Job Interviews Nicely Strange Stories Home

Job Interviews 4 This was a job that I'd applied for but didn't think I stood a chance of getting. One of those things you sent off idly thinking that if they didn't consider you, at least you could put it down on the fortnightly unemployment form, to show that you were still trying. I'd done a bit of research on them. 'Margaras' (where had I heard that name before? Something to do with cats?); a small accountancy firm, around twenty employees. That was as far as I'd got before dismissing it as a waste of time. I thought about researching further when they contacted me and arranged an interview, but decided, fuck it. Ever since writing those stories about fanciful job offers, I'd dreamed about going into an interview without the slightest intention of actually getting the job. I didn't want to waste too much of their time, but I thought it would be interesting to attend the interview with a view to examining their body language and attitudes instead of concentrating on sucking up to them. I was shown into the office, invited to sit down; I waited until Ms. Manager was seated before accepting the invitation. We went through the routine stuff; who I'd worked for recently, my education, other work experience. They offered some more details about the company; nothing unusual. All very normal, well-stained with ordinary. Perhaps this is what they meant by the 'All Ordinaries Index'? I took to running tunes from my favourite Skinny Puppy album through my mind to keep myself from yawning. Dum de dum, fading fire, climbing higher... yes, they liked my resume (and well they should, after all the time I spent kicking it into shape) and would I like to attend a second interview next week? I blinked. Apparently, I'd made it to the short list. I smiled gratefully, nodded, and made my exit. As the door closed behind me, I thought i heard a bass growl, like a sexually frustrated Alsatian. It was coming from the office I'd just been interviewed in. I paused in the hope of hearing something more, but that was all. I shrugged and left. The next interview was held, strangely enough, in the City Square. For those of you not familiar with this failed enterprise, it consists of one city block of concrete slabs with some modernist bench-spaces around sections of unhealthy-looking plants, two edges lined with water-running- down-the-steps fountains, a rectangular pool full of scum-coated green. The rear parts had originally been intended as commercial spaces, but some dispute had put paid to that. A long time ago there had been an ampitheatre under there, with a wonderful ice-cream shop. that had gone the way of the hip-hop record store, both concerns closed down and the spaces left unused. Somehow, these people had gained use of the ampitheatre section, a roofed-in swimming-pool sized bowl with concrete seats, about the size you'd want if you were going to stage mud-wrestling for an audience of about fifty people. It was dim, lit only by a dirty skylight metres overhead; dusty, cobwebby, the concrete seats gritty. I sat on the second-lowest step, hugging my knees, watching Ms. Manager (whose name I'd remembered only that afternoon: Joanne Robertson) while Flunky One and Flunky Two went through manila folders filled with notes. The Flunkies bothered me slightly. They were similar enough to be clones, wore mirrorshades and had the kinds of physique you normally associated with bodyguards, squeezed into charcoal-grey suits. I imagined that I could see the faint outlines of guns under their coats. I let my imagination drift, thought about them all stripping naked and doing some kind of involved threesome thing in the dusty performance space in front of me. Ms. Robertson asked a few more questions about my abortive tertiary education. I didn't bother trying to gloss over it; I leaned straight in and said I'd given up because of an innate lack of understanding when it came to engineering maths and analogue electronics. There was more, similar banter; I wavered between consciously throwing the interview and idle chat. I found myself talking about, of all things, my magickal training. how the hell had we gotten onto this? Yes, I had read Crowley but I wasn't actively involved in the Golden Dawn; yes, I agreed that Ceremonial Magick had some useful points but that could be said about most systems; yes, I did take the Church of the SubGenius seriously... my Tarot Significator? At the moment, I'd have to say, uh, shit, I don't know. Three of swords. Heh. Standard self-pitying Goth Pose. That'd throw them. Or so I'd thought. Flunky One and Flunky Two froze; Ms. Robertson had a thin smile on her face. Uh-oh. She opened another manila folder. At this point, I had the overwhelming impression that this interview was actually an obscure mating ritual and that if I was successful, I'd be admitted to some kind of inner sanctum and then sacrificed. I could see Ms. Robertson chewing, mantis-like, on the ragged stump of my neck, my blood soaking her sensible businesswoman's jacket. I shook myself out of this. The questions shifted onto moral viewpoints, something I'd never given a lot of thought to. Rashly, I adopted that variety of survivalist fascism that I occasionally believed the world really ran on; I found myself saying Sadean things like 'the only real rights you have are the ones you can successfully defend' and 'your right to life is fictitious; it won't stop a bullet', well aware that I was arguing myself into a blind alley. They didn't judge my views (well, they weren't actually my views; I was just saying them. I didn't really like to think the world worked that way, contrary to the evidence); they just took notes. The conversation seemed even more like a dance, then; I could imagine what they'd ask next, and they'd ask it. It would have seemed like a drama, if it hadn't been so patently ridiculous. I began to wonder which of my associates was responsible for this bit of performance art. Abruptly, interview number two was over. She ruffled her notes, jogged and straightened them, replaced them in a folder and said they'd be in contact. Ah well, I thought; the kiss-off. That'd be it. I left them in murmured discussion, Flunkies One and Two making slow, circular movements with their hands, as if they were trying to convince Ms. Robertson of something. I ducked around a corner and watched them covertly. More gestures, then Ms. Robertson brushed her hand across Flunky Two's chest. Abruptly, the top half of his body folded back like he had a hinge set into his back; blood sprayed out of the seam, intestines and pipes spilled out as he collapsed backward. What the hell had she done? It looked as if she had a length of monofilament concealed up her sleeve. Flunky Two froze long enough for her to bisect him unevenly, a line drawn down from his left temple, through his neck and chest, out under his right arm. His body jerked in two directions, as if the elastic holding him together had snapped. Organs were forced, convulsively, out of the halves. Ms. Robertson ducked back daintily, hopping up onto the first step to avoid the spreading puddle of blood. I'd had enough. I went home, dug out the old answering machine and got the next-door neighbour to put a message on it, saying 'Janet and Stewart aren't at home; please leave a message.' I never intended to reply to them if they contacted me. This stance lasted all of two days. I was at a Goth nightclub, drunk out of my tiny mind, sitting well-hidden in a corner near the speakers with a good view of the dance-floor. When I could uncross my eyes and was able to see through the emissions of the fog-machine, I had been gazing longingly at a young woman who looked like a cross between Nina Hagen and one of the Duras Sisters, dressed in a black PVC mini-dress and laddered mesh stockings; suddenly I realised that there was someone standing over me. It was Ms. Robertson, wearing a black suit, a mourning veil attached to her hat (a concession to Goth style, without which she probably wouldn't have been able to get into the club). I was too drunk to do anything, which (in retrospect) was just as well - if I'd tried to run, she might have bisected me. Instead, I waved genially and she sat down with a rather odd wavering motion. I realised that she was almost as drunk as me; with a feral grin she produced an unopened bottle of Polmos - Polish spirit, 80 percent alcohol - and two shot glasses. Ah, the dance continues, I thought. For the next half hour, she'd fill the glasses, place one in front of me and - guided by instinct more than anything else - we'd toss the drinks down, in one gulp, simultaneously. Remembering the last time I'd had Polish spirit, I took some deep breaths beforehand so I didn't suffocate while the fumes dissipated. Despite this precaution, it was awful. I've never been much of a drinker (to my Goth friends' shame), and the first slug of this almost made me throw up. Careful management of my drool (something Transient had once told me of while she was pregnant - you feel less inclined to throw up if you get rid of the built-up saliva quickly) and a lot of yogic breathing got me through the aftermath of the first drink. I had almost recovered my balance when she slapped the second glass down before me. One, two, three, we drank. Oh goddess. This time, I hadn't been able to catch my breath beforehand and I took in a dangerous amount of fumes. I could imagine little red-alert sirens going off, and a tiny little Patrick Stewart sitting in a tiny little chair in my head, shouting, "All hands, abandon ship! I repeat, all hands, ABANDON SHIP!" "Mister Worf - throw him in the brig." I muttered while accepting the third glass. I was preparing for either a brief session of projectile vomiting or an extended period of unconsciousness when I tossed the liquid back; yet, I survived. It seemed to get slightly easier; again, I felt violently ill, I had to ground and centre twice and I had to avoid coughing in case more came up than I'd want to show anyone, but I imagined that I could deal with this. Five glasses later, I'd entered some kind of low-rent Samadhi; my mind became detached from my body and hovered about like a balloon on a tether in a high wind. Joanne wasn't doing as well as I was; I knew that tell-tale, sweaty pale face and uncoordinated eye movement very well, having seen it in all of my friends at one time or another. I found my body briefly, commanded my numb face muscles to do their best attempt at a smug grin. I couldn't tell if it worked or not, but she glared at me, tried to pick up the next glass and collapsed forward, spilling the drink into the ashtray. Mentally, I notched up another point for me. The rest of that evening was rather vague; I recall asking the DJ to play Skinny Puppy's TFWO -harangueing him, trying to explain that it was somewhere on the album Too Dark Park - lifting Ms. Robertson's purse and removing eight hundred dollar bills from it - and later, managing to elegantly ascend the stairs without giving away to the bouncers at the door how drunk I was. Half past three in the morning; it was pouring rain outside, but I didn't notice until I reached the part of Swanston Street that wasn't covered, where I got soaked. I didn't care; after the heat of the nightclub, the rain was refreshing. I stopped in the middle of Collins Street, leaned back as far as I could safely and let the rain fall on my face. Physically, I was stumbling, but I felt like I was skipping past Flinders Street Station, wondering if I could afford a taxi home and then realising that none of the taxi drivers would change a hundred dollar bill when I saw her huddled in the shadows at the base of the now-closed information booth, arms around her knees, head down. I'd seen her occasionally at the night-club but hadn't given her a second thought; none of my friends knew her, and she'd never approached me, so as far as I was concerned, she was part of the scenery, just another Goth waif in black. I suppose I should have left it at that, but I was in an odd mood, so I squelched over to the booth, leaned against the wall and slumped to the ground next to her. Within about thirty seconds, enough water had run out of my clothes to spread in a puddle across the ground between us and start to soak into her dress. She looked up with the faintest possible grunt of annoyance and almost leaped away in shock when she realised that she wasn't alone. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." I said, slowly and carefully, not wanting to give away exactly how drunk I was. She stared at me for almost a minute before venturing: "Aren't you the guy who wore that mask with all the nails sticking out of it?" Ah. The Pinhead Cenobite mask. I smiled. "Yes, that was me. My one claim to anything approaching something like the state of," at this point I realised I was babbling, but I'd started that sentence with a particular idea to get across and I was too far into it to stop now, "... something like the state of being at all interesting." Off on a tangent: "Am I bothering you here? Would you prefer to take in the early-morning Flinders street ambience alone?" She looked away wistfully. " I don't mind... I don't have anywhere else to go until the trams start running again." I consulted one of the few working clocks at the station. "Five hours. Would you rather wait somewhere a little more comfortable?" "I don't have any money." I smiled, handed her two hundred dollars. "I found this. Sort of." She stared at the notes, a faint smile forming on her lips. Her eyes swivelled up to look at me. "Would you like to come back to my place?" She murmured. Well, why the hell not? I might get the chance to extend my program of Convincing Females That Guys Don't Just Want To Sleep With Them (little did I suspect at the time). I'd dried off to the point where the taxis would take notice of me, so we settled down together, comfortably close in the back seat. In my drunken stupor I didn't think to comment on the fact that we'd headed back to my place. We'd pulled into the parking area outside my flat; after tossing a hundred to the taxi-driver (well, that solved that little problem), I'd opened the door, fallen out onto the wet concrete, managed to get to my feet and had made it as far as the stairwell before realising where I was. She was standing behind me, something dark and furry dangling from her left hand. Jesus H Tapdancing CHRIST, what WAS - oh. Her wig; her real hair was short and copper-coloured. Seemingly for the first time, I noticed the rather gauzy black dress she was wearing; it only came down to mid-thigh; between this and the tops of her knee-length black PVC boots was a brief expanse of wide-mesh fishnet stocking. Very nice. She grinned back at me, held her arms out and twirled, fashion-model style. "Well?" she asked. I tried not to grin like the drunken idiot I was. "Uh... very, uh, nice," was all I could manage. She'd obviously had a lot more leeway in decorating her place (the downstairs flat from mine) than I had; the living-room, at least, was gothed to the max. I'd often wondered how people got their Sisters of Mercy posters to stay stuck to the ceiling; the whole thing was tastefully done, however. In other words, simple candelabra, black cushions on the couch and no more than two bleached animal-skulls lying around. I didn't get to see much of the rest of her place; she dragged me straight to the bedroom - huge brass bed with a canopy, no less (someone had been tapping into my fantasies, I guessed) - and she started. It was (needless to say) a bit odd; I don't get seduced by beautiful Goth waifs every weekend. My only defence was that I was still too drunk to think about what was happening, and besides that, since the reason I was this drunk in the first place was because of the ubiquitous Ms Robertson, I half-believed that this was just another part of the on-going interview. I had to wonder what kind of job required skills in frenetic, prolonged bonking. That's how it was. I like to imagine that I'm not entirely inexperienced when it comes to sex; that, Coprophilia, Bestiality and Necrophilia aside, I've 'been there, done that'; but I wasn't prepared for that morning... which extended into the afternoon, evening and most of the next day as well. I think I did quite well, considering the alcoholic handicap I'd started out with. It started out vanilla and ended up chocolate-topped banana with cream, orange sections, raspberry flavouring, mint chips and crushed nuts. Mine, it felt like, afterwards. The only way I could keep this pace up was to lick the lining of my coat pocket, in which someone had spilled a quantity of speed a few days before. I did this while she was blindfolded and her wrists were tied to the end of the bed. We ended up with me tied spread-eagled to the bed, her sitting astride me and utilising her clitoris to, as Moxie once described, come until she was unconscious. She didn't quite make it, although she was too shaky to undo the cuffs when she'd had enough. She slumped forward along my body, gasping. "So, did I pass the test?" I murmured. "Oh, you passed that yesterday. I was supposed to establish whether or not you could function while drunk." "So why are we still here?" I could hear the smile in her voice as, unsteadily, she sat up, kneeling over me, guiding me into her again and squeezing. "I believe in being thorough. And because it's fun. Are you saying you haven't enjoyed it?" The blindfold had slipped just enough for me to see her kneading a nipple with one hand and smoothing back her labia with the other; silver piercings glittered at both places. "You know, I shouldn't be telling you this. I'm sort of a nigger in the woodpile." "That's a very ugly expression. And it's not at all improved by coming from such... ah... a beautiful young woman. Ow!" "I'm sorry, did that hurt? Here... better? Yeah. Thought so. What I meant was that there are strictly defined limits to what I should tell you, and telling you about those limits is way outside them. Ah, what the hell. I want to see you get into this position. Heh. Uh. Yes. Since you, uh, got past the first, uh, round of interviews, you've, uh, been on elimination status, uh, which means they're trying to - uh - prevent you from -uh - getting any... further - ahh, so you - uh, you're going to, uh ah oh god yes yes oh oh god oh god ahh-hh-" After I recovered from her part of the test, Vahrysh (that was her current Goth pseudonym) gave me a rough idea as to what to expect over the next few days, and a few handy chemicals to get me through their hoops. A bottle of belladonna extract that she'd lifted from an optometrist's - used for dilating the pupils during eye tests - came in very handy for the prolonged staring competition which I found myself in on the tram one afternoon. I didn't blink for forty minutes, and I left a small group of school-girls with their eyes watering. Confronted with a violent fundamentalist Christian in the Bourke street mall, I darted in quickly, snatched his large wooden cross from him, muttered, "Swords into ploughshares," and whacked him across the forehead with it, knocking him out. Visiting a friend who worked in an office, I was asked to fill in for half an hour at the switchboard while he went to the bank. This, just after a cup of coffee with mescaline. It helped. Back at that Goth nightclub a week after the Polmos incident, I managed to spread my mediatorial attention between nine minor tiffs, six heated arguments, four complete relationship breakdowns and three near-fist-fights, successfully negotiating a safe path for all of them, all within the space of half an hour. I was quite proud of that; management material, I thought. Vahrysh (who had been watching me all evening) thought so, too, and enticed me back to her place with a bottle of brandy mixed with cough-syrup, and a salt-shaker full of methamphetamine. "Mmmph - " "Excuse me? Hang on, I'll just take that ball-gag off. Okay?" "Mmm - I think I'm stuck to your sheets. Sorry about all the blood. Your fingernails are exceedingly sharp, you know." "Yeah," she purred, running her index finger down my face, leaving another red trail. "Can I ask you a question?" "You can ask. Until I put the gag back on." "How long is this evaluation going to go on?" "Oh, I don't know. It could take forever. I don't really care; I get paid by the hour. Now, you be good -kiss me there - yeah. And I might untie you later if you're really good."

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