“Mr. Weber?” Beth, one of the administrative assistants, walks in front of me. “They’re ready for you.”
I nod, swallowing hard enough that she probably heard me. Hopefully, she keeps that little tidbit to herself. Thoughshe’s loyal to Cedric Maxwell, her boss and one of the partners. I know from being on the other side of the interview table that the various administrative assistants are always spies, telling us the little things candidates do and say when they think no one’s watching.
“Thanks, Beth.”
I make my way into the conference room. Flashbacks of my initial interview run through my head. It looked about like this, with the senior members of the team gathered around the table, waiting to begin the interrogation. Not a lot has changed since then. It’s still two of the partners, Cedric Maxwell and Harold Tate, waiting in the room. My father let me know he’s recused himself from the entire process, unable to be neutral in the decision. They’re joined by two of the top people in the company, Stephen and Jacob. Neither of them is a partner, but they’re Vice Presidents and hold a great deal of the decision-making capacity.
“Good morning, Matthias. Please, have a seat.” It’s not hard to guess where Cedric wants me. There’s only one chair on this side of the table. It might be more intimidating if I hadn’t known most of these people since I was a teenager. They look big and scary like this, dressed in crisp suits and bow ties, leather padfolios in front of them with notes scribbled from previous interviews. Except, Stephen and his wife came to Christmas dinner, where they both got tipsy and played a terrible game ofPictionarywith us.
Harold used to come to some of my soccer games, screaming as loud as my father when I scored a goal, but then turning right back to do business during breaks and half-time.
I remind myself that if I don’t get this position, none of those things will change. We’ll still be the same people wewere yesterday. It helps calm some of the anxiety that’s been coursing through me this morning.
“We’ve got a series of questions for you, but then we’ll have time to answer any questions you might have for us about the position. Does that work for you?” Cedric asks once I’m seated.
“Sounds good, thank you.”
The next thirty minutes are a mix of questions about my past experiences, current clients, and hypotheticals about the future. It’s tedious at times, pulling out numbers from reports I have in front of me, thinking aloud to explain my thought processes, and generally trying to keep a smile on my face the whole time.
“One more question from us.” Harold smiles softly at me. “Why do you want this promotion?”
“I—” My brain grinds to a halt. I know I thought about this question. There’s an in-depth answer written out on my computer, detailing all the reasons why I think I’m ready for the additional responsibility that comes with a promotion and how all the work I’ve done over the last few years demonstrates growth and achievement. Except, for the first time, it hits me that that’s not what they’re asking. They’re asking me why Iwantthe job, not why Ideserve it.
And honestly? I have no idea. Which is terrifying. That’s the kind of thing I should have an answer for. Given the number of hours I spent working and the years I spent thinking about and dreaming of this opportunity, I don’t think I ever stopped to ask why I wanted it. Now that I have, my mind is completely blank.
Not wanting to screw up the interview, I fall back on my default answer. “Over the last seven years, I’ve dedicated myself to this company and to my clients. My numbers speak for themselves in this case, demonstratingthat I can provide the kind of service and hands-on touch that not only brings in new customers, but keeps them returning month after month. I believe that the next step for me is to become a senior associate and take on the additional responsibility that comes with that role. It’s a natural progression of my skills and knowledge.”
A sea of head bobbing on the other side of the table greets me. After a few more minutes of me asking questions about expectations and potential timelines, I’m ushered back to the door.
It’ll be a few weeks before I hear anything. Which is good news because I need some time to consider my little blip.
That’s what I’m calling it. A blip. A moment when things went a little fuzzy before coming back online.
Back at my office, I shut the door, letting my assistant know I wouldn’t be available for an hour. Given that interview schedules can quickly go awry, I don’t have any meetings scheduled until this afternoon.
I slouch in my seat, trying to come up with good explanations. When I pick up my phone, I have a series of various messages.
Frank
Good luck!!!
Aaron
You’ll do great! Call me when it’s over.
Nathan
You’ve got this!
Tyler
You don’t need it, but good luck.
Mom
Break a leg, sweetie!
Dad
