Another woman, older, possibly sixty, dressed in a black and white sweater suit that matched her curly, salt and pepper hair, entered the office.
“Ah! And this is Mrs. Roberts,” Principal Jenne said, after the woman had taken her seat. He rose to close the door. “Our library media specialist.”
I responded accordingly.
Principal Jenne sat beside me. He swatted at, and missed, a fly resting atop his materials.
The interview went well. A round-robin, the committee, assembled around the shiny oak table, took turns reading canned questions from two-page handouts. Double-sided, of course. This was, at face, serious business. In reality? Rote. Nothing, although the school certainly thought otherwise, I hadn’t heard before. Those present, a combination of middle and high school faculty, pretended to be interested in the notes they took, base iterations of the words and phrases I had just spoken. It didn’t matter, my competition. I was the best candidate. We all agreed on this. The greatest mystery, which, of course, no one could directly address, was if I was interested. This, I thought (not particularly arrogantly, just as a matter of course), they could only wonder about.
“Well,” Principal Jenne said, after a little more than an hour had passed, “I think that’s about it from us.” He looked around the table. “So, unless anyone has anything else? Rich. You’ve been a good sport. Have you—”
Mrs. Roberts cleared her throat. Mr. Jenne, with whom I was making eye contact, grimaced. This, he quickly arranged into a smile. Passable. So long as you weren’t paying attention. I folded my hands on the table, and, expression neutral, awaited whatever nonsense was coming.
“Mr.?”
Silence. Just the buzzing from the fly, loping about the room. I waited a beat, then two, before amicably responding, “Leise?”
“Mr. Leise,” Mrs. Roberts said.
Those gathered around the table flipped their scripts to page one, or otherwise pretended to review their notes.
She continued. “Thank you for your time. Your credentials are impressive. As is,” she raised a hand in the air, questioningly, then said, “your resume.”
I nodded. Not always, but usually – almost always – there was one. A SPED teacher who thought she ran the building. A teacher who, generally, didn’t like people. Don’t get me started on curriculum coordinators. Whatever. This soon would pass.
“It seems to me that the problem with most vampire books is the same. I’m pretty confident in my conviction, so, if you’ll excuse me, I’m not really interested in your opinion. What I have,” she said, then tapped the table, “is a question.”
The state of being stretched tight. Mental or emotional strain. Naturally, most people don’t enjoy the sensation. Not me. Tension. Why would I not want from life what I sought in music? In literature? This is not to say that I, as a rule, like those who apply the force. This is because they, as a rule, are boring. I found nothing awkward. Here. There. Or Anywhere. What a trite character defect, self-consciousness. Embarrassing, really. I mean, get over yourself.
“Well, if you ever change your mind,” I said, pleasantly, “you have my contact information.”
The room laughed.
Mrs. Roberts didn’t.
“The problem with vampire books isn’t that they exist, or capture the imagination. Particularly that of the young adult. Who, of course, if offered this position, is who you’d be serving.” She removed her stylish glasses, polished the lenses with her sweater’s hem, then returned them to her face.
The effect was uncanny.
I felt as though I saw her more clearly.
So strange.
The fly landed upon the desk. Odd, too, how the insect, so insignificant, despite its impressive size, arrived with greater clarity.
I’d have enjoyed a moment to reflect on the sensation, but the woman kept talking. “Although, of course, there is that.”
The moment sullied, what else could I do but – sigh – listen?
“No. The problem, as I see it, is menstruation. I confess I haven’t completed your trilogy. It’s not yet part of our collection, but I did read book one. Which is …. Remind me of the title, again?”
She was, clearly, working to create an imbalance. I didn’t then, nor do I now – at least not fully – know why. Perhaps, I thought at the time, she disliked celebrity. However minor. Probably, I reasoned, while driving home, she was a failed writer. I was not wrong on either count. But I wasn’t exactly correct, either.
Regardless, if I’m being honest – and I am nothing but – I was, for the first time in a long time, uncomfortable. Uneasy. She had cornered me. I did not want to respond, but I had to. The pretty little ELA teacher, who, before the interview, gave me a brief tour, then, during the interview, asked two softball questions, had read all of my work. She was, since we’re being honest, a bit – just a bit – starstruck. This means more than you might think. Statistically speaking, most people have not read my work. Anyway. The point of this little aside is that she knew the title. Had said she ‘loved’ the title. But during this particular exchange the little cu— Ah hem. Let me rephrase. During this part of the inquisition, my potential future colleague remained silent. She said absolutely nothing.
“Empire,” I said, lifting a hand as if shrugging.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Roberts said. As if I passed a test. “Clever. Probably my favorite feature of the book. Not to damn with faint praise.”
“I just think it’s cool you read it,” I said. A thank you would have sounded disingenuous. (For reasons that are – or at least, by now, should be – patently obvious.) And then, “It’s a tautology, actually. Not that I expect you,” and then, to soften the blow, adding, “or anyone else to know. Book four? Remains, as of now, Book Four. Can’t seem to come up with a title. So, if you have any ideas.”
She ignored me and said, “I read everything that I, or the district, orders for our collection.”
The district. I smiled and said, “Impressive. It’s like you’re some sort of vampire.”
A few laughs.
A man – I forget what he does – swatted the fly from in front of his face.
“Pardon?” Mrs. Roberts said.
“You know,” I said. “As in, you must be up all night. Reading.” And then, against my better judgement, “Or drinking.”
The others in the room laughed. It would be nice to think they felt badly for me, but no: They only felt for themselves. I didn’t blame them. There’s, communally speaking, was a perfectly normal and quite human reaction.
“Ah,” Mrs. Roberts said. “Clever. Pardon me. I’m usually not so obtuse. As it stands, I’m sure you have better things to do. As do my colleagues. No shortage of lessons to write. Of papers to grade.”
Sounds were made – human sounds – but nothing as precise as a word. Let alone a formal sentence.
“I’ll be blunt, Mr. Leise. Women. Young ladies. Girls, to be precise. At least if we’re talking, specifically, about your Empire. Which I’m not. Necessarily. Anyway.”
She cleared her throat.
Swatted at the fly.
“Clever allegory to the side? For I leave that, um, business for the critics. I simply assess what goes up in my stacks.”
She paused.
I was certain she was, again, preparing to work her glasses’ trick, but I was wrong.
She said, “Because you’ll remember my issue. My particular problem is with any book, vampiric in nature. Not necessarily yours, but, at least to a degree, somewhat yours, given that you, like myriad others, are writers who, say, utilize youth. Adults who pen novels – or books – packaged as New Adult. Or, if you like, YA. Women and their periods, Mr. Leise. How does this, um, bloodletting, not drive vampires crazy?”
At the time I gave the woman too much credit. Mrs. Roberts. Library Media Specialist? Please. This is the syntactical equivalent to naming some meth-mouth teen in a green apron a Sandwich Artist.
And so yes.
This is my only regret.
Never a prisoner to the moment, I was, I am ashamed to admit, swept along the stream of her prudent – yes, prudent is the word I want – rhetoric. Outside the confines of that terrible room (they are all terrible, of course, no offense CPPSD), I see, and plainly, her question – if you wish to call it that – as little more than the silly, silent ruminations of a bitter, angry woman. A bitch, to be completely honest. Oh, Richard, you fool! How did you – you! – fail to see her query for what it was. Language, that, literally, amounted to little more than a lame Tweet. Discourse which was, in a word, dumb.
Principal Jenne, sitting to my right, leaned my way and, like a lawyer, said, “You don’t have to answer that.”
The sun broke through the clouds and the room brightened. Looking towards the large picture window I noticed the fly, and how, just like a sick screensaver, the creature slowly rotated against the glass.
Of course Principal Jenne was incorrect. Were I to accept the position – which, had there been any doubt concerning my receiving an offer before this interview (there wasn’t, as mentioned; but, if only for emphasis, had there been) …. Well this, thanks to Mrs. Robert’s performance, had been fully eliminated.
Of significance, though.
How I responded, no matter however ludicrous this particular moment presented itself, would not so much define me (in the dull sheen of that poor districts’ faculty’s eyes), but cement my legacy.
Legend or fallen-hero.
Friend or foe.
I weighed, which was something I did not care to do, my options.
Only there was an issue. A concern.
The problem, as mentioned – or, at least, intimated – was that I froze. And the longer I considered what to say, the temperature in the room, if you will, dropped commensurately. In mere moments I was nothing more than a sculpture. Pretty, yes. Something to capture – and hold – your gaze. But my profundity meant nothing. For I, like architecture, was nothing one expected anything from. A construction, crafted by an artisan – for Mrs. Roberts is no artist! – carved for nothing more than consideration.
What folly, to feel – for that is what had happened, I surrendered my intellect for something as crass as emotion – that the woman had actually posed a serious question. Oh, she was serious. But Mrs. Roberts (and the many like her) is the sort of woman who considered her vote, were votes to have weight, to possess not only appreciable gravity, but gravitas. Her question, as we all now see, wasn’t serious – it was preposterous! I would have appreciated, if not respected, her much more had this been set-up. Had she been trying to get me. For whatever inane reason (for any reason would have been inane), this would have been acceptable. Even delightful. But she expected me to take her seriously. And, for whatever reason, I had. Had I simply laughed, the room would have laughed with me. And, of this I am certain, they would have, in doing so, laughed at her. It was I. It was me who lent unto her question credibility. I have only myself to blame.
It is just now August. The grass is green. And the sky? Blue. When I leave, be this in five, or fifteen minutes, Principal Jenne, after shaking my hand and declaring that he will get back to me before the end of the week (they have a few more interviews lined up), will call me within the hour. He won’t apologize for Mrs. Roberts’ behavior. But he will offer me the position. I know this will happen as surely as I know that how I elect to respond, now, will determine how I will respond to his offer.
The fly makes a slow pass around the room, then smacks against the window. I watch it rise, and fall. Rise, and then fall. Flat upon its back, the fly buzzes mindlessly, its wings worthless. Yes. The room is that quiet. You can hear this. And then, nothing. Just silence. I suppose the fly died. I certainly thought it was dead.
And, like that, the moment passed.
Whatever had stilled me? This warmed.
I smiled.
And with every muscle I thought to imagine, and utilize, I turned and I faced Mrs. Roberts.
And, with a finger pointed in her direction, I said ….