More accurately, ten minutes later, I was leaning. Between two generic pieces of wall art that I imagined were supposed to be a modern representation of flowers.
It was for the best. Standing was good. Standing meant I had to concentrate a little more, which would keep the anxiety at bay.
About my posture. (I really shouldn’t be leaning.)
About how bad my feet were killing me in these heels. (Which is why I had to lean in the first place.)
What to do with my hands.
I can tell you what I wasn’t doing with my hands, I wasn’t holding on to some leather billfold like the other candidates in the lobby were. Two women, two men. All either close to, or younger than, thirty years old, I was guessing. Besides their phones, they each held a leather billfold in their laps, which had been taken out of either a fancy leather briefcase or some cool across-the-shoulder satchel.
Because apparently, it was that kind of job. The leather-briefcase-leather-billfold-holding-my-resume kind of job.
I was so not getting this job.
Still, I had to try.
I continued to stand in the corner of the lobby, my hands clenched around the not-leather strap of my cheap purse, holding a sheet of paper that was my one-page resume.
One of the office doors opened and everyone held their collective breath.
A young man, wearing a full suit and tie, clutching a familiar leather briefcase, walked through the lobby at a brisk pace. As he passed me, I could see his cheeks were burning red. Head down, he looked at no one as he left the lobby.
“Next!”
The sharp bellow came from the other side of the door. Loud enough it made everyone jump a little.
“Now, please. I don’t have time for hesitation.”
The seated candidates looked at each other. One of the women, a redhead in a smart green pantsuit, stood. She was older and seemed a little less intimidated than the rest of us.
This woman wore red lipstick like she knew what she was doing with it. She marched into the office and shut the door behind her.
Finally, there was an empty chair. But I didn’t take it.
Two minutes later, the woman with the great lipstick stormed out of the office practically huffing with outrage.
She turned back to whomever was in the office behind her. I tried to peek around her but she took up most of the doorway.
“You’re very unprofessional,” she said, clearly indignant.
Okay, well, she was not getting the job.
“Next!”
The invisible man’s shout reverberated throughout the small lobby.
Green pantsuit lady strode across the lobby carpet and out the heavy glass door.
“I’ll go,” said one of the men still seated in the chairs.
Navy suit, slick haircut, there was a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. He looked more like a soldier ready to hit Normandy Beach on D-Day, than someone heading into an interview.
Maybe I should have done a little more online research about this job.
Navy suit entered the office and closed the door behind him.
“Fuck this,” the other man in the waiting chair said. He looked recently graduated from some fancy school because the watch on his wrist screamed fancy graduation gift. “I’ve got three other interviews lined up at top firms. I don’t need to deal with this shit.”
