The Hot Seat

The receptionist gives me a concerned glance as she scans over me. I’m in a hurry but I can’t help but take in the large windowed building with a ceiling that seems to stretch up for an eternity. 

“Restrooms are that way,” she says, pointing a finger toward the hall to the left. I almost correct her, saying I’m here for a job interview but based on her disapproving look, it’s probably wise I try to fix whatever mess is going on.

The wind has done a number on my hair, small leaves weaved in and out between frazzled black strands and I have to lean in close to pull each one out. A man stumbles out of one of the stalls and I feel his eyes on me as he dips his hand under the water and then lurks through the door. All I can do is hope that he isn’t one of the hiring managers. I run a wet hand through my hair, trying to pat down the wild strands. Straightening up, I sigh, looking down at my new white-collared shirt. It took days to bring myself to drop $200 on a nice button-down, only to have it now marred by a large, dark brown coffee stain and scattered with small wrinkles. Why couldn’t I have brought a jacket with me? Panic starts to settle in, I’m already running late and look like this… Is it even worth it? Shouldn’t I save myself the embarrassment and just go home? I stare at the stain, remembering my stranger's wide-eyed shock as she looked at me with the spilled cup. I wanted to pass off the interview entirely, treating her to a simple coffee date and seeing where the day goes but then she oddly began spouting off strange stories about fate and her crippling fear of fire. What are the chances of someone interviewing to be a firefighter bumping into someone who has a crippling phobia of fire? Maybe I want to believe in fate and soul mates and all that other crap. Either way, I’d regret it more if I didn’t try. Hesitantly, I return to the receptionist, standing close enough to her desk that the stain is hidden. 

“I’m here for an interview with the fire department,” I say, watching in dismay as her eyebrows raise, her eyes darting up and down me with a judgemental glare and I can practically hear the word spill out, YOU? 

“It’s the fourth door on the left,” she says, sinking back into her chair as her fingers glide over the keyboard sending loud clicking echoes into the large space. 

Light from the fourth door is pouring out into the hallway and I peer in to see a panel of four people conversating on one side of a sleek white table. Their eyes immediately shoot to me as silence fills the room, their stares lingering on the stain and I immediately want to run out of there as quickly as I can. One finally jets up, his face spreading into a polite smile as he steps toward me. 

“Mr. Zander?” he asks, extending a hand and I nod as we shake. 

“This will be interesting” I catch the one on the right say under his breath and they all stand to shake my hand as I round the table to the empty seat on the opposite side. 

“We were worried you weren’t coming,” the one in the middle says.

I can’t help but laugh, “I had a little mishap as you can see…” I gesture down my shirt. “I was on my way here when I bumped into a woman on the street and she spilled her coffee all over me. I ended up getting into an interesting conversation with her, about fire believe it or not, and something about it convinced me even more that this is something I want to do.” I realize I’m rambling, the nerves working their way into my fingers as I fidget with the strap of my watch. 

“Well, that was going to be our first question actually, why do you want to be a firefighter?” 

Something about the question, remembering this is an interview and high stakes causes all thoughts to flee into the dark corners of my mind so I can’t find them. I spent years of my life preparing for this, hours over the last few days studying and memorizing perfect responses and now here I am, half an hour late, soaked in pungent coffee and my mind is perfectly blank. I can feel the hope draining from me as I lean back in the wobbly chair. 

“I um… well… I’ve always been fascinated by fire, perhaps a little too much. When I was 6 years old I accidentally set fire to my house. I helped get my parents out but I’ll never forget the screams of my mother as she wailed and sobbed on the ground as the place went up in flames. I felt so guilty and so helpless.” I can’t help but enjoy watching the shock edge into their expressions as they sit there, speechless. I hear my sister in my ear, “Don’t say sad things in such a monotone voice with no expression. It makes you look heartless.” She would remind me but I'd easily forget. “There’s something extraordinarily different about fire.” I continue, “It can not only inflict a slow, painful death but it can so easily destroy everything that someone has worked so hard for. I think it’s one of the worst, most torturous natural disasters there is and if I have the opportunity to stop it, to save someone or keep it from destroying someone's life, I damn well will. This isn’t just something to pay bills or a flashy career… it goes a lot deeper than that.” It's only now I realize their nods and smiles have faded. The feeling returns, my heart beating so hard and fast it feels like it's trying to force its way out of my chest. “I don’t have a long list of certifications or years of experience. I don’t have a perfectly manufactured resume or robotic responses to your questions. I’m going out on a limb, taking a risk. That’s what firefighters do right?” I’m nearly pleading with them, my eyes seconds away from tears and the silence is so sickening I’m tempted to find a pin to drop to see if the saying is true. Just as I draw a breath to continue, the one in the center, the main hiring manager I assume, closes his binder and stands up. He reaches his hand out to me to shake and I hesitantly stand up, feeling embarrassment rush back as the ugly stain is in full view again. 

“Thank you for coming Mr. Zander. Expect to hear a call from us on Monday,” he says as his lips curl in a smile that meets his eyes and it feels genuine. I want to ask if that’s it but I refrain, knowing the answer. At least they are decent enough to put an end to this circus show. I pull my lips together in a tight smile and nod, shaking each of their hands as they silently watch me exit the room. I hear the door close behind me, welcoming an instant sigh of relief, all the pent-up tension finally releasing. I feel the receptionist glaring eyes on me as I pass by but I’d rather not spare her a glance or a wave, saving myself further embarrassment. 

I enjoy the breeze as I walk back toward my apartment building. The streets are strangely busier than normal, with voices echoing up into the air and tires skidding along the street. 

I’m already playing through the voicemail in my head, 

Mr. Zander, this is John Sifer with the fire department. I’m calling to inform you that we have decided to go a different direction at this time. We appreciate your time and interest in working with the fire department and wish you good luck in your job search.  

I’m caught trying to find my balance again, and without hesitation, I reach my hand down to the poor girl I’d just stumbled into. 

“I’m so… - sorry… it’s you again,” I say instantly losing myself in her familiar bright emerald green eyes. It’s the girl who spilled coffee on me earlier… of course… as if my day wasn’t already crazy enough. She smiles at me and then looks down at the stain, laughing. 

“Your interview!” her eyes widen, “you’ll have to tell me how it went… what do you say, over some coffee?”

All I can do is smile.