pinguid
[ping-gwid]
1. fat; oily.
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The office was empty when Henry entered. He looked all around the place, just to
confirm there was nobody hiding anywhere. Sure enough, the simple office was devoid of
anyone’s presence. He was not sure what to do. He had been told to just go right in by the
receptionist, so he assumed there would be someone there to meet him.
Henry stood near the middle of the office, unsure of what else to do. Should he sit, or
would that be considered rude? He knew the basic job interview etiquette for most situations,
but not this one. What does one do when the person conducting the interview is late? He opted
to stand, just in case.
He shifted his weight from foot to foot as he waited. The office was nice enough at least.
Enough windows for a good amount of natural light, nice furniture, tasteful artwork in strategic
locations. Nothing terribly fancy, but nice.
Henry jumped when the door slammed open. He turned and saw the person who he
assumed was the interviewer. He struggled to hide his distaste. Calling the man fat would be
an understatement.
His suit struggled to contain the man’s hefty gut, and Henry counted no less than three
chins. Not only that, but there was enough grease and oil on his face alone to fry chicken in.
The interviewer wiped the top of his balding head with an overworked handkerchief as he
waddled into the office and slumped into the well made office chair behind the desk. The chair
creaked and Henry marveled it remained in one piece.
“Sorry I’m late.” The interviewer said. “There was an unusually long line at the cafeteria.”
“That’s perfectly fine, sir.” Henry said through a forced smile. He sniffed the air. He could
smell the pizza, or something equally greasy, coming from the interviewer.
“Let’s see now. You’re Henry...Becker, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, good. Have a seat.”
The man continued once Henry had sat down. It was a struggle to remain seated against
the man’s smell. It was all encompassing.
The interviewer introduced himself as Mr. Farrow, one of the human resource
department’s middle managers. The interview was fairly standard. Mr. Farrow asked all
the normal job interview questions. In fact, it seemed like he was reading from a script
as he talked. He jotted down notes on Henry’s answers as they went. The action was
disturbingly distracting. The waves of fat in the man’s hands and wrist moved like some
kind of perverse jelly as he wrote. It was almost hypnotic in its repulsiveness. Between
that and the greasy, oily smell hanging in the air, it was getting increasingly difficult to
focus on the interview.
What made it worse was Mr. Farrow’s breathing. It was a loud, heavy wheezing that did
not sound healthy. And he gulped air like he had just spent an hour in the gym. Henry
was not sure whether to be concerned for Mr. Farrow’s immediate wellbeing, or be
disgusted by the sight, sound and smell of the man. Midway through the interview he
settled for a tenuous balance of the two, while still doing his best not to show either.
It was a blessing when Mr. Farrow seemed to run out of questions to ask.
“Do you have any questions for me?” He asked.
Henry knew that it was expected that he would ask a few question. He had questions
prepared. Several of them, in fact. But he still said:
“No, I think you just about covered everything during the interview.”
He knew that one line could greatly reduce his chances of getting a job. He knew he
might not hear from anyone from the company again. He knew all that. He also knew he
did not care all that much. He just wanted to get out of that office as quickly as possible.
He would worry about getting a job later.
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Job interviews are hard. At least, for me they are. Not sure what other people think about them
though.
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