“Not at all.” It sounds almost morose and I’m surprised to see so much doubt and hurt on his face.
“What made you want to get into it?” I pitch my voice kinder, less like an interviewer and more like an actual person asking a genuine question.
“I just got out of a long-time job in the corporate sector. It was exhausting working in that space and having every day feel the same. Mostly, I wanted a fresh start and it was a half-baked, almost manic idea that came to me when I was desperate enough to take a risk.”
Good god. Are we the same person? I can’t ask that of course. It’s unprofessional but—I feel that answer in my bones. Instead I just nod.
“I understand that. I’m just recently out of the corporate space as well—contractor—and I’ve been looking for something a little less”—filled with assholes,my brain quips—“spiritless, I suppose?”
He lifts his coffee mug and it takes me a second to realize he wants me to clink mine against his, cheering our mutual disdain for soul-sucking, cog-in-a-wheel, capitalistic oblivion that our cubicles enforce.
“So, do you have any questions for me?” I lean over and pull my resume out of my bag as I ask, since he has nothing in front of him, not even a notebook. What the hell kind of interview is this anyway?
Hands swallowing the paper, Bryce only gives it a cursory glance before he trains those whiskey and honey eyes on me again.
“I’ve never done this—interviewed someone. It’s pretty obvious, right?” It’s said with a wry smile, one that doesn’t reach the eyes and tells me he’s self-deprecating without the humor.
“I think you’re doing an okay job so far. It doesn’t always have to be done a particular way.” Why am I being so nice to this man? It’s not just that I want the job. Rachel from D.C., Rachel the ball-buster, would’ve made a snide inner comment about how she had to be prepared. It’s only fair that the potential employer should have prepared as well.
Rather, I watch as he swirls the dark liquid in his cup around, his eyes transfixed on the little whirlwind within it. “You’re kind.”
It’s a statement from him. Not a “thank you” or a question, or anything other than a passing remark that sings through me. No one has ever called me kind before. I’m too hard for that, too reserved and judgemental, and driven. Except, I feel a little fragile myself and I’m only extending a courtesy I wish would come my way.
Maybe I wouldn’t be this detached if I wasn’t forced to be by the landscape of my industry.
My peers already consider me lesser for my sex. I’ve tucked away the too-feminine, too-forgiving parts of myself to prevent them from getting crushed under Italian dress shoes that cost more than a month’s salary.
“Bryce,” I say and the taste of it on my tongue feels foreign. Like a new word I’ve learned but haven’t quite translated properly into my careful little boxes. “I get it. I need out. The job I had was going to be the death of me if I kept at it, and even after all the years I gave them, it feels like I have little to nothing to show for it.”
He watches me, a studious quality to his eyes made all the more intense by the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Pushing them up as an afterthought, he clears his throat before he speaks.
“I can’t pay what you were making in D.C.” He says it as if I didn’t already read the job listing, but before I respond with that he carries on. “This isn’t a straight-forward position. It requires many hats. We’ll be researching other escape rooms, noting what works and what doesn’t. I’ll likely need to do remodeling on whichever space I procure—you won’t be expected to do that but I want you to know the scope. I’m building a business from scratch and I’m not sure how to make it worthwhile for whoever comes to work for me.”
If it is as involved as he says, then the daily rate makes more sense than an hourly programming or developing fee.
“So you’re looking for a developer, a research assistant, a sounding board, a collaborator . . . basically a creative partner with a background in developing?” Many hats, like he said.
“It’s an unfair ask, so if you don’t want it I totally get it.”
If I don’t want it?
“Wait, does that mean I got the job?”
Bryce looks at me like I’m the silly one for sounding surprised. “Yeah?”
“You didn’t ask me anything about my previous job experience, or my goals, or what I’d bring to this endeavor.” It comes out involuntarily and I could kick myself for trying to give him reasons to walk back on his offer. But I feel like a kid that studied only to be told there was never any test to prepare for. Dressed up with nowhere to go.
“Your resume was extensive and I reached out to your reference who had nothing but good things to say about the quality of your work. You were five minutes early. You’re professional, and you care enough about the project to ask questions about it rather than just trying to butter me up with qualifications that matter less than a willingness to work.”
Well.
When he puts it like that.
“I—I want to say yes.” But I’m scared to and I’m not sure why. The task is going to be daunting but that’s never kept me from trying before. Maybe because for the first time in a long time I am out of my depth and not sure I can pull it off.
“What’s stopping you? I’m willing to do what I can to get you on board, within reason of course. This is something I’d like to get underway as soon as possible if I’m going to make the deadline.”
“Insurance, for one. It wasn’t mentioned—there was no benefits section on the posting—and that’s something I’d be uncomfortable going without.” Especially living in a strange town and working with a strange man doing all sorts of unlisted activities that didn’t make it onto the job description. I cannot afford uninsured trips in the wee-wah wagon—not that I can affordinsuredtrips either but . . .
