Testing, testing

 

There are people who think that everything is a test. Even those who don’t totally agree, would admit that many things at least rise to the level of a quiz. I fall in between these people, the testers and the quizzers. In life, you rarely have to show your work, except maybe during an audit. And I've never seen anyone succeed through strict devotion to multiple choice answers. The other day I had to interview someone for a new position. They were to be my protégé. I have mentored many things, but never any people. The higher-ups believed I was up to the task.

The candidate started by showing me some of their writing, a little of their art, and a poem written in elementary school. I told them to “hang on a second,” and left the room for a couple hours. I was really just around the corner, listening to them scrolling through Instagram, biding my time for an appropriately dramatic reentrance. When I came back, wobbly and well-fed, I said, while the agency hadn’t made a decision, there were a few tasks they could do to rise above the competition.

That’s what I handed them what at first glance, appeared to be my grocery list. I said, I know what it looks like, but this isn’t just a grocery list. You are seeing a window into an employer rarely revealed. You now know what juice I like – and how much pulp – my almond intake, and whether or not I prefer drinking straight from the tap (rain imbibing) versus bottle or can. This is highly coveted information. Something many of my fiercest rivals would give an arm and a leg (both chicken) to come into possession of.

I didn’t tell them what to do. I left the room and left the “list” on the table. Fresh fruit isn’t so easy this time of year, especially when I underlined the words “local within 90 miles” several times in thick ink. 

Was this a creative position? Naturally. Could they have robbed a bodega for the items? I suppose. But would that have been creative? Not in this surveillance state. Start a farm co-op would be more palatable to my artistic tastebuds. What I didn’t do was give them my address. They found it anyway, enterprising young person that they are. Public records are a helluva thing. At 7 pm that night I was listening to the ballgame when a knock came. It was the candidate with several bags of groceries; just in time for dinner. I thanked them and gave them a cash tip, never inviting them into my urban palace. 

 

They didn’t get the job. But on the bright side, my shopping was done for the week.