The Interview

The Interview

By Nicole Jenkins
as told to Michele “Screech” Campanelli

The job of a lifetime, that’s what it was, secretary for the district attorney. I couldn’t wait for my interview. This was the kind of position I’d dreamed of, what all those years of college and entry-level positions were for.

The night before my interview, I spent two hours going through my closet to pick out just the right outfit. What would I say to him? I curled up into my pillowy bed and stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. How should I act? Nervous, I shut my eyes and tried to get some rest, but I kept tossing and turning.

Finally, the alarm clock woke me. I tried to open my eyes, but something was wrong. My face felt stiff, strange. My hands flew to my cheeks.

“No!” My lips were unable to open all the way.

I ran to the bathroom and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, horrified. My face was contorted like a stroke victim’s. My eyes were misaligned. I couldn’t move the right side of my face. I could barely recognize myself. What was happening to me? What nightmare did I wake up into?

My mother came into the room, “What’s wrong?” Her eyes bulged as she withdrew in terror.

“What’s happening to me?” I slurred to her.

“I’ll take you to the emergency room,” she finally gasped.

We were rushed in. The nurse took one look at me and called in a specialist. There, under the blazing white lights, my mother and I waited.

After several hours of tests, the doctor finally explained, “You have Bell’s palsy. It is a condition in which your face muscles tighten because of stress. You need to get plenty of sleep, and in a few days your face will return to normal.”

“But I have a job interview this afternoon,” I sadly remembered.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said, concerned. “You should reschedule, maybe for later in the week.”
During the long car ride home, all I could think about was how bad it would look to reschedule. Certainly, that would dampen my chances. Nobody reschedules with the district attorney. All the other applicants would have the advantage then, I concluded.

I looked at my watch and made the decision, “Mom, drop me off on Jacob Street. I’m going to the interview.”

“Honey, I don’t think you should. You look . . . strange,” she said, ever so gently.

I knew she was right. He probably would take one look at me and judge me by my appearance rather than by my experience and talent. I probably shouldn’t go. But if I didn’t, I’d always wonder if I could have gotten my dream job.

“No, Mom, take me there.”

Reluctantly, she took me where I wanted to go. I walked right into the formidable office with the mahogany furniture and pillars of white marble, not letting my own self-consciousness or any disease stop me. Not now, not when I had worked so hard for so long to be given this opportunity.

I went to the woman sitting behind the front desk and said, as well as I could, “Nicole Jenkins to see Mr. Robertson.”

She stared at my face. “He’s expecting you. Go right in.”

I entered the room to her right and saw a gray-haired man sitting behind the large desk reading a file.

Suddenly my nerves got the best of me, and I had to sit. I took the chair in front of him.

“Hello,” he said. “Miss Jenkins?”

“Yes. Please excuse me. I’m having a Bell’s palsy attack. My doctor explained to me that it would last a few days. I came right from the hospital.”

“You’re very dedicated to come when you’re not feeling up to speed,” he responded, after a pause.

“Yes, Sir.”

He spent a few minutes looking over my application. “Is everything on here correct?” He held it out to me.

I glanced over the paper, “Yes, but I failed to mention I type seventy-five words per minute.”

“Wonderful,” he smiled. “Out of one hundred points, you had our highest score on the application test. You scored well above average on grammar and computer programs.”

“It comes easily for me,” I honestly replied.

“Well, you are certainly qualified. You have an impressive background with related experience. I see here you worked for the navy.”

“Directly with legal affairs,” I reiterated.

“When are you available?”

“Two weeks.”

He gazed down at his desk calendar. “The 27th then, be here at 9:00 a.m.”

I gasped. “You’re hiring me!”

“Yes, you’re perfect for the position.”

I stood. “Thank you for believing in me. I won’t let you down.”

“I know,” he smiled, rising from his desk to shake my hand. “Not only have you got the skills I’m looking for, you also have the character.”

[Source : from Chicken Soup for the Soul ]