The Interview

When I moved to the north side of Chicago from my south-side, working-class neighborhood,  I felt like I’d moved to Paris. My old neighborhood was tough and grim. The taverns in the area were clannish and depressing, with often a hint of malevolence in the air.

There were a couple of pizza joints and hot dog stands in the neighborhood that were good enough, but there were no interesting or ethnic restaurants around. Nightlife was non-existent apart from wasting an evening at one of the taverns where the same tired crowd gathered every night, nursing their defeats in alcohol.

There was one guy we called Face, because he had an awfully big one. From a block away he was instantly recognizable by of his extra large mug. If you spotted someone else coming at you from a block away, you might have to squint your eyes and wonder, “Is that Johnny? Or could that be Red?”

But as soon as Face came into view, you knew it was him. He also wore the biggest pair of glasses ever made, so when he walked up on you it was like two window panes coming your way.

Face was a cool guy, and curious. He was one of the few guys in the ‘hood who wanted out. He started taking the bus to the north side when he was in his early teens. He'd come back at night and talk up the north side.

“Up north is where it’s at, man. You got to get up north. I’m telling you.” It piqued my interest. I decided to explore the north side too, and it turns out Face was right.

I found an apartment on the north side and started living the life. The cool places I could walk to near my house (forget about a car, who needed that?) were endless.

There were cool bars, cheap restaurants, used bookstores, music shops and bodegas everywhere. Wrigley Field, home of the Cubs, was a twenty minute walk away.

I found a great Mexican restaurant where I ate twice a week, and a couple of Greek diners where the food was good and the prices nice, all within a short stroll. On a nice summer day, a short walk took me to Lake Michigan.

At the lakefront you could have a picnic in the park or shed your clothes and bask in the sun at the beach.

On the weekends, the streets were crowded with people of all shades and sizes. Black, white, Latino, Asians, gay, straight -- everybody was out. No matter what your pleasure, there was plenty of eye candy. It was amazing.

Face was right. The north side was where it was at. It was jumpin.’

My only problem was the tough commute to my job. I was still working on the south side, a long distance from my apartment. I got tired of driving my car, so I sold it.

I rode a bicycle to work and back for awhile, but it was terrifying riding in rush hour traffic. After some hothead made a right turn and nearly ran me over, I got rid of the bike and stuck with the buses and subways and joined the ranks of the great unwashed as we made our way through the city.

I was hoping to find a job closer to home, when I saw an ad for a company located five blocks from my apartment. How sweet would that be, I thought, to be able to walk to work and back?

I knew the building. It was an old stone stucture I’d walked past five thousand times when walking down Broadway. I applied for a job and got called in for an interview. They told me to ring the buzzer at the door, then come up the stairs. I did and they whisked me away to a conference room.

The job was some kind of customer service gig, heavy on phone calls, with a computer at your desk that gave you all the answers, I hoped. The company was hip, thought of themselves as kind of cool and had a lot of young people working there.

I met with a woman from HR. She had long blonde hair and jeans tucked into her boots. She was friendly and just glanced at my resume. We had a nice twenty minute chat or so, and she told me things “looked good.” I asked her what she meant and she said they’d call me.

After a few days I’d received no call, so I called them. I was put on hold and then another woman from HR told me to come in for another interview. I went for my second interview. This time my interviewer had black curly hair and wore nice leather sandals with her jeans.

She talked very softly and sometimes I'd have to say, “Pardon me? I didn’t get that” when she asked me something. After half an hour, my interview was over. I was told they’d be in touch.

Okay, two interviews, fine - but this wasn’t a job with NASA or the FBI. It was beginning to dawn on me that when you put all your hopes on one job, it can be crushing if you’re rejected, and it’s also very frustrating when you wait for the phone rings and it’s THEM.

It's kind of like the feeling you get when you’ve had a couple of dates with someone and you’re starting to wonder, hmmm..what’s going to happen here?

I thought about giving up on the funky company with the nice-looking HR staff. Still, I had my dream of walking to work from my apartment, so I stuck with it.

After a few days passed without another call, I got antsy and called them back, and you guessed it; they said, c’mon back in for an interview.

At this point I thought "Surely they’ll offer me the job now. Maybe they’ve being doing background checks and they’re swamped...or something."

Back to the building I went, back up the stairs where I was met by the first lady who had interviewed me. She wasn't wearing boots this time, just jeans and red sneakers. She bought me into the same little room, with the same table and two chairs and the same dumb framed poster of fruit in a basket on the wall.

She started asking me questions about my previous jobs - what I had liked, disliked and thought about it and what my greatest accomplishments were. It was all standard interview fluff, dated.

It was ground we had already covered, and I wondered if this was some kind of trap, to see if my answers matched from the other interviews. The only new thing I was asked was when could I start work, and I told her immediately.

“That’s great,” she said. “We’ll be in touch.”

For the love of God, I thought.

“Um, I don’t want to be out of line, but no one’s been in touch with me so far. Any time I come in for an interview it’s because I've made another call.”

She stiffened. “We’re very busy. But if we’re interested we’ll call you.” That was that.

So, I walked out, went over to Joe’s On Broadway and ordered a stiff one. I surely did hate getting the runaround. Who did these people think they were? I decided to forget about them

A few days later I weakened. I called to see what was going on and….yes.

Come on in, I was told. At this point, I didn’t care. I’d go, but whether they hired me or not made no difference. My attitude was more or less, you don’t want me? Fine. I don’t want you, either. I’m just coming in to show you what dignity in rejection looks like.

This time, the lady with the curly black hair led me to the room.She began to ask me something about my knowledge of computers, and I interrupted her.

“You know, I’m sorry, but this is the fourth time I have come in here. The FOURTH time. No one ever calls me back. I’m told you will, but you don’t.

"Maybe you guys are swamped and if so, I'm sympathetic. But from my perspective, it’s a bit much for me to keep coming back. If you want to hire me, let me know now. If not, that’s fine, too, but I’m not coming back after today unless I’m an employee here.”

“Just a second,” she said.

Off she went to somewhere. I sat at the desk and looked at the poster of fruit, thinking that if this were my office I’d put up a picture of the Eiffel Tower or maybe have a bust of Julius Caesar on my table. 

She was gone a long time. I was thinking maybe I should leave when the door opened.  A tall guy with short hair came in. He stuck out his hand. I shook it.

“I’m Grant," he said. “Head of customer service.”

“Grant,” I said, “this is like the fourth time I’ve been here, and I don’t even know what’s going on.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “We’re overwhelmed. I’m really sorry. Listen, let me ask you just a couple of things.”

“Okay,” I said, but I was wary.

“You can deal with stress and complications, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. The next question is this….can you play baseball or softball?”

“Hell, yeah. I was an all star in Little League.”

“Look, we’ve got a softball team here and I'm short a couple of guys. Can you play shortstop?”

“Of course. I’ve got the arm. And in a pinch, I can play outfield.”

“Fantastic. Come in Monday. For work, I mean. First practice is Monday night.”

“Sounds good,” I said. We shook on it.

I walked out of the room, down the stairs and stepped on to the sidewalk. It was odd, how it worked. Sometimes when you decided not to let something matter, things turned out.  

I stopped at Joe’s On Broadway, ordered a drink and took a spot by the window. A cop was writing a parking ticket. A homeless guy in a long coat was digging through a garbage can.

A woman with short red hair was stepping onto a bus, and two birds were pecking at something near the curb. The world passed by the window and it was good. I had an apartment in a hip neighborhood and I had a job.