Plymouth, Michigan.
Seated inside the cafeteria of the CTU, after a five (six?) year absence. The air is cold. Walking through this building, I have a peculiar feeling: familiar but mixed with alienation. Strolling through one's former home, amongst the new occupants. The windows, sinks, light switches remain in their places, found still, all these years, blind-folded or Midnight gloom, if necessary. Yet, the people changed other, mainly aesthetic details. The wallpaper replaced with a glossy ivory paint, curtains for wooden (faux?) blinds, the sectional that capably managed five flopping bodies gone - remember the two-inch tear at the back, caught on a ridiculous random piece of rust off of the UHaul door? - in its place a fashionable sofa made all of right angles and minimalist footprint. The people. Kind, but aloof. Aware they are of a stranger within their midst. Not a threat, though. No. A whimsical chap (chap??) indulging - with permission - a bout of nostalgia. Over there, he played board games with a sister after unwrapping Christmas present because in the then-too-small living room, only the space under the east-facing window allowed for a suitable spread-out experience (what's with the hyphens?). Inside the closet of the bedroom at the back and right (he did not ask to enter his parent's old bedroom and the present family shared to themselves the relief of not having to deny his entry) he found the birthday gifts from perhaps age 6. His parents did not bother wrapping or make any attempt to hide their son's bounty. The trusted him to keep the order all the siblings knew: never enter that room unless mom or dad is with you. The kids never asked to waltz into the room - though, quite a few debates held forth as to 1) why not? and 2) who would ask? For whatever reason(s), venturing into the mysterious-by-design back bedroom to the right never happened. Officially. He told the family about the possibly sixth birthday, days before the actual thing, he opened the verboten door. Verboten. He didn't use that word in his story, but briefly considered it. He opened the forbidden door, fearful, anxious. Inside the closet he saw the future cache. Delighted, he crept backwards into the hallway with a more focused attention to stealth than when entering two minutes prior. He had knowledge. Verboten knowledge. The current home owners made the requisite clucking and air-sucking sounds. They smiled and asked rhetorical questions.
I forget the purpose of this visit. A job interview. Today I drank too much coffee. Jittery. Earlier, I forgot the name of the woman interviewing me. The HR rep who conducted last week's phone interview saw me - no, he picked me out of a full-ish cafeteria, and told me to wait there.
Willow Run.
I do not believe that... I will not get the job. The interview conversation went well. Jeff asked whether it went better than the phone version: probably the same, I would answer had I not shut down the phone per Federal regulations. Context is crucial. The hiring manager's role involves a lot of public relations work. That surprised me. The NAIAS? Jesus. I made the best pitch for offering 'an alternative approach' to the position. She and I got on well, we had a pleasant dialogue. She intimated several times of my lacking experience. No commitment was made. She said "let's keep in touch." That's said to a mediocre date to avoid hurt feelings. Perhaps she conducted the interview as an obligation? My pessimism, probably. No... good (?) reason exists to believe otherwise that she gave me an honest shake. I hate feeling inadequate. However, she did offer several opportunities for engaging with her team and future projects. Write/research an article for the newsletter; volunteer at a company event. Exciting opportunities, indeed. Resume building blocks, excellent experience. The interview went well. The interview was the goal. Mission Accomplished.
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