While I Was Waiting For My Turn To Talk

You’re doing it again, she said.

I’m sorry, I say. I don’t mean to.

What are you thinking when you stare at me like that?

Don’t confuse a vacant stare with an intense one, I say, reaching for my glass of wine. You’d be surprised at how little is going on in this hat rack.

No, I don’t think I’d be surprised at all by that. But really, what are you thinking when you stare at me like that?

Nothing at all. I’m just listening. People tell me I’m a good listener.

They’re lying, she says. You’re not that great a listener. You’re just a good starer. She takes a drink.

I’m sitting in a hotel bar with a friend of mine. We used to go to high school together. We were very close friends sometimes. I haven’t seen her in 18 years.

Everyone needs a talent, I say.

You might want to think about one that’s a little less, you know.

Annoying?

Yes, she says, smiling. Annoying.

Thanks. Remind me to stick you with the bar bill, will you?

That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of you. Where’s your sense of chivalry?

Babe, I say, I’ve got chivalry out the ying yang. Who do you want me to joust for you?

That guy, she says. She points to a man at the bar twice my size.

That guy’s too large. I could joust that lady over there, I say, pointing, leaning back.

What kind of hero are you? she asks.

A selective one, I say. This is why I can’t keep a woman.

That’s the only reason?

No, not really. You’re actually one of a long line of women who’ve complained about the stare, I say.

Women complain about you a lot, don’t they? She relaxes in her high wooden chair.

When I ran my operations unit a few years ago most of the women that worked for me were a little scared of me. I think it was the stare.

You just don’t know what do with the stare, she says. It’s like you’re looking inside me for something.

Is there anything inside of you that I lost?

I’m not sure where to go with that question, she says.

Yeah, I say. Probably best to leave it alone. I retract it.

Thank you.

It was great when I was staffing that office and was interviewing people all the time. If you stare at a person long enough they’ll eventually just start talking because they’re so uncomfortable. I lean forward, elbow on the bar.

Is that what you’re doing to me?

Not at all.

Really?

You’re not looking for me to hire you, are you?

All I’m looking for you to do is quit staring at me, she says, leaning forward.

You have low ambitions, I say. Okay. I’ll look away.

We’re in the town where we grew up. I’m divorced. She’s not. We both have young children. She’s aged gracefully. I have not.

So what happened when these people you’re interviewing started talking?

It was actually really interesting, I say. I learned how to do this out of a Tony Robbins book, of all places. I’d always start my interviews with 15 to 20 minutes of just completely idle chit chat. Talking about anything. Sports. Celebrity gossip. The most empty stuff you can think of. But while I’m doing it, I’m watching the person, their posture, their expression. The way they talk. The words they use. Their cadence. And over 20 minutes or so I’m talking the same way they do. It’s supposed to build rapport, subliminally.

And why do you want to build rapport with them? It’s just a job interview.

Because once you have it then you can turn it to evil uses, I say, as I have another sip of wine.

I can imagine. You’re giving me the look again.

I’m doing no such thing. Now quit interrupting.

I’m sorry, she says. Please, continue. She finishes her glass.

What you do after you follow a person for awhile, building rapport, is then you start trying to lead. You change the way you sit, you speed up, you slow down, and you see if they change along with you.

Do people do that?

Most do. They don’t even notice. And so I spend another 20-30 minutes talking with them, getting them used to following me. But while they’re following me, they’re thinking that this interview has been a huge bunch of nonsense.

Yeah, I’m starting to get that feeling myself, she says.

And this was awhile ago. I was probably 28 when I was doing this. So people naturally looked at me and thought I was too young for my job, and 45 minutes of interviewing with me didn’t help matters any.

Nor does two glasses of wine. But, again, what’s the point in all this?

The point is that a job interview is a battle. You’re trying to present your best face to me, and I’m trying to figure out everything that’s wrong with you. Everyone asks the same questions, and if you’re interviewed enough times you know them and you’ve rehearsed your answers. I want the unrehearsed answers. The bartender brings us each new glasses of wine. We both reach for them.

Weren’t we talking about your staring problem?

I would respectfully disagree with your characterization of it as a problem, but all good things to those who something or other.

Something or other?

I was never any good at remembering details. I’m a big picture guy.

So are you planning on finishing this big picture? she asks.

Barring future interruption, I say.

My lips are sealed, she says.

Anyhoo, the point of all this is that over forty five minutes to an hour I’ve completely lulled you to sleep. You’ve forgotten that what we’re having is fundamentally adversarial conversation, you’ve stopped taking me seriously, but you think that I’m a nice enough guy, and I’ve got you talking like I do, sitting like I do, in many ways behaving like I do. Which is when I can take you anywhere I want you to go.

And where is that?

Then? To my favorite part of the interview. We’re just comfortably rapping, having a nice chat, and when I think you’re ready I sit up, the more abruptly the better, grab your resume and start firing off questions at you. My voice is a little louder, I talk much quicker, I ask short questions and frequently interrupt your answers.

And what does the other person do?

When I did it correctly the person pops up as quickly as I did. It’s like you just threw a bucket of cold water on them. It’s awesome. And a series of short, rapid questions gets them used to chasing you, until you start asking the tougher, open ended questions. And when people answer them, you just stare at them. And by now they’re so uncomfortable that they’ll just start talking. And tell you anything you want to know.

And that really works?

Sometimes, when you do it right, I say. But I’m out of practice. That was a long time ago.

I lean forward suddenly, sitting up in my chair, back straight, hands folded on the table, eyes alert. It was 11:17 at night. A pretty girl was wiping off the top of the walnut bar behind us. Two tables over four men were watching a basketball game. In the Middle East, we were at war. In New York banks were failing. Across the street grunion were washing ashore. Somewhere my child was sleeping. She jumps, leaning forward, looking at me, breathing, waiting.