The Interview

The back of Percy’s gray suit was surely ruined. After all these years, he despised that interviews still quickened his nerves.

It was a nondescript room, Percy Givens had been in dozens of similar interview rooms in his life: gray boring carpet, white fluorescent lights with a touch of flicker that was more of an annoyance than anything, a gray table, and black leather chair. A white board adorned the wall across from him. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, the smoothness of it giving him a jolt. He couldn’t stand these youths who came to interview scruffy.

“Being prim and proper in the corporate world is paramount,” Percy’s Old Man always beat into him. “You’d be surprised what difference an impression can make. I remember this one time I had this client–thought there was no way in hell I would get their signature. Told everyone in the office to dress smart the day they came to the office, not weirdly smart, mind you, but be ship shape. We give ‘em our pitch, all goes fine, but no way I thought they’d be going with us. Until…” Percy’s Old Man held the same pause every time. He would take a drink, draw the crowd in. He had a way of drawing people in Percy could only ever hope to measure up to. People wanted to be around his Old Man. When he had the audience on the hook, he would continue, “next morning, I get a call. Last call I thought I’d ever get–we got the deal. After the papers get signed, we go get caviar as one does, and I ask them straight, ‘thought there was no way they were coming back with us, what changed?’”

He’d pause again so his audience would have to turn their ear and listen. Then he’d continue, “my client told me when they went to visit our competitor, the first thing they came across was their receptionist–a big burly man with a face tattoo and scar to match. Guess he had spent some time in the slammer before the charges ended up getting dropped. Anyway, my new client tells me they have to protect their image, and choose their partners accordingly. So, let that be a warning to you, always dress like you’re walking into an interview.”

Percy chuckled as he examined the writing on the white board: Percy Givens, Room Six, Date June Sixth, Twenty Twenty-Four.

Speaking of first impressions, who writes out the year like that?

Percy paused. When did I stand up?

“Ah, Mr. Givens, welcome!”

In Percy’s vacated seat sat the Interviewer. If Percy had seen dozens of corporate interview rooms, he had seen a thousand office drones no different than his Interviewer. He hoped the new year would bring about the retirement of the black suit with the thin black tie–it screamed, “I haven’t bought a suit since first communion,” and the black velvet smoking jacket added nothing to the tackiness. The Interviewer placed a black filebook on the table before him beside a gold pen.

“Please sit,” the Interviewer said in a droll monotone. Percy sat without a second thought. “Thank you Mr. Givens. Obviously we want you here, but we need to confirm a few of your references first.”

Percy hadn’t requested interviews anywhere. “Apologies, we're discussing the role of CEO at Regenbio, correct?” he said, thinking of the last time he’d ever actually sent a request.

“Please, Mr. Givens, I will be asking the questions. Now Reference One. Please tell me about your time working with one…Melinda Smithsen.”

Percy racked his brain. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember any colleague by that name,” he said, acutely aware of the color rising in his face,

The Interviewer fixed his comb over. “No trouble, it’s understandable. I assume her firing was handled by HR. It would be foolish for a C-level executive to muddy their hands on the troubles of a lowly associate, especially with controversial topics like abortion in the press everyday. Image is important, afterall.”

“Wait…,” Percy said, “this rings a bell–unexplained leave of absence if I remember correctly. What did she say?”

“Please Mr. Givens, I will ask the questions. Do you oversee your company's campaign contributions?”

Percy said nothing.

“Continuing then–Reference Two. Please tell me about your time with one…Devang Anand.”

“I’ve never had an employee by that name.”

“My apologies, Mr. Anand was never an employee of yours.”

Percy bounced his leg, trying to remember. He stilled. “No…”

“Can you recount for me the night of January second twenty ten?”

The memories would have flooded back, had the mix of alcohol and cocaine in his system not prevented their formation. “They said he lived.”

“My apologies, he did. That was until he took his own life. Medical bills can be a…difficult thing to cope with.“

Percy composed himself. His dad said there was nothing to fear, “I remember no charges being filed in that unfortunate accident. He seemed troubled.”

“I am simply the Interviewer. Others have judged your application accordingly. Please tell me about Reference Three: Claribel Mendoza

Images raced through his mind. The yacht off Ibiza, her pale, silent chest, tossing his powder-filled bags overboard, the crew handling the body, his wife’s number appearing on his phone screen…

He opened his mouth, but no words came. Percy pulled at his collar, wishing he could unbutton the thing. It was so damn hot.

“I tried my best, I have. Who hasn’t made mistakes? I’m a good person. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you. They’ll tell you I’m a good person.”

“Final question then, please tell me who blew into your breathalyzer last night, assuming you can recall.”

And as the interviewer spoke, Percy realized the room had no door.

The soles of his Gucci loafers burned, and the searing pain slowly, painstakingly crept up his legs.

Percy clawed at his throat before letting out a guttural, animal, scream.

“I believe our interview is concluded. I look forward to your stay here, Mr. Givens.”

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A/N:

WC: 1000. Written for Kenny's great challenge (info below). I've never been one for spooky slashers, but the former Catholic school boy in me loves a nice jaunt through hell. I left you one Easter Egg, Kenny.

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