I   

Considering the fact that Mr. Thompson was about to interview his first prospective associate in over thirty-five years, he was especially giddy and joyful as the event began to approach. The sunshine and clear skies of the day caused the usually irritable old man to rise from his tall chair for something other than pain relief and assorted medication. However, he was still bothered by the sounds of the fire department cleaning up debris that had been left on the streets, as well as the heinous odors of smoke and melted rubber. A devastating tragedy had occurred weeks prior; one that took lives and destroyed icons.

Life, to him, was all but good news: money to pay, people to tend to, a building to manage. Though he had a plentiful amount of fun during the prime of his youth, he quickly came to the realization in the later years of his life that the passing of time on a clock did not accurately represent the passing of time in reality. Nowadays, he was a snail, accomplishing very little work at an aggravatingly slow pace. It was unusual for him to feel optimistic about almost anything at work besides lunch breaks, when the coffee machine was replenished with fresh beans, and when the clock struck five. But on this day, he was in good spirits, and managed to consume two full liters of cherry cola, chat it up with his associates in the office building (who had never seen him act in such a gregarious manner), and dance, with startling enthusiasm, to modern pop music, which he often criticized as ill-intended garbage. And even though he felt this sudden burst of youthful energy, he still relied on other people, who often completed tasks for him, such as fetching his lunch or lighting his cigarette.

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Thompson was so excited to arrange documents on his aging, mahogany desk that he began to perspire through his suit. He organized all the information he had on the man: born in 1959, a magna cum laude graduate from Harvard University, a well-respected and seasoned sales associate, easy-going and fun to be around. From what was on the paper, he seemed like the ideal candidate. Hell, not even ideal, but perfect.

Thompson was so pleased, in fact, that he began to envision his company, which he had started decades ago with his father, finally being able to turn a substantial profit. No one ever said that paper was the most profitable business in the world! But unfortunately, that was a wild idealization. The company had survived numerous economic recessions in the past, but only by a thread, and it was unclear whether they would persevere through the next one. The company’s increasing volatility was also becoming a growing topic of concern, and one that no one wanted to talk about. But Thompson knew that if he hired this man, and if he performed beyond expectations, there would once again be hope of everlasting success and financial prosperity. He checked his wristwatch in anticipation: he was thirty minutes away from the interview. A lot was at stake. Everything had to go as planned.

As he danced in the privacy of his office, feeling incredibly vivacious, the receptionist, who was a young woman by the name of Josephine, began to knock on the door. The sudden reverberations quickly prompted him to run to the radio, shut it off in embarrassment, and yell, “Come in! It’s open.” Seconds later, she opened the door and entered the office, making her way towards him, though he, for some reason, turned his back towards her. Perhaps it was because she didn’t talk to him very often, or it was because he knew she was the common envy of the workplace, especially with her hairstyles and dresses and general good looks. It was no surprise that every man lined up to tell her “good morning” and “good night” during the workdays, like clockwork, and it was even less of a surprise that she wasn’t laid off in the midst of corporate reconstruction. But when they did talk, albeit seldomly, their conversations were quite insightful. They discussed the ins and outs of corporate America, Thompson’s long-term worries, and potential outlooks for the company. She was certainly a nice woman, and an acquaintance to him at best.

“Sir, the interview is in a half-hour,” she stated, flipping through a planner and other impedimenta she held. “I’m sure you’re very excited about this one. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Ages,” Thompson grunted. “I already checked my watch. Thanks for the reminder.” Then he asked, out of nowhere, “Josephine, could you light me?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You see the pack’s right over there,” he pointed. “On the center of the desk. Can you just do me a favor and light me? I’m having so much fun, I don’t want to stop.”

“Fine, but only because you’re in such a good mood. I don’t have anything else to do, anyway.” Josephine walked to the desk and grabbed a single cigarette from an open pack of Camels. She lit it up, then attempted to stick it into the narrow opening of his mouth, though it still dangled considerably. From there, he inhaled and proceeded to blow a great puff of smoke into the flow of the air conditioner, which brushed against her face. 

“Sir,” she coughed. “You know that smoking increases your chances of lung cancer? It’s not very healthy for you. They’ve been doing studies on it.”

“Oh, please,” he dismissed. “You don’t know anything at all. Every single piece of that research is lobbyist crap. Besides, cancer runs in my family. It’s not like my chances aren’t high already.”

“Whatever you say,” she sighed. “Anyway, I’ll let you know when he’s here. But just letting you know, he’s a real oddball. The Philadelphia branch did some more research on him, and what they found was disturbing.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “Now go along. I’m sure he’s a completely normal fellow. I’ve been living in this city for sixty years, and I can tell you from my extensive knowledge and experience that there are a lot of good, decent, hard-working people deserving of a job.” Without responding, she walked to the door, defeated, but epiphanically decided to stop before she exited.

“Sir, if I don’t know anything, why did you decide to hire me?” she asked, in a tone of dissatisfaction. “What worth am I to have around here?”

“Well, you’re likable and all,“ Thompson began. “But let’s be honest. People don’t want a Susan, they want a Katy.”

“I understand.” His bluntness caught her off guard, and she was visibly taken aback by the remark. She stormed out of the office and shut the door behind her as she returned to her desk, which was situated at the end of a narrow corridor, and Thompson resumed dancing, much to the distraction of the men and women who were trying to work nearby. 

                                              II

With a quick glance at the clock, Mr. Thompson realized that the time had finally come. All of his extensive, exhausting, time-consuming preparation was through at last, hoorah! The man, who looked about forty, wore a navy blue suit with a matching blue tie and black loafers. Standing with an unbridled level of confidence, he imposed a trio of knocks upon the office door, and, having been promptly granted permission to enter, found Mr. Thompson lounging on his desk chair with a folder of notes and other paraphernalia in front of him. 

“Good afternoon,” the man greeted. “You must be Maxwell Thompson. My name is Bertram Wilkinson. It is an absolute pleasure to meet you.”

“Ah, Mr. Wilkinson!” Thompson reached his hand out in front of him in pure excitement. “Likewise. Very nice to meet you. Please, sit down. Make yourself at home.” 

They shook hands, and, making himself comfortable on the supple leather chair, Wilkinson observed, “This is a very homey atmosphere. Do you find yourself to be savvy when it comes to the arts?” He looked around him and continued, “The paintings on the walls are beautiful.” He had been paying focused attention to a replication of Van Gogh’s Starry Night Over the Rhône.

“Indeed I do,” Thompson concurred. “I’ve been collecting art since I was in my twenties. I’ve always found it so mesmerizing, if you understand what I’m saying.”

“God, I do! What’s your favorite piece of art?”

“By far, the Mona Lisa. When I visited the Louvre about ten years ago, seeing that painting in person was an experience like no other. And yourself?”

“I would have to disagree with you there. My favorite would have to be The Persistence of Memory. I can’t even express the amount of intrigue I feel towards the style of surrealism. It’s just so interesting to me. Dali’s work is so unpredictable.”

“Fascinating, indeed. But anyway, enough about that, how are you feeling today? Did you have a restful weekend?”

“Oh, I wish I did, but I’m feeling a great deal of stress at this point in my life. On top of the fact that I’m currently in between jobs, my eldest brother went into one of the towers for a board meeting two weeks ago and he still hasn’t called me to let me know he’s alright. I’ve tried countless times to talk to him, but his line goes straight to voicemail. I’m very worried. But I want to do well here. That’s my goal.”

“Well, I strongly believe you will,” Thompson replied, providing him a sense of reassurance. “Because after careful review and consideration of all your credentials, it seems to me that you are the perfect candidate to hire for this position. You’ve had experience, you’re respected amongst your peers, coworkers, and superiors, but most importantly, you’re good at what you do. You’re professional. My only question is, before I put you at a desk with a cup of coffee and a desktop computer: what do you enjoy doing in your spare time? I always take great interest in people's hobbies.” 

The interview had crept upon a climax rather quickly. Personality was a deciding factor for Mr. Thompson during a job interview, as one of the main philosophies he believed in reinforced the fact that a good coworker must be someone that is equally respectable, relatable, and enjoyable to collaborate with. The man was, in and of himself, a sort of ultimatum to Mr. Thompson, and presented him with an important decision to make. Either he employ the best possible option he had or stand to see his company demolished right in front of his eyes. The former seemed like the better option, or at least that’s what he initially thought.

“Let’s see,” Wilkinson introduced. “I draw satirical cartoons, I solve crossword puzzles in the newspaper, I spend lots of time with my sister, and I love listening to jazz music. But above all, I especially enjoy walking around Central Park on Saturday afternoons. It’s so serene, you know?”

“I know exactly what you mean. What interests you about it?” Thompson inquired.

“Well, there happens to be one thing in particular. The squirrels. Answer me this: do you know how many squirrels reside in Central Park, Mr. Thompson?”

“I’m not sure, a thousand, maybe?”

“Well, nine hundred and sixty seven, but that number wasn’t too far off. Anyways, what I enjoy doing is finding any squirrel I come across in the park and personifying it. Don’t you?” This took Mr. Thompson aback, and he became flabbergasted at the bizarre specificity of Wilkinson’s description.        

“Pardon me, but what did you just say?”

“Don’t worry, you heard me correctly. It ties into some of the writing I do. It’s quite simple. I assign human personalities to every squirrel I encounter in the park. For example, there’s Larry Sherman. He’s forty-seven years old and a top-ranking neurosurgeon who makes about five hundred grand a year. He doesn’t know it, but his wife is cheating on him with the President of the United States, and she’s bribing his children not to tell him about it! Pretty shameful stuff, eh?” To his chagrin, Mr. Thompson was absolutely speechless at these admissions. He struggled to find words to appropriately respond, so he instead let out a series of elongated, erratic noises.

“Oh, and did I forget about Claudia Atkinson?,” Wilkinson continued. “She’s twenty-five years old, and because she was raised by wolves, she has no comprehension of societal norms and doesn’t know how to read, write, or speak in the English language. However, she continues to insist that she wants to work as a journalist for the New York Post. Disgraceful, right?” Thompson was shocked, but he was not ready to give up just yet, for persistence was his middle name.

“Mr. Wilkinson, is there anything else you find pleasurable? Anything at all?” he tried again.

“Well, I also have a collection of over five hundred cereal boxes from the nineteen eighties. I just find the designs so fascinating, you know? Every time my family finished a box of cereal when I was a kid, they didn’t throw it out, but they instead gave it to me. And my God, we went through a lot of cereal back then. My collection is so populous that I actually received the Guinness World Record for the largest cereal box collection a couple years back.” By that point, Mr. Thompson’s jaw had dropped. All of his wildest fantasies and dreams of his company’s successes had suddenly vanished into the distance. They were merely thoughts that passed in and out of the brain as if it was a train station of sorts. Things that are too good to be true usually are, he thought. 

“I’m sorry, but I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re not the type of person who’s fit for this position,” Thompson regretfully stammered. “However, I can provide you a letter of recommendation. Perhaps there will be a better place for you somewhere else.” 

“What do you mean?” Wilkinson asked. “I thought you said I was the perfect candidate to hire.”

“Mr. Wilkinson, I mean no offense, but do you honestly think I would be sane to hire a man who collects cereal boxes and personifies squirrels of all things in his spare time?”

“I think you could certainly look past that if you didn’t find that appealing. Again, you said my credentials were outstanding. Personally, I would describe those hobbies as unique. Wouldn’t you?” Thompson had finally had enough and was ready to provide a fiery, passionate voice to the intense emotions that had been brewing inside him. But it would quickly become debatable as to whether this decision was a mistake or not. In a newfound fit of panic and rage, he slammed his fist onto the table, startling Mr. Wilkinson.

“Are you out of your mind?” he ranted. “They’re outright weird! Tell me, what person in this entire office is going to be able to relate to what you’re interested in? No one! Also, since you brought that matter up, I absolutely do not care about your credentials! Considering what you’ve just told me, definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent not! What in that crazed noggin of yours convinced you to apply for any position of dignified work? Josephine, can you please get this man out of my office, for God’s sake? Right now, dammit, right now! And I mean it!” Thompson’s face flushed and his heart pounded as steam rose from his ears as if he were some sort of old-timey cartoon character. Mr. Wilkinson tried to keep his distance from him out of fear for his own safety, and his pupils bulged. Josephine scurried into the office, overtly intimidated, and calmly asked Mr. Wilkinson to follow her out of the room.

“Thank you for your time,” Wilkinson sarcastically smiled as he stood up from his chair, implying he had heard this same thing from so many employers in the past. “We are all unique in our own way. Individuality is what makes society interesting. Have a nice rest of your day, Mr. Thompson, and please reconsider, for your own sake.” He made a rude hand gesture towards him as he triumphantly marched out of the office, following an unsettled Josephine.

                                              III

Thompson let out a sigh of exasperation and wept tears of frustration. Not only was he disappointed with how unsuccessful the interview went, but he also began to realize, then and there, that his hopes were indeed too high, that he shouldn’t have placed such a high degree of certainty and confidence in a single man. No one has ever said that a man is perfect the way he is! That sick psychopath, he thought. That lunatic just had to ruin it for me. And now he had to suffer the consequences: financial devastation, a loss of trust amongst his employees, a damaged reputation, and even potential bankruptcy, though that was a bit far-fetched. There was nothing he could do. He was helpless.

Josephine reentered the office immediately after Wilkinson exited the building to try and console him, now that he had become disheartened. He was found lying on his stomach, swimming in a pool of salty, lukewarm tears. 

“I told you he was an oddball all along,” she said, patting his shoulder. “You know I told you. But there are six million people living in this city, and so many more in New Jersey. Surely there will be others.”

“I should’ve listened to you, Josephine,” he conceded, burrowing his head in the face of his palms. He felt the tears sink into the crevasses of his wrinkled face. “I should’ve listened to you all along. You were right, and you always have been. Now, please, send in the next guy. There’s so much to do and so little time.”

                                             * * *