I wore my old army fatigue jacket to the interview. It was for a temp job and I was already in a bad mood ever since I'd gotten demoted. I thought, "What the hell..." I really hadn't expected to pass the initial job screening, but somehow, here I was, so even if I bombed out now...
They told me at work it wasn't because of anything I did that I'd been pushed down the ladder. They said it was 'cause of downsizing and I was taking the place of somebody who had been laid off. That may have been partly true, but the real reason I wasn't the one gone was because I was their best designer. They couldn't afford to lose my background, experience, and skill and take the chance that I might end up with a competitor. And then later, things really got bad. Everyone was being laid off and even the design jobs disappeared. I figured I'd better lay low and stay put as long as I could and see what shakes out. Problem was it left me short of cash and long on time.
So, here I am at this temp agency interviewing for this part-time, temp job to help maintain my somewhat extravagant life style. And that's O.K. I like living good and if I have to help myself along a little during the lean times, so be it. It won't last forever – I told myself.
The agency front office was almost sterile with hard surfaced floors, uncomfortable furniture, harsh lighting, and magazines that were meant to be ignored. I walked up to the reception desk, introduced myself, and was politely asked to take a seat.
During the 20 minutes I sat there waiting, two people entered the waiting area from the back office through the single door to the left of the receptionist and each of them immediately left without so much as an acknowledgement to anyone. Three more job seekers showed up, and just as I did, checked in with the receptionist and sat down.
I noticed that it was quiet in the reception/waiting room. There was no elevator music or water bubbling over rocks. I thought that was a little odd. The other people waiting were busy on their smart phones which emitted occasional beeps causing their user to smile.
The receptionist called my name. I looked up and she was looking at me. She asked me to go back to the first room on the right. I got up, walked over to the door, and opened it. It opened into a barren hall with two doors on one side and three on the other. I walked through the door, down the hall, and entered the first room on the right.
Behind a medium-sized desk was a woman who was having an animated phone conversation. As I entered, she stood up and looked at me with a somewhat surprised look. Then, still talking on the phone, she motioned me to come in and pointed to a chair sitting in front of her desk. I walked over and sat down.
She continued to look at me as she talked on the phone. She was waving her hand in the air emphasizing what she was saying while all the time looking me over. So I did the same to her.
She was medium height with brown hair just past her shoulders. She kept tossing her head to keep a strand of hair off her face. She wore glasses that accentuated her face. She had a classic face, not too narrow, with prominent features that were set off by her anger or excitement – I couldn't tell which – of her phone conversation. She stepped to the side and forcibly shoved her chair under her desk with a thud and stepped behind it. As she did, her considerable chest swayed noticeably under her light blue, button-down blouse. She wore some sort of skirt from what I could tell and her hips were large and well proportioned. She turned her back to me and said something into the phone. She listened, then said something louder. Then she turned around and slammed the handset down on the phone.
Obviously perturbed, she pulled her chair out, sat down, and began fumbling through some files on her desk. In a minute her breathing had slowed and she had calmed down enough and looked up at me.
"Hello," she said pleasantly with the standard "greet-clients-warmly" smile. "You must be Bret." She rose from her chair, leaned over the desk, and extended her right hand toward me. "I'm Stephanie."
As she leaned over, the front of her blouse draped down to reveal a significant cleavage. I was looking at this as I stood up, refocused on her eyes, grabbed her hand, and said, "Hello, Stephanie. I'm glad to meet you, but I'm not Bret." I held her hand for one count longer than necessary, then released it.
"You're not?" she replied somewhat flustered. She sat back down and began shuffling files again.
"No, I'm not," I said hesitating slightly before telling her my name. "I'm Kurt. Most people call me Tank, so if you're looking for my folder, it could be under either name. Last name is Rush, as in 'hurry along'."
She glanced up at me as she continued to look for my folder. "I'm sorry, Kurt, er... Ah... Tank. This has been a hectic morning. And then I had that phone call. Sorry to have bothered you with that."
"That's O.K. Boyfriends or husbands can be exasperating sometimes."
"Ah... Boyfriend. How'd you know?" she confessed and then inquired.
"Well, some of us can read body language," I answered as my eyes drifted down to her chest.
She dropped her gaze back to her desktop and I could tell she was a little bit bothered by what I said and what I did. I wasn't pushing things; I was here to land a temp job. At the same time, I tried to take advantage of every opportunity that came along. Well, then again, maybe I was pushing it.
"Ah... Here we go," she said finally. "Kurt Rush." Then she added with a grin,"...As in 'hurry along'."
She stood up and said, "Let's sit over here," and motioned to two larger, more comfortably looking chairs at the side of the room. The chairs faced each other with a plain coffee table between them. When she stepped out from behind the desk, I saw she was wearing a long, calf-length skirt with a floral design. She sat down in one chair and I sat in the other. She placed my file on the coffee table, leaned back, and with both hands pulled her skirt up between her legs as a lot of women do when they sit with those long skirts or dresses.
She looked at me, smiled, and asked, "Where did you get the name 'Tank'?"
