The Interview

A while back, I had an in-person interview with a hiring manager. For legal reasons—and emotional preservation—we’ll call him Steve.

Now, I had prepped for this interview like it was the last round of a game show called “Win Employment or Die Trying.” I’d studied the company website like it was a final exam. Rehearsed answers in my bathroom mirror until I started critiquing my own facial expressions. I even wore my “interview armor”: polished shoes, no caffeine stains, deodorant that whispered confidence but screamed reliability.

I walked into the building exactly ten minutes early—just enough to seem punctual, not desperate.

The receptionist gave me the kind of smile people reserve for haunted hotel guests.

“You must be here for Steve,” she said, and handed me a visitor badge like she was passing over a numbered jersey before the Hunger Games.

“Good luck,” she added.

Why did that feel… ominous?

Steve came out a few minutes later. Late 40s, maybe early 50s. Wore a shirt that looked like it once had structure but had since given up. His energy screamed “I once played intramural softball and bring that same intensity to QBRs.”

“Hey there!” he said. “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied, which I thought sounded humble. In hindsight, it sounded like a threat.

We entered a small conference room furnished exclusively with budget cuts. Beige walls. Flickering lights. A motivational poster that said “TEAMWORK” under a photo of some rowers who definitely never met each other.

I sat down. He sat across from me.

And then—he rocked back.

Not casually.

Not thoughtfully.

But like a man trying to physically ascend into a better pay grade.

And the chair gave up.

In one glorious, slow-motion moment, Steve—the Hiring Manager, Keeper of Payroll, Gatekeeper of Career Advancement—tipped fully backward.

His arms flailed.

His coffee launched.

His face contorted into the expression of a man who both regrets everything and is at peace with nothing.

He hit the floor like punctuation—hard.

There was silence.

Not just in the room. I’m pretty sure time itself paused.

Then—laughter.

Steve started laughing like he hadn’t laughed since HR banned sarcasm in performance reviews.

Eyes watering.

Tie skewed.

Sitting on the carpet like a philosopher who finally understood life.

“Well,” he said between laughs, “that’s the most honest chair in the building.”

What was I supposed to do? Clap? Pray? Offer him a fresh chair and a therapist?

He pulled himself up. Dusted off. Did a full structural analysis on the new chair before slowly—gingerly—sitting back down.

“Let’s start over,” he said. “I’m Steve. I manage chaos. Apparently, literally.”

And just like that, we launched into the interview.

We discussed leadership, stress, budgets, spreadsheets, and what it means to recover with grace. He asked, “How do you handle high-pressure moments?” I wanted to say, “Better than that chair.” Instead, I nodded respectfully.

At the end, he gave me a fist bump—trauma bonding is real—and said, “We’ll be in touch.”

They never were.

And that’s okay.

Because I walked out of that office with something better than a callback:

Perspective.

Sometimes, the interview isn’t about your résumé.

It’s not about your GPA, your elevator pitch, or how well you align with the company’s values (that were copied from someone else’s company, by the way).

Sometimes, the interview is about grace under collapsing furniture.

It’s about sitting calmly while a grown man yeets himself out of a chair mid-question and deciding—internally—that you will not laugh until at least the parking lot.

And maybe, just maybe…

That’s the real test.