Present
When I first walked into the job interview, I truly felt confident. The job was supervisor of sorter operations at Union National Bank. It was the first bank job I’d applied for since I resigned from Grace Savings and Loan. I was more than qualified for the job, I was completely prepared for the interview, and I was looking good. I was down to a pleasingly thick 190 pounds, and for the first time since I could remember I actually shopped in a normal-size women’s store for my interview suit.
The first sign of trouble was when the receptionist told me that it was going to be a panel interview. I hated those. The idea of having three or more people shooting questions at me seemed like cruel and unusual punishment.
Still, I held my head up and put on my game face as I sat down in front of the three interviewers. One of them was a very young woman whom I figured was the human resource representative. She looked like she’d only graduated from college the week before. There was a seasoned-looking African American woman and an older gray-haired gentleman. I chose to focus on the black woman, hoping she’d be an ally.
The first questions were standard fare. I was asked about my background, my strengths and weaknesses, my goals and ambitions. I’d asked similar questions so many times that I recited the proper responses with ease.
My supposed ally was the one who ventured into dark waters. “It says here on your résumé that you were the president of Grace Savings and Loan. This seems to be a backward career move for you. Do you care to elaborate on why you left there?”
No, I didn’t want to elaborate at all, and I couldn’t believe that she’d asked the question. Of course, she couldn’t call up Grace and get a definite answer. It was against the law for them to discuss the terms of my resignation.
“It was a joint management decision,” I replied dryly, hoping that would satisfy the hungry interviewer.
She frowned. “I see.” She then started scribbling furiously on her little notepad. I wanted to get up and smack her.
It only went downhill from there. Another interviewer, this time the gentleman, asked, “After commanding an entire financial institution, do you think that this entry-level supervisor job will provide you with enough of a challenge?”
“Anytime I’m in a new environment with new people, there is enough to keep me interested in my work. I put my heart and soul into everything I do,” I answered with a smile.
I was getting irritated with the whole interview. I hadn’t gone through an entry-level interview in years, and I was starting to be sickened with the canned responses that were expected. What I really wanted to say was, Look, this job is paying a quarter of what I was making at Grace. I can do it with my eyes closed, so let’s cut the games. I can start immediately. Of course, I had to sit there with my interview smile on and my eyes bright, glassy, and eager.
The wrap-up part of the interview couldn’t come soon enough. I had expected a tour of the office, and to be introduced to the operations staff. That was not going to happen.
“Ms. Ellis,” the black woman said. “You have an impressive list of qualifications here. Unfortunately, we don’t have any positions available that match your skill set.”
I wanted to scream. I’d gotten up early in the morning for that interview. I’d paid seventy dollars getting my hair done. Worse of all, they knew I could do the job—of that, I’m certain.
She continued, “We will put your résumé in the up-and-coming file and contact you when we have something on tap that would better utilize your education and experience.”
I forced myself to smile through dry thank-yous and good-byes. I didn’t go out of my way to leave an impression because I knew that I’d never hear from them. Their up-and-coming file was probably at the back of somebody’s filing cabinet.
I’d thought I was beyond the habit of healing myself with food, but after that interview I needed a good hearty meal to lift my spirits. I decided to go to the grocery store and get the ingredients for my stuffed chicken Parmesan. But I would not go wild: I would only buy one chicken breast and get the whole wheat pasta. That would keep me from overdoing it and killing my diet.
I boldly marched past the in-store bakery to the meat department, but my nose was still accosted by the aromas of baking bread, cakes and cookies. I read in a diet book once that a dieter should stick to the outer aisles of a grocery store, because that’s where the healthiest foods were stocked. Well, I guess my neighborhood store got smart and put the bakery right between produce and meats. I was tempted, but praise God, it was going to take more than a whiff of a doughnut to push me back over the two-hundred-pound mark.
I picked a juicy-looking chicken breast and headed for the pasta aisle. Halfway down, I stopped the cart abruptly, as if I were about to run over a small child. Standing in front of me was Travis.
I wanted to take my cart and run in the opposite direction, but my feet were frozen in place. First my hands started to tremble, and then my entire body followed. My heart was beating so quickly and so loudly, I was sure the man could hear it. I opened up my mouth to speak, but the only sound that came out was something of a croak. The sound got the man’s attention, and he turned around. I was only partially relieved to see that it wasn’t Travis after all.
“Ma’am, are you all right?” asked the stranger.
“Y-yes. I’m fine.” I tried to smile then rushed away.
But I was not fine. If the man had truly been Travis, I didn’t know what I would’ve done or said. After all the therapy I’d had, I still was unable to fathom the thought of coming face-to-face with Travis.
Maybe the whole thing was hopeless. Perhaps I was never going to recover from what that man had done to my life. It was bad enough that I couldn’t get a job; I was also a broken-up shell of a woman. I stood there in the grocery aisle crying. All my comparisons to Rizpah and Leah were pointless. I was nothing like them. I prayed for strength to leave the grocery store, and after a few deep breaths I was able to walk again. I left my cart where it was and went home to nurse all my reopened wounds.