, then got up from his seat and shuffled through the narrow door next to the receptionist’s desk.

Charlotte clenched her fist, trying to focus on anything but the dullness.

She wanted to pace about the room, stretch; hell, she wanted to leave. But she couldn’t shake the image of the slug lady’s slimy face staring up at her again. Sit, be still. You were late, don’t be difficult. You need this.

One by one, people’s names were called. Some went in for a few minutes before stumbling out, while others were in there for thirty or forty minutes, and still others seemed to open the door to the interview room only to leave right away.

Gradually, the room started to thin out till Charlotte was the only one left, the previous interviewee having left the interview room a while ago.

Charlotte waited. And waited.

She glanced at the greasy receptionist typing away at her keyboard. What could she be typing, clicking away so damn slowly, not taking her eyes off that computer screen?

Charlotte began to spiral, just a little bit. Maybe I missed her saying my name. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention and someone might be in there being interviewed still. Maybe the interviewer is taking a break.

Yeah, and maybe I am losing my mind. How long had she been sitting there anyway? She shook her head. She was sure that the interview room had to be empty. She wasn’t brain dead.

Her heart was racing just a tiny bit. She wanted to get up and leave. You need the job, though, she reminded herself.

What would her mother think of her? She could hear her mom’s voice: “See, you blew it again.”

Charlotte stayed on that chair. She wanted to get up, but she had been told to sit and wait. She was good at doing what she was told.

“Charlotte!” It took her a moment to realize it was her name.

She looked at the receptionist, but the older lady gave nothing away, eyes locked on that screen.

The narrow door opened like it had for everyone else. A white glow bled out from the crack along the hinges.

Charlotte, her legs stiff, rose up and stepped toward the door.

She went through, same as all the others, the light blinding her.

She was blinking in the bright room, trying to see, and was startled when a silky smooth voice said, “Please sit.” Every instinct screamed at her to panic and flee, but she forced herself to stay still, swallowing the fear rising in her throat.

Charlotte blinked a few times more before the room started to come into focus. It was much like the lobby: dropdown ceiling with yellowing tiles, scuffed floor, a metal table and matching chairs.

”Hello, Chariot. I’m Mr. Harrison,” said the man. He had thin, dark hair that was pressed so close to his scalp it looked as if it had been glued down. His shirt was pressed so sharp the collar looked as if it could cut you.

“Oh, it’s Charlotte,” she replied, taking the chair opposite Mr. Harrison.

“Hmm, I would have sworn it was Chariot.”

“No, a chariot is something you ride in,” she laughed.

Mr. Harrison didn’t laugh; he grabbed his clipboard and scribbled something. “All right, then.”

Charlotte strained a smile and nodded.

“We’re going to begin with a little questionnaire. Is that okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

He straightened up in his chair, clipboard at the ready. “Tell me about yourself, Chariot. Sorry!” He laughed, but without a smile. “I mean Charlotte, of course.”

Charlotte forced a chuckle. “Well, I’m from the Midwest. I moved here ten years ago for college and decided to stay. It was easier when my mom moved here, too.” She thought she saw Mr. Harrison trying to hold back a yawn. “I went to school for design, and then, you know how all the layoffs have been happening all over because of the recession, so I got caught up in that. But I’m a hard worker and determined.”

There was a pause.

“Oh, you’re done. Ah, okay, next question. What would you say is your greatest strength?”

“My greatest strength, umm…ha,” she laughed. “I’m so nervous for some reason.”

“It’s okay.” Mr. Harrison’s gaze and tone were distant.

“Well, I’d say my greatest strength is my punctuality, my focus, and my determination.” Mr. Harrison perked up at this and smiled. “Yes, I guess I already said determination, sorry.”

“It’s all right. Tell me, what is your greatest weakness?”

“My greatest weakness. Well…” She hesitated. “This might sound funny, but I take things personal when I make a mistake. I don’t mean I get mad at the person telling me; it’s more I just feel this ache when I’ve failed. So I just try to not let anyone down. I want to do well.”

Mr. Harrison scribbled on his clipboard.

I’m still here. That has to count for something. Most of the others hadn’t lasted this long. And he’s listening now, or at least not yawning and looking elsewhere. Maybe I can salvage this.

“What does silence mean to you?”

Charlotte paused and blinked. That’s…different; never heard that during an interview before. Maybe it’s just one of those weird tech company questions you hear about, the kind of offbeat thing startups do to screen for culture fit or flexibility or whatever.

“Silence means…calm. Time to collect one’s thoughts, to push the chaos aside and focus.”

“Love it, very good.” He beamed at her.

Charlotte let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding in and eased into her chair more. Maybe I’m doing better than I thought.

“I’m going to say a word, and I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind. I mean it, the absolute first thing. There are no wrong answers here. Just curious to see what makes you tick.” He sat back, his clipboard poised.

Charlotte’s heart raced.

“Wor-ork,” he said, elongating the word.

“Team,” she blurted out. He scribbled.

“Overtime.”

“Ambition.”

“Tunnel.”

A chill ran through her. What kind of culture questions are these?

“Escape.”

He scribbled.

He leaned in. “Fate.”

“Is it to see if my personality fits?”

“Please answer the question. All will be clear soon,” he said. “I know it’s odd. However, I do not make the questions.”

“Unavoidable.”

“Worm.”

“Crawl.”

“Creeping.”

“Shiver.”

He scribbled faster on the clipboard. Then he paused for a while, and she thought he had glitched out.

“Hunted.”

“Panic.” Another fast scribble. “May I ask what these questions tell you about me?”

“I assure you, this is just part of the process. Anyway, we’re done. We’ll move on to the next part.”

Charlotte felt a surge of relief. This was followed by anxiety as Mr. Harrison didn’t move, didn’t look at her, didn’t put the clipboard down.He looked across the desk.“Okay, Chariot, I’m going to step out, just for a moment, and get Mr. Buckson. I just know Mr. Buckson is going to want to do an interview with you as well.” He sounded almost gleeful. “Is that okay?”

“I guess that’s fine,” Charlotte sputtered.

Mr. Harrison got up and opened the door opposite the one Charlotte had entered. It appeared to lead farther into the building. He glanced back over his shoulder and said before leaving, “You really are a trooper, aren’t you, Charlotte?” He smiled. He stepped through and the door closed behind him.

Charlotte realized that sitting was, again, all she could do. The room was silent, and the silence itched at her skin. She could feel the crawling along her arms. She glanced down at her phone: still no service, but the clock worked. A few minutes went by.

Nothing.

Five minutes went by.

Nothing.

Mr. Harrison still hadn’t returned.

Now the nothing had become a humming, or was that Charlotte’s ears hearing the fluorescent lights overhead? Maybe it was that high-pitched whistle people seem to develop as they get older that is only noticeable in perfect silence. Whatever this humming was, Charlotte didn’t like it, and she feared she’d fall right down into it.

Charlotte pushed down with her feet, pushed up with her thighs, hovered over her chair, poised to get out. With a swoosh, Mr. Harrison burst into the room. “Ahh, getting impatient, are we?”

“Oh no,” Charlotte said. “I was just stretching.”

Behind Mr. Harrison came a large man in a white lab coat who filled the doorway, hair all gone except for a thin wispy black tuft at the top of his head. Mr. Harrison moved out of his way, and the man moved to stand in front of Charlotte with only the desk between them.

“I am Mr. Hudson,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hudson,” Charlotte said.

“Charlotte,” Mr. Harrison said, mortified. “I said this was Mr. Buckson.” The two exchanged a look, full of theatrical exasperation.

“But, ah, he just said—” Charlotte sputtered, cheeks warm.

“It’s okay; call me Bob,” the burly man said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m going to be sitting here in the corner,” Mr. Harrison announced. “I’ll let you two talk for a bit.” He gripped the only other chair, the one he had been sitting in, and then proceeded to drag, not carry, but drag it into the corner as if it were made of lead. The legs scraped and shrieked along the linoleum. Charlotte couldn’t help but wince through her placating smile.

When he reached the corner, he sat in the chair, clipboard poised.

Then Bob went out the door from whence he had come, only to reappear with a chair that was maybe a centimeter too wide for the doorway. This didn’t stop Bob, though. He turned it, he pivoted, he wrestled it, smacking the chair continuously into the doorframe. Charlotte smiled through the whole thing. Mr. Harrison’s eyes didn’t leave her, and he kept nodding, his pen hovering, just over the clipboard.

Finally, the chair popped through. Bob pulled it to the table and fell into it with a sigh. He leaned back, just as Mr. Harrison had, hands folded over his stomach, legs spread wide.

He looked at her like he was examining her. She straightened her clothes.

“I like to keep these short.” His voice was deep and reverberated in her head. “Do you believe in cosmic energies, that some people, rare people, carry with them?”

Is this yet another culture test? She kept smiling but wanted to run. Her mind searched for a response that would be the correct one. “Yes, like how when you hold certain rocks? Crystals, I mean. Or how some people have an infectious aura, like when they laugh you can’t help but laugh, too. It’s absurd to think we know all there is.”

Bob nodded. “Yes, just like that. Have you felt these energies?”

Just agree, just agree. This might be absurd, but what can be the harm? She found herself nodding in agreement, trying to convince her mouth to also capitulate.

“No,” she blurted out. “I haven’t. I’d want to, or to learn to, but I can’t say I have felt any energy, not knowingly.”

Bob looked at Mr. Harrison, who was looking at Bob, pen drooping now, over the clipboard. Both looked…sad. “Well, you believe in them, so surely you have felt something. Maybe while walking, maybe while driving and your mind wanders, maybe during a breakup.”

“Well, yes, but I myself haven’t experienced anything like that.”

Bob sighed. “That’s a shame.”

Mr. Harrison scribbled on his clipboard, his pen scratching like a knife.

Bob looked at Mr. Harrison. Mr. Harrison looked at Bob. The look lasted a few seconds too long. “Well, it was lovely talking, but I need to be getting off to another meeting.”

Charlotte watched with fascination and a sinking feeling as he manhandled that chair out of the room, and then she turned her eyes to Mr. Harrison, who waited until Bob was gone and had shut the door, and then, with one hand, dragged his heavy chair, squealing in agony against the floor, back to its place behind the desk.

Mr. Harrison placed his clipboard on the desk and his hands on either side of it, palms down. “Well, Charlotte, that concludes our interview. Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch.” He sat, with some finality, back into his chair.

Charlotte’s hands shook. She had failed again, another chance blown, and she had tried so many times before. She could hear her mother’s shrill voice ringing in her head, “You’re like your father: just smart enough to not be dumb, but too dumb to be smart.”

“Mr. Harrison,” she cried. “I really need this job, okay? I’ve tried so many times. I’ve done so many interviews. It’s getting to me. I’m a good worker, okay? I can learn; I can do anything. I’ll get here early; I’ll stay late. Whatever you need, I’ll do it. I just cannot fail again.”

He looked like he was going to get up. He did not look moved by her words.

She hesitated, and then blurted out, “I have to see doctors all the time for this blood disorder I have.”

A pause; Mr. Harrison just stared at her.

“Blood disorder?”

“Yes, blood disorder! My grandmother had it. Not everyone in my family got it, but I did. Doctors really don’t understand it. I’ve been showing the same side effects.”

Mr. Harrison smiled like a fat cat that had just eaten something fluttering with life. He sat back and then leaned back, hands on his stomach. “Don’t worry, Charlotte, you did well. You have the job.”

She stared. “I…I have the job? I really thought I was fumbling this interview.”

“No, no, no,” he said, but his head did not move side to side. “You’ll do just fine.” His voice was creamy sweet. Too sweet, to where it would overwhelm your taste buds.“You’re one in a million. Literally. That’s why our process is so…selective.”

Mr. Harrison rose. “You can start now.” He pulled open the door Bob had come and gone through.

Charlotte blinked from the brighter light.

“Start now? Right now?”

“Well, you did just say you’d do anything, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, of course. I can start.”

She hesitated.

I need this job. I need it.

“Okay,” she whispered as she stepped through the door.

Harrison followed her, and as the door closed behind them, she heard him murmur, “You’ll do nicely, Charlotte. Very nicely indeed.”

They walked farther into the building. At first it looked more or less as the lobby and waiting room had looked—an office building that was decaying, humming fluorescents, beige paint—but the farther they went, the more sterile it became. The drop ceiling gave way to smooth panels and steel ducts. The walls appeared seamless and were a pristine white.

This is all happening too fast. How can I take a job without asking anything? Her mother would think she was a fool. Again.

She kept walking, side by side, with Mr. Harrison.

Don’t ruin it. Bite your tongue.

“The cognitive test,” Mr. Harrison said beside her. “I was worried you wouldn’t make it through, but you made it through by the seat of your pants.”

She thought she saw him looking her up and down again, and she adjusted her clothes self-consciously.

“The blood disorder wasn’t on your application,” he continued. “It’s rare we find someone like you. You’re…extraordinary, Charlotte. Thank you for your flexibility with the process; not everyone makes it through.”

Maybe that’s just corporate jargon, she rationalized. Maybe he’s testing me again. This is so weird, though. I shouldn’t just agree. Don’t overthink it. You need this.

“I didn’t think it was important. It doesn’t affect how I do my job. Plus, doctors don’t even know what to call it. Plus, HIPAA.”

“Oh yes, HIPAA,” Mr. Harrison said without any interest.

Better to just ignore that comment… He probably has a lot on his mind, and I’ve got a job!

They walked farther down the hallway, passing doors that looked less like office doors and more like entrances to labs. She could see lab equipment through the small windows.

“This sounds silly, but…what will my job actually be? The ad was kind of vague.”

Mr. Harrison smiled and stopped at a door labeled Employee Lounge. “You’ll find out in just a moment. Don’t worry.”

Her stomach twisted, but she nodded, compliant as ever.

Mr. Harrison reached forward, opened the door, and gestured for her to go in. “Beauty before age.”

She stood planted and took a breath. She smiled, and for a moment she thought she’d turn away, but then she stepped forward to meet her new job.

Charlotte reeled. Her vision blurred. She hunched over and vomit poured onto the floor. Her body reacted to what she was seeing before her mind accepted the reality.

Inside the employee lounge were no water coolers, no refrigerators, no coffee machines.

Machines buzzed, filled with red liquid. Tubes ran from the machines into the veins of a row of three workers seated at a long table, their hands splayed open, fingers flayed into pale tendrils wired into glowing monitors that displayed racing calculations. They were naked except for hospital gowns and worn leather restraints.

She reached out, desperate to get a hold of something before she went crashing into the floor and her own sick. She found something that felt like a drape and looked up to see it was Mr. Harrison’s sleeve she held onto with all her strength.

He grinned down at her. “Benefits package.”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Casey Holliday 2025

Image Source: Dey from Fictom.com