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For some reason the “Race for your life, Charlie Brown …” song entered my  mind just as I entered the office. It stayed there, echoing over and over as he spoke to me.

I knew my resume wasn’t up to snuff. I was qualified for the job I was interviewing for, but I hadn’t show it at all. But for some reason, Mr. Steven Jacobs IV decided to call me when he got my credentials in an e-mail one day.

“Mr. Jones,” he said over the phone three days earlier. “I’d like to bring you in for an interview.”

I, of course, immediately said “Certainly, Mr. Jacobs.” And we arranged a time for me to be in Raleigh for it. I was beginning to become familiar with the city, after living in the state for over a decade now, that city had always eluded me as a place I was comfortable. Now, having made the weekend trek there every other weekend for over a year, it was becoming quite easy to navigate.

“So, then, Mr. Jones,” Jacobs said as Charlie Brown kept racing in my skull, “what exactly do you think about my company?”

It had been a long time since I interviewed somewhere and they asked me actual questions about the company itself. In newspaper interviews, it was always about getting a feel for a person. That’s why I never prepared for a newspaper interview. I had that shit down pat. I could talk the talk and look a hell of a lot more confident than I ever was sitting in whatever shitty chair I was in. And believe me, the chairs were always shitty. Except the time I interviewed at Media General. The first ones, yes, when I was in the newsroom. Those chairs sucked. But by the time I got to the head honcho’s office, he had chairs that cost more than my monthly salary at any job I’ve ever had. And you wonder why the company was/is in disarray.

I started pulling stuff from my couple of Google searches the night before. Being sure to drop plenty of strategic key words. Something a friend of mine said was useful on resumes. “It gets you past the robots,” he quipped.

I didn’t buy into that, so I would write elaborate cover letters. All of them telling a story, because that’s what I did. Told stories. Some of them true, very true. And some of them lies, utter lies.

“Employers don’t want stories,” a career counselor said to me. “They want you to prove you’re going to bring something to the company.”

When she said that, I zoned out. Probably missed a bunch of great things she had to say. But, that just irked me. And reminded me of one of my favorite books of all time – “The Confederacy of Dunces.” And from it, one line : “Employers sense in me a denial of their values.” And since I was a wear my emotions on my sleeves kind of person – except with relationships, especially early on – this was a problem.

“I see you really know my company,” Jacobs said.

“I try to be an informed person, especially when it comes to matters close to me,” I replied. “It’s part of the journalist in me.”

I felt a twinge of regret for saying that. I was harking back to the “good ol’ days”, something which did not serve me well. All employers look at my resume and see a career journalist. So why do they want to hire me to do the complete opposite?

After about an hour of talking, Jacobs gave me the tour. It took all of six minutes and thirty-eight seconds. I timed it with my cell phone. Why? Because it distracted me from that damn Charlie Brown song.

Then, all of the sudden, Jacobs pulled a fast one. At least that’s how it felt.

“Jones,” he said. “Wait here just a minute.” And he vanished. I was in the middle of some kind of stock room. Dark and full of boxes. Stacked to the ceiling filled.

About two minutes later, he called me.

“You answer a phone on an interview?” was the first words he said.

“Not usually, but my caller ID said it was you,” I retorted.

“Heh,” he said. “I like the way you think on your toes, Jones. Come back to my office, so we can talk real stuff.”

D’oh. I had not paid any attention to our stroll through his offices and had no idea where his office was. It took me five minutes to find another person, and immediately I asked where Jacobs’ office was.

“There’s no Jacobs here,” the young lady said.

I was startled, then I said: “sorry, Mr. Jacobs.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhh,” she said with a snort afterwards. “You must be the new guy, huh? He was just talking about you.”

This wasn’t cool. I had no idea if I was going to be offered a job, and if so, whether I’d take it. But before my pride or ego could get any bigger, she talked again.

“How long has it been since he left you?”

“Oh, about 10 minutes,” I replied.

“You failed the test,” she said.

“Huh?”

“You’re supposed to find him in five minutes or less. He read it in some book on management he read in college. Says anyone that can’t find him in five minutes can’t have a job in this company.”

“Really,” I said unbelieving.

“Yep.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Four minutes and 44 seconds,” I said.

“He times you?”

“With a stop watch.”

She pointed me in the right direction and I found him.

“Well, well, well,” Jacobs said. “You’re more tortoise than hare, I see.”

“I am bald.”

No laughs. Not a good sign. Even a bad joke should be laughed at under these circumstances. He looked me up and down, then stuck out his hand to shake mine.

“Good luck, Jones,” he said. “But you’ve got to be able to think on your feet to work for me. Even if you’re just picking up my laundry.”

I went back home and opening up a 16-ounce Lone Star can. I was saving them for a big shin-dig, but sometimes you just have to have a drink. That was one of them.

The next morning, I got up and went back to the newspaper. Even though it smells bad and everyone hates each other, it felt like home.