She's the Boss (12 page)

* A guy is an incredible douchebag and wants the world to know it.

* Said guy has blond-tipped hair and works at a tanning salon.

That’s it. No other exceptions.

Well . . . I guess I might just make
one
exception:

* The guy is a Samoan, a Tongan, a native Hawaiian, or belongs to any sort of native tribe.

Shortly afterward, the next candidate, Matt Hendrickson, strutted into the room self-importantly. I leaned closer to Hillary and whispered, “Oh my God. Scientology has cloned Tom Cruise.”

Hillary whispered back, “He
does
look like Tom Cruise.”

“Right,” said Carter, pen in hand. “Let’s get started.”

Matt sat down and Carter asked him the same asinine question, “If you were an animal, which one would you be?”

“C’mon.” Matt rolled his eyes, looking decidedly irritated. “I came here to interview for a job, not play make believe.”

I felt the control of the interview slipping out of our hands. Something had to be done. Later, after Tom Cruise had stormed off in a huff, I turned and confronted Carter. “Really!” My voice pitched higher. “What is the point to all this?”

“The point of these questions,” said Carter in a level voice, “is to show how they measure up to the unknown. Their reaction is what I’m looking for. Do they demand why they’re being asked a trivial question? Do they roll their eyes at me?”

“Umm hmm.” Hillary nudged me in the ribs. “Did you see how Matt’s eyes practically rolled off his head? Tsch-tsch. I can’t believe he threw such a hissy fit.”

“Look,” Carter went on, “sometimes you have to answer strange questions. You just do. And if these people aren’t willing to go with the flow, then they won’t make it very far. Not in job interviews. Not in life. What I’m looking for are team players. People who can think on their feet; people who don’t think they’re too cool to answer simple and nonsensical questions.”

“I don’t know,” I said uncertainly, “this whole interview process is so . . . so . . . discombobulated.”

I liked that word.
Discombobulated.

“Discombobulated?” said Carter in a voice that didn’t give me a clue as to whether he was harboring murderous thoughts about me.

“Discombobulated,” I said more timidly this time.

Hillary began speaking to me like she was nurturing a little kitten. “This is what it boils down to, kid. You’re gonna be spending a third of your life with your co-workers so it’d be a good idea to hire someone who not only qualifies for the job but who is also pleasant to be around.”

“Point taken,” I conceded as other more pressing matters were weighing on my mind. “And by the way, he
did
look like Tom Cruise, didn’t he?”

“He sure did!” Hillary enthused. “But what do you think is cheesier? A block of cheese or Tom Cruise?”

“Why the comparison?” I smirked. “Do you have something against cheese?”

Then we looked at each other and burst into girlish laughter.

Carter sighed with deep exasperation, his long mouth tight with disapproval. “Can you two quit talking about celebrities?”

Weak with laughter, I cast Carter a quick glance and enquired, “What’s so wrong with celeb gossip?”

He looked down his imperious nose at me. “You’re so predictable,” he said haughtily.

“Really?” I remarked dryly.

“Really,” said Carter. “I suppose your ideal man would be Brad Pitt.”

“Nah.” I pulled a face. “He’s older than the Grand Canyon. Ian Somerhalder is more my type.”

Hillary looked mystified. “Ian who?”

“Ian Somerhalder,” I repeated. “He plays Damon Salvatore in
The Vampire Diaries
. Oh. My. God. Hillary! He is smokin’ hot!”

Carter’s voice was suddenly brisk. “Let’s get on with the interviews.”

“Sure.” I sat back and folded my arms. “But can you ask the candidates a different question? The zoo animal one is getting a bit old, if you ask me.”

“Of course,” Carter said amiably and fixed me with a pointed look. “But why don’t
you
come up with the next insightful question.”

“Gladly.”

The next candidate breezed in and introduced himself as Kiefer McDonald.

“Hello, Kiefer,” I greeted him with a jovial smile. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

“Let’s.”

“Who is your favorite celebrity?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Carter slapping his forehead.

I blatantly ignored him and devoted my full and undivided attention to Kiefer.

“I’m old school,” said Kiefer, “so I’ll have to go with Michael J. Fox.”

“And why is he your favorite celebrity?” I asked. This time I purposefully didn’t look at Carter to see what he’d thought of my question.

“Michael J. Fox has made me laugh and cry in a variety of roles. But for me, the greatest role of all is the one he lives every day . . . just going about his life, going to work, and showing us all that Parkinson’s disease may affect his body, but not his spirit.”

After Kiefer had left, I said, “I
really
like him.”

Hillary nodded enthusiastically. “So do I.”

Carter grudgingly acknowledged, “He did give some good answers.”

“See!” I shot Carter a triumphant look. “That’s because I asked some very good questions.”

Carter gave an amused half-smile.

“I’d like to come up with the next set of questions.” Hillary paused for a fraction and turned to address Carter. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” said Carter.

The door was swung open and a well-upholstered man walked in. “Hi!” he said gregariously. “I’m Jason Schlegel.”

Without preliminaries, Hillary fired the first question, “Jason! Which person, living or dead, would you most like to meet?”

“The, um, the . . . living one?”

“Which living person?” Hillary pressed.

“Eh-el-Elvis,” Jason stammered. “And I can prove that the King still lives.”

“All right.” Hillary’s smile wavered slightly. “Next question: What would you put on your headstone?”

Jason grinned. “If I got this job, I’d put ‘Most Loyal Lightning Speed employee.’ ”

“Actually,” I said
sotto voce
, “that question doesn’t quite make sense because he wouldn’t be able to put anything on his headstone once he’s dead.”

Hillary said quietly, “I liked his answer, though.”

Next, a thick and strapping woman, (think Russian women’s weightlifting team) with big hair and an even bigger personality bounded in, clutching a large tote bag. “Hi y’all!” she drawled. “I’m Mindy Thompson.”

Everyone shrank slightly from her exuberance. And gosh, she had a ferocious perm. Her hair was so large it was practically another presence in the room. Some breed of halfhuman (think Rod Blagojevich) was probably nesting in that weave, somewhere.

Mindy went on, “I just wanted y’all to know that I’ve violated my probation by leaving Texas and crossing multiple state lines, but this job is
so
worth it. I just wanted y’all to know that this interview means a lot to me. Seriously, I’d do anything to snag this job. Heck, I’m even risking jail time.”

Carter’s jaw dropped. When he’d finally regained control of his facial features, I hissed under my breath, “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

He sent me a shriveling look which I duly ignored.

“Please, Mindy.” I gestured expansively. “Have a seat.”

Mindy sat down and deposited her large tote bag under the table.

“So tell us, Mindy,” I said kindly, “what is your greatest achievement?”

She twisted a lock of hair and smacked her bubblegum lips. “I wrote a novel.”

“Really?” I said brightly. “That’s fantastic. What kind of novel?”

Mindy gave me an enormous toothy grin and flashed her donkey veneers. “BDSM.”

“BDSM.” Hillary wrinkled her nose, looking at Mindy in rather a puzzled way. “What’s that?”

Please don’t answer that. Please don’t
go
there, I tried to communicate this with my eyes.

But Mindy was only too willing to talk about it and once she’d started, there was no stopping her. “It stands for bondage, discipline, sadism and masochism. But it’s not all about pain and spankings and whips and chains. Tickling can be a part of the lifestyle too, you know.” She smacked her bubblegum lips. “It doesn’t have to be all about the Red Room of Pain.”

Hillary’s face was beginning to take on a slightly grayish tint.

I had to clear my throat twice before I could pick up the thread of conversation. “Mindy, can you tell us about one of your accomplishments that’s work related. Something you did at a previous job, perhaps?”

“It is work related!” Mindy shot back, “I wrote my entire BDSM novel when I worked at Best Buy.”

“Thank you for your time,” said Carter in a clear dismissal.

There was a startled pause, after which Mindy lightly enquired, “Did I get the job?”

I smiled wanly. ‘Don’t hold your breath’ was clearly implied even if it wasn’t enunciated.

“Well,” said Mindy, “y’all have a good day, then.” Clumsily, she got to her feet and knocked over her large tote bag, spilling all of its contents. A cobalt blue vase rolled across the floor and stopped at my feet.

I peered closer. Hmm. This was not your run of the mill blue vase. This was an opalescent cobalt blue, one of a kind, hand-blown teardrop glass vase designed by Simon Pearce. And just this morning, it was proudly displayed in our lobby.

Guilt was written all over Mindy’s face. She stared at us with mounting alarm, stumbled over her words, repeated herself. Eventually, she stopped speaking. She knew the game was up from the look on our faces. Manically, she stuffed everything back into her tote bag and bolted out the door.

Cool as a cucumber in a bowl of Tabasco sauce, Carter picked up the phone and called security. “Stop the blond woman before she leaves the premises. Her temporary security badge will show her name. Uh-huh, that’s right, it’s Mindy Thompson and she’s carrying a large tote bag.” Pause. “Yes, she’s stolen company property.” Another pause. “Thank you. And please notify the authorities. Let them know she’s on probation and have them contact her probation officer. Thank you.”

Carter replaced the receiver and we swapped looks. He said nothing for a moment, then, “I think that went quite well, don’t you?”

“Well,” said Hillary, “that was a very interesting interview. BDSM.” She made a little fluttering gesture with her hands. “I never realized I lived such a sedate lifestyle.”

I burst into laughter at the absurdity of the whole thing. Tears of laughter came pouring down my face and I laughed so hard I nearly ruptured my spleen.

Then Carter, too, was openly laughing. A rich, disarming laugh.

What on God’s green earth? I stopped suddenly and stared at him dumbstruck.

Carter Lockwood was actually laughing?

Alert the media! Alert the paramedics! Something was seriously wrong.

“Carter,” I said in a hushed awe, “I didn’t think you had anything remotely resembling a sense of humor.”

“Well,” Carter said simply, “when God made Mindy Thompson, he definitely had a sense of humor.”

Suddenly, the door crashed open and I turned to smile mechanically at the three men who had just barged in. They looked like gorillas in white suits and dark glasses.

“I’m sorry,” I said in some surprise, “but we’re only interviewing one person at a time.”

“Oh, I know that,” said the first gorilla. “It’s just me here for the interview.”

Carter’s mouth took on a particularly grim line. “Then can you please explain who these other two men are?”

“Why, of course,” he replied with a pearly white smile. “They’re my references!”

Suffice it to say, the interview with Larry, Moe and Curly was over as soon as it began.

Chapter Nine