As I closed the web page, I thought, all right! I made the first cut! Well, really the second cut, but who is counting. I immediately went into interview prep mode. What would they be likely to ask me? I pictured myself sitting across a desk, well, more likely a folding table in some dark corner in the off-stage storage warehouse. The traditional first interview question is Tell me about yourself.I pictured myself saying, Well, I like to build things. In accordance with the adage of show don't tell, I decided to wow the interviewer (interviewers? Would it be a panel?) with some photos of things I have built over the past sixteen years with lumber purchased from their store. I took photos of the cat tree, my umpteen shelves, more shelves, and the aqua-topped table in the bathroom that shelters the cat box (strategically omitting the box itself, no easy feat). I artfully arranged the photos in a Word document and enhanced the color saturation of each one slightly to really make them pop on the page. I printed the photos on one double-sided sheet of card stock (to give it substance in the hand) and slipped it into a non-glare plastic sleeve left over from my teaching days.
Now, what should I wear? The interview instructions required “business casual.” I looked up the term on the Internet to make sure my idea of business casual conformed with current style. After perusing multiple websites aimed at much younger audiences, I realized I should focus on being myself. I wanted to be comfortable, not too casual, not too weird. And not too old. I dug out my black pinwale cords and, in a nod to current fashion, altered the flares out of the hems. I'd altered the waist and hips several years ago but after I lost a few pounds over the past year, the pants gape in the waist. It's hard to get pants to fit given my unique set of figure flaws, I mean, figure challenges. I planned to pull a long t-shirt over the waist and try to remember to suck in my gut. Once I was seated, my bulging tummy probably wouldn't show much if I sat up straight. Besides, I anticipated they would be too busy admiring my photo portfolio.
The unspoken elephant in the room would be my age. As I mentioned last week, the job application website would not allow employment dates older than 1993. Perhaps it was a web development error; maybe the prohibition was intentional. In any case, I knew that I would have to acknowledge openly that I am experienced. To appear younger, I decided to wear flat and perky white-laced gray tennis shoes.
Finally, I wondered, did I need to bring a resume? I reviewed my myriad resumes and CVs written over the past few years. All the jobs focused on teaching and academics. None of the jobs I listed were older than 1993. Hmmm. I started to add the art-supply sales job I held in 1985, thinking it might be relevant to this merchandising position. After looking at the date 1985 in black and white, I decided to print a copy of my current CV. It's two pages, focused on my short list of publications. I anticipated the interviewers might not care but at least I had something to show them if they asked for a resume. And maybe I could score some wow points for having a PhD. Maybe I would be the overly educated mascot of the merchandising team. Maybe they would call me Doc.
I got dressed and left the Love Shack in plenty of time. I drove to the box store and found a place in back to park in the shade (it's going to be 90°F today). I hiked across the parking lot to the mall entrance.
In the 1970s, my friends and I visited this mall often. I bought fabric at Discount Fabrics and many pairs of shoes at Thom McCanns. I bought a rayon print dress in 1975 at Casual Corner—I wore that dress once. I shopped at Montgomery Wards, White Front, and the Emporium and watched movies in the cineplex (multiple theaters in one location, how novel!).
The door from the mall into the home improvement store opened as I approached. The overweight employee manning the register looked up from his phone and said “Welcome in,” the phrase recently adopted by my bank. Must be a customer service trend. I acknowledged his welcome, feeling self-conscious that I might soon be sharing an employee break room with this guy.
I shuffled through the store to the service desk and asked for the merchandising manager. In a few minutes, a burly young man with pink cheeks and wire-rimmed glasses appeared. We shook hands.
“Let me do a quick walk-through with you so you know what we do,” he said. He pointed to the display of patio furniture at the front of the store. “We organized that display a few days ago. It's looking a little . . . ” I didn't want to complete his sentence. I would have said frayed. Tatty. Disheveled. Neglected. Being highly educated means I can usually draw from a deep repertoire of adjectives. Perhaps not an essential trait for a merchandiser, but maybe some customers would be amused.
“Okay,” I said, thinking, I could move around patio furniture.
Next, the manager hustled toward the garden center. I scuttled along in his wake.
“We work for a company that is hired by the store,” he said over his shoulder.
“Oh, okay,” I said. Huh, did not know that. The merchandisers are not actually store associates.
We went through the sliding doors into the garden center. Past the rows of potted azaleas I could see a half-dozen people in orange vests milling around between twenty-foot high warehouse shelves. I quickly gauged ages and genders. Mostly men, mostly young. One robustly built young woman with long blonde hair. One older guy with a grizzled beard and glasses. I thought, okay.
The manager grabbed the older guy's smartphone and quickly scrolled through the screens, explaining how the team received and followed plans for building the displays. I barely heard what he was saying. Next to me was a row of tall cardboard boxes wrapped in strapping tape. I could not tell what was inside. I reached out and gave one box a tentative shove. It barely budged. It was clear the box was taller, wider, and much heavier than me. There is no way I would be able to lift or even move that box.
I tried to make eye contact with the older worker, looking for some encouragement. He did not look at me. For a tiny moment, I thought about what I would tell Mom. Then I remembered, I don't tell my mother anything about my life anymore. I tell her stories about the neighbors, the birds, the cat. I show her pictures I take on my walks in the park. I share with her the photos my sister sends from France: rainbows, sailboats, and red alstroemerias. We discuss the fascinating lives of Chip and Joanna, the stars of Fixer Upper, and I remind Mom of their new son's name. We marvel at the height of the Property Brothers. I joke that we should start our own mother-daughter demolition team.
The manager turned to head back toward the store. I followed, feeling fragile and delicate. Who do I think I am?
“So that's what we do,” he said. “Day in and day out. Every day.”
“I don't think I would be able to move boxes that heavy,” I said.
He stopped. “Thanks for coming in today, Miss Carol,” he said. We shook hands. I turned and headed back to the entrance to the mall.
The entire “interview” took less time than it took me to walk back to my car.
I put on my baseball cap and drove home, admiring the blue sky, breathing in the warm air, and reveling in a fizzy sense of freedom that comes from not knowing what comes next.
