MONDAY: Interview Day

BY GUYLAINE SPENCER

Copyright is held by the author.

IF SHE hadn’t been so desperate for a job, Debra wouldn’t even have left home that morning. The blizzard would have held her back. Visibility was so bad that when she pulled back the curtain in her living room, she couldn’t even see the store across the street.

Even after three years in the city, Debra wasn’t used to Montreal winters. The snow didn’t fall here; it was dumped on the city. She imagined troops of absent-minded angels shoveling the white powder, heavy as coal dust, off the wrought-iron balconies, not bothering to look where it landed.

The job interview was with a clothing manufacturer. They required a bilingual bookkeeper; that’s all that Tammy at the employment agency had told her. Tammy hadn’t even revealed the salary yet; it would be “commensurate with experience”. “None of your business,” Debra translated in her head. “Less than you’d expect.” One of the myths of job-hunting was that you weren’t supposed to care about salary; you were supposed to be working for personal fulfillment. Debra snorted.

After breakfast, she reluctantly squeezed into her interview suit. She felt like she was donning a Halloween costume. Made of navy polyester and purchased from Salvation Army, it wasn’t her style at all. But as Tammy said, the first impression was so important. With her fuchsia power suit and flaming orange hair, Tammy was all image and no substance.

The drive from her apartment in the McGill Ghetto to Point St. Charles would take less than 30 minutes on a normal day. That day it took almost double. Despite the salt, the roads were so slippery that the cars inched along as if they were in a funeral procession. The sidewalks had been transformed overnight into skating rinks, too slippery to risk, so pedestrians were forced to walk, for traction, at the edge of the streets in the ridges of slush thrown up by the vehicles.

A block before her destination, Debra’s old car stalled. She managed to squeeze off to the side of the road. Again and again, she tried to revive the car, but to no avail.

Suddenly she spotted in the rear-view window two men approaching. They wore dark ski masks like bank robbers. The men stopped at the trunk. Debra held her breath. The strangers bent down and began to push. One of the men straightened up again and made steering motions to her with his hands. She nodded, and followed his instructions. It started! She went a few metres then pulled off to the side again and stopped. She motioned for the men to come over, so she could thank her guardian angels, but they had already disappeared into the blizzard. Debra sighed. She’d better hurry or be late for the appointment.

The building housing the business stood near the railway tracks at the end of a long, unloved and dispirited line of brick row houses built for workers a century ago. She could picture families dressed in clothes from a century ago strolling up the streets and stopping on stoops to chat with neighbours. She flicked the image from her mind, entered the lobby and climbed the creaking stairs. At the top of the landing, she paused before pushing open the plywood door.

A Dickensian scene greeted her: rows of tables where workers sat hunched over sewing machines. The whirring sound reminded Debra of mad hornets. Above, fluorescent lights glared down at thirty or so seamstresses. Crammed side by side with other women, the workers had barely enough room to bend their elbows.

When she crossed the room, not a soul looked up. Were they ghosts? Perhaps I’ve been transported into the past? She cleared her throat. At the desk in the corner, a scrawny, grey-haired woman twitched and spun around in her chair to face Debra. She, at least, looked very real.

“Well,” the woman said, after looking Debra up and down, “can I help you?” Debra stepped forward and thrust out her hand. What an odd gesture the handshake is, she thought. We approach strange dogs and wild animals in the same way. Here, little doggie, smell my scent. You can trust me. Let’s be friends.

Debra explained to the woman why she was there. As they spoke, she became aware of the foul stench of cigar emanating from behind a half-closed door at the far end of the room.

The woman motioned to Debra to follow her, and they walked to the private office. The bony fingers rapped on the door.

“Mr. Norton?”

“Yah, whaddya want?”

“Debra Ryan to see you. For the job.”

“Yah, right. Send her in. I hope she’s got more sense than the last moron that agency sent me…” The sentence trailed off in a string of obscenities.

When Debra entered the room, she saw sitting behind the desk an obese middle-aged man in a bright pink shirt with rolled-up sleeves. A green and white polka dot tie dangled like a necklace at midriff level. Since he didn’t look up from his paperwork right away, the first thing to greet her was a shiny bald head surrounded by a halo of greasy black hair. When he finally deigned to acknowledge Debra’s presence, she saw that he was actually younger than she’d guessed — late-thirties perhaps.

Before he spoke, his chins dropped and jiggled. Debra shivered as she felt his glance run up and down her figure.

“Well, well, what can I do for you?” he asked.

Debra paused, unsure of what to say. Then she explained that she was interested in the position, had all the required skills, and would like to learn more about the opportunity. Opportunity, they always called it. Never risk. What if the job turns out to be a nightmare? And I’m stuck here, with no time to search for another job?

“Sit down, Miss Ryan, sit down. Or is that Mrs.?” he asked, leaning forward.

The smell of cigar and dime store cologne began to irritate the inside of Debra’s nose—a prelude to an allergic reaction. “I prefer Ms.,” she replied, in as neutral and flat a tone as possible. She tried to smile delicately.

“Oh, a feminist, I see. Married, are you? Any kids? Or maybe you’re divorced?”

Was his tone sarcastic? Debra wondered. Or lascivious?

She knew that if she pointed out that the questions were irrelevant and illegal, the interview was as good as over. In theory, we’re protected, she thought. But in practice? If only she had a hidden tape recorder. Instead of challenging the man as she wished she could, she inquired about the reason for the opening. Was the company expanding?

It didn’t work. The Creature put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward.

“Any kids?” he tried again. “I like to hire single moms. Know why? They don’t gimmee any trouble, see?”

Debra just shook her head. So that was it. Slavery might be officially abolished, but the lust for it lived on.

“So, what does your husband do?” he continued, finally spotting the ring on her left hand. “I don’t like hiring married women ‘cause they up and leave when their husbands get jobs in other cities. Too risky. Or they get pregnant and stay home. Then I have to train someone else all over again. That’s a hassle and costly. I’m just a small businessman, Mrs. Ryan, trying to earn a living. You can see that, can’t you?” He cocked his head to one side and tried to smile endearingly, but his mouth was set in its ways, and it came out as a leer.

Before Debra could think of an answer, someone knocked on the door. It opened, and the elderly woman appeared. “Sorry to interrupt, but the safety inspector is here again, and he insists on seeing you.”

“What?! That fathead? Can’t you see I’m busy? Tell him I’m not here. Just get out. Now.” The woman pulled the door half shut and the Creature muttered curses before addressing Debra again.

“Damn. Pardon me. I’d fire her in two seconds flat, but it’d end up costing me more in the long run. That’s my mother. Better she works a few more years and gets a government pension, instead of being a burden on me in her old age.”

The phone rang and the Creature swung around to pick it up from its place on the credenza. He began an extended yelling match with someone on the other end, interspersed with curses in English and French. Debra contemplated the blessings of bilingualism which included doubling one’s stash of swearwords.

Taking advantage of the Creature’s temporary preoccupation, she rose quietly and let herself out. Some “opportunities” were just not worth taking, she thought. There had to be something better out there.

Debra crossed the manufacturing room. As before, no one looked up. She hurried down the stairs, eager to escape the gloomy scene.

Outside, the snow had finally stopped falling. A weak sun was making a brave attempt to come out from behind a cloud. Debra allowed herself as small smirk as she imagined the look on the Creature’s face when he swivelled back to the desk to discover that the chair opposite him was empty.

***

Guylaine Spencer has written non-fiction articles for magazines and websites for two decades. She has recently started writing fiction, is working on a novel, and her first short story was published in 2024 in The New Canadian Stories Magazine. Guylaine’s website is https://guylainespencer.wordpress.com