communicatedto Hugh that this interview has gone off the rails because it’s gone off the rails, not because ‘Stan’ is an accomplished interrogator who finds relevance in the most obscure coincidences.
‘Hey, man, I’m not going to tell anybody. I just know he retired young and I’m wondering why.’
I grin like I only want to be in on the joke, keep my features cool, my body still, wait for Hugh to dive down the rabbit hole in the interest of getting a job.
You often reach the point in an interview when something in the air of the room changes. The subject’s eyes and lips and hair, all of their face, their nose, it all kind of slumps, and they come clean and tell you about the article they once wrote for High Times magazine, or the anger management course they took to avoid a conviction for assault. You do this job for whatever years, you come to recognise that face. The face that comes right before the confession.
Hugh’s got it now. The surrender in his eyes.
Then the door to the conference room swings in and there’s Madison. Doesn’t even knock. She’s eating something and touches her mouth delicately with her painted nails as she speaks, self-consciously hiding the food in there.
‘Just to let you know…’ She directs this at me. ‘Your last interview today has cancelled. Off to work at the UN, believe it or not.’
‘Okay.’
‘Ummm…’ She frowns, swallows, rubs her pregnant belly. ‘I’m done for the day. Be in touch soon? We want to announce the harvest next week.’
‘Okay.’
And she slips away. The door cruises to a close. Just the two of us again. Hugh’s apprehensive face.
But what I think is: fuck Glen Tyan. I’ll never see Glen Tyan again. The guy pushed me into a toilet. What do I care about his personal history or his professional history? It’s a victory , I say to myself, if I show no interest in him whatsoever . Let him have his secrets. Nobody cares, least of all me.
At the end of this interview, it’s home time.
‘All right,’ I say. ‘Let’s talk about online dating.’
12
Spatafina’s is one of those pizza joints with red neon in the front window and old Campari ads framed on the walls, plastic tablecloths and stained cutlery. We haven’t spotted the owner tonight so maybe he’s out playing bocce or concreting his front lawn but his two kids are here, neither of whom has finished high school yet and the girl always seems to avoid us. The boy is the kind of waiter who wants you to know how much he hates his job. Marnie and he have a special kind of spite for each other which she enjoys and which I dread because scorning your waiter is like scorning your neighbour etc. When he brings our drinks I’m telling her about my panic attack on Monday. She interrupts to say:
‘I’m sorry. This is a white wine glass. Could I have my red wine in a red wine glass please?’
He rolls his eyes almost imperceptibly, scoops up the beverage and scurries away, leaving behind the phenomenal power of his aftershave.
‘It’s the pressure of all that court stuff, Stevey. You should meditate. I could teach you.’
Her hair is brown today. I told her once that with all her hair colours she reminded me of Ramona Flowers and she was thrilled with the comparison.
‘But I’ve done evidence in court since forever. This only started a year ago.’
‘So what happened a year ago?’
‘Um…’
I’m genuinely surprised she has to ask.
‘My mother died.’
‘Right…’ Guilt streaks across her face, pursued by doubt. ‘So you get anxious because your mother died?’
‘It’s more just, like…not having that person in your life…that kind of relationship anymore…’
She nods vaguely, about as unenlightened by my stilted claim
The room wasn’t private. She shared it with an oldie who was babbling in French and didn’t notice us, didn’t seem to know where she was. The only words I recognised were ‘mon dieu’ and she was pleading with an anguished
‘Hey, man, I’m not going to tell anybody. I just know he retired young and I’m wondering why.’
I grin like I only want to be in on the joke, keep my features cool, my body still, wait for Hugh to dive down the rabbit hole in the interest of getting a job.
You often reach the point in an interview when something in the air of the room changes. The subject’s eyes and lips and hair, all of their face, their nose, it all kind of slumps, and they come clean and tell you about the article they once wrote for High Times magazine, or the anger management course they took to avoid a conviction for assault. You do this job for whatever years, you come to recognise that face. The face that comes right before the confession.
Hugh’s got it now. The surrender in his eyes.
Then the door to the conference room swings in and there’s Madison. Doesn’t even knock. She’s eating something and touches her mouth delicately with her painted nails as she speaks, self-consciously hiding the food in there.
‘Just to let you know…’ She directs this at me. ‘Your last interview today has cancelled. Off to work at the UN, believe it or not.’
‘Okay.’
‘Ummm…’ She frowns, swallows, rubs her pregnant belly. ‘I’m done for the day. Be in touch soon? We want to announce the harvest next week.’
‘Okay.’
And she slips away. The door cruises to a close. Just the two of us again. Hugh’s apprehensive face.
But what I think is: fuck Glen Tyan. I’ll never see Glen Tyan again. The guy pushed me into a toilet. What do I care about his personal history or his professional history? It’s a victory , I say to myself, if I show no interest in him whatsoever . Let him have his secrets. Nobody cares, least of all me.
At the end of this interview, it’s home time.
‘All right,’ I say. ‘Let’s talk about online dating.’
12
Spatafina’s is one of those pizza joints with red neon in the front window and old Campari ads framed on the walls, plastic tablecloths and stained cutlery. We haven’t spotted the owner tonight so maybe he’s out playing bocce or concreting his front lawn but his two kids are here, neither of whom has finished high school yet and the girl always seems to avoid us. The boy is the kind of waiter who wants you to know how much he hates his job. Marnie and he have a special kind of spite for each other which she enjoys and which I dread because scorning your waiter is like scorning your neighbour etc. When he brings our drinks I’m telling her about my panic attack on Monday. She interrupts to say:
‘I’m sorry. This is a white wine glass. Could I have my red wine in a red wine glass please?’
He rolls his eyes almost imperceptibly, scoops up the beverage and scurries away, leaving behind the phenomenal power of his aftershave.
‘It’s the pressure of all that court stuff, Stevey. You should meditate. I could teach you.’
Her hair is brown today. I told her once that with all her hair colours she reminded me of Ramona Flowers and she was thrilled with the comparison.
‘But I’ve done evidence in court since forever. This only started a year ago.’
‘So what happened a year ago?’
‘Um…’
I’m genuinely surprised she has to ask.
‘My mother died.’
‘Right…’ Guilt streaks across her face, pursued by doubt. ‘So you get anxious because your mother died?’
‘It’s more just, like…not having that person in your life…that kind of relationship anymore…’
She nods vaguely, about as unenlightened by my stilted claim
The room wasn’t private. She shared it with an oldie who was babbling in French and didn’t notice us, didn’t seem to know where she was. The only words I recognised were ‘mon dieu’ and she was pleading with an anguished
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