People Watching

I am sitting in the bookstore making every effort to overhear a conversation between two women, in what sounds like a cross between an interview and a therapy session.  I’ve been to restaurants where a mismatched couple, such as a young, well-dressed secretary with ambition is tiptoeing through an interview with a thin man, maybe a father of two, with a desperate, hopeful, “I am not worthy but I really need this job,” manner.

He is reaching so far for replacement phrases to his usual unconscious way of speaking with “the guys” that it sounds as if English is his second language.  Where he would normally say “ain’t got,” he is saying “don’t got” and then correcting that with “don’t have none” and quickly adding “any” to the end.  She would be more likely to find out if he were a decent hire if she had gone to his workplace, maybe an automotive repair shop, under the guise of getting a tune-up.  She would know the answers to all the questions she is fumbling.  Does he show up on time?  Is he honest?  Does he do a good job?  Does he care?  Does he take all day or get me in and out?

It is clear that this might be the young secretary’s very first time interviewing.  She is probably not going to hire him, the way a batter never takes the first pitch.  She can’t see him fitting into her environment, too green to realize that she is unable to imagine him in his where his performance matters.

Probably because his lunch hour is the only time he can get away for an interview, it is being conducted over a meal, that no doubt goes undigested.  I am not sure which party chose the Chinese restaurant as a meeting spot but I am guessing it was her.  She probably considered what she would be able to eat while talking before setting foot in the door.  He on the other hand, made the awkward mistake of not thinking beyond the plan to meet at a restaurant for an interview at a specified time.  He ordered lo mein.

The noodles are lassoing his chin before succumbing to the vacuum he has created with his greasy lips.  He is unable to control the flailing noodles.  It doesn’t matter if he takes a large bite or a small bite.  The noodles remain unruly.  So he is careful to raise his napkin to his mouth, as a curtain, continue eating between talking and wipe down his chin between bites, the way he would slide a dirty rag along a dipstick when he checks the oil.  She is looking down, interviewing her soup, rather than him.

By the end of the meal, I cannot tell by his body language if he thinks he got the job.  It’s the kind of posture that says, “The verdict is not out.”  He didn’t nail it.  But he didn’t flop.  Maybe there are several other men in wrinkled shirts they haven’t worn since their last interview, waiting for lunch dates.  If he could, he would warn them not to get the lo mein and to order two eggrolls to go, to top off their stomachs on the drive back to work.

I listen for her closing statement, but she has kept it to small talk, unrelated to employment, or him, or her, or the future.  He slides his chair into the table, throws his empty Styrofoam plate into the garbage can, holds the door for her.  He is working hard here.  She can only think about how she is going to phrase her last statement.  Should she say, “I’ll call you,” or “You’ll hear from me later this week?”  He is too timid to ask what to expect, and she is too inexperienced to know.  She hesitates to shake his calloused hand but knows she should.  Without eye contact, or turning back, they rush in opposite directions to their cars.

The body language of the two women in the bookstore coffee shop is unlike that of the secretary and the mechanic.  Where the facial expressions of the mismatched couple in the restaurant were careful, those of the two women sipping coffee are where the real dialogue is happening.  I find the expressions more intriguing than the conversation.  Although some of the things the younger, fidgety woman says, and the kind of reaction she gets for saying them, prod me to move closer to hear better.

Maybe I am in the mood for a cup of tea, after all.  I take my books and sweater and purse and casually set up camp two tables away, where I can observe the unspoken dialogue, over the top of my book.  Occasionally, I will turn a page, as if I’m reading.

It’s clear that this is not an interview.  This looks more like a therapy session, with a hint of self-deprecating confessional – the self-deprecation meant as humor but mistaken as fact by the interviewer.  I’m giggling because I can see where this is going.  There is no “help” being procured here.

Where I think the dynamic with these two is a complete flop is that clearly one of these women is Catholic and the other is Jewish.  While the Catholic woman is confessing, the Jewish woman is shaming.  The Catholic woman continues to confess, hoping to be cleansed of her sins and get to the part where the Jewish woman shows mercy and says, “Say five Hail Mary’s, three Our Father’s and do what I tell you so I don’t have to see you here again.”

But the Jewish woman doesn’t know the script.  Not this script.  She is unacquainted with Hail Mary, is Our Fatherless, and apparently ruthless, too.  There is no getting off the shame train.

I can only guess, by the restraint the fidgety woman is exercising, the interviewer is some sort of Expert.  Were this meeting in an office, I might be able to understand, an expert of what, exactly.  Apparently, she is an expert at penmanship because she has taken Fidgety woman’s notebook, twisted it toward her direction, and has begun editing, rewriting, underlining, and numbering.

While The Expert is looking down, Fidgety woman does something I have been waiting for with bated breath.  She implodes.  Her cheeks redden.  She shifts in her seat.  She is not angry enough to take her notebook back, stand up and leave.  She can’t, the way the mechanic can’t gain control of his lo mein as it gallops clumsily into his mouth.

If Fidgety woman had any boundaries she would have left when The Expert was a half hour late.  This was when I noticed her.  It was the tapping.  I was into chapter three of a book I had no intention of buying, but couldn’t put down either, when a tap, tap, tapping noise stood out from the usual background noises of espresso machine grinding, whip cream shooshing and coffee pot rinsing.  It was fingernails on a laminate table, tapping out the rhythm of a Civil War drumbeat that I’d learned when I was in drum and bugle corp. in 1976.  I played that very beat in the July 4th centennial parade.

The nail drumming stopped when the Expert came rushing into the coffee shop section of the bookstore, where Fidgety woman had been fussing with her purse and her watch and her appointment book for a half-hour.  Upon being recognized by The Expert, Fidgety did not act in any way as if she had been inconvenienced.  That was the moment.  Right there.  That was when she surrendered all of her power.

In fact when The Expert showed up, she specifically asked, “Have you been waiting long?”

Fidgety woman said, “Not at all.”

When the Fidgety woman began to tell her story, The Expert, I concluded could not be a therapist.  She was definitely not non-judgmental.

I began counting the reactions because she seemed to have a wide range of them.  I might have overlooked a few because it took me a few dramatic postural changes by Fidgety to realize that this was juicy.  This was good.  There was going to be a fight.  Fidgety was not going to be able to take the line of questioning much longer.

The Expert looked at her watch.  Fidgety woman pulled out her checkbook, filled it out quickly and slid it across the table, not making eye contact with her adversary.

“This is how you make an S?” the Expert hissed.

Realizing that she had made a “T” instead of an “S” but not wanting to admit or explain, Fidgety woman said, “Yes.”  As if to say, “Can you believe it?  Can you believe I have gotten through life with that handwriting?”

She never defends herself.  She allows herself to be run over.  I don’t understand the relationship between these two women.  I watch them walk single file out of the bookstore.  I follow them with my eyes.  They march to their cars in opposite directions, pulling out of the parking lot hastily, as if late for something at home.

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