Interview with Camelot

I had finished a test run to my interview location a day or two before. I had memorized the family tree, the titles of each of the family members who had them and the dates of the horrible, untimely deaths of others in the family. I had even set two alarms. This was not the interview to screw up!

Set back from the road behind a split-rail fence, the Civil War-era farmhouse had, over time, become a two-word address that, by mere mention, brought a groundswell of emotion to just about anybody. And it had also become a mansion. (Or was it a low stone wall, not a split-rail fence? Hmm…I hate that I can’t remember. I am a stickler for detail like that. I may have to drive out to confirm which it was.)

The front door sat up a short flight of—maybe—three stairs about six feet off the circular drive. I parked the car just on the other side of the front door so as not to wreck the idyllic view from the road. There was a large, dead pine tree where the end of the driveway met the road. I remember thinking it was odd that such an immaculate property had such a noticeable flaw. I should have seen the ominous foreshadowing in that. I really should have.

I was 26 years old, 30 days from unemployment and about ten minutes late. Sitting in my roommate’s borrowed Grand Cherokee, I reflected for a second how I never, ever thought I would be in this place, in near joblessness at just a quarter-century old and this late for the most intense job interview of my life.

Deep breath. I checked my teeth in the rearview mirror, cleared my mind of the panic that ensued after discovering the flat tire on my car back in Logan Circle, hopped out of the car and ascended the steps. Grabbing the large, shiny, brass door knocker, I banged it against the bright red door confidently. And smiled.

She answered the door and invited me in.

Decades of both personal and public memories flooded the house–and my senses–with elegant clutter. The formal office to the right had a settee with a large painting sitting in it and a wall of floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves replete with books. The sitting room to the left had more books and knickknacks with a more comfortable sofa and chairs upholstered in a vivid floral print. I tried to soak it all in aware that I may never be back.

“Remember everything,” I thought to myself, “even the smell of century-old wood and rose petals. You may never be back here.” But I digress…

We sat in the sitting room and she pulled out my resume giving it a long look through her glasses. She looks up at me and says, “you have a spelling error in the first sentence of your resume.”

My filter failed to engage and I shot back—definitely too quickly—almost defiantly, “I always have one on my resume to see if my interviewer catches it.”

I’m sure my face betrayed my mortification at both the spelling error and my lack of tact. But, this one time, the gamble paid off. She cracked a smile.

I had broken the veneer. I relaxed a little.

She complimented me on my writing, gave her condolences for my late boss and ran through a series of mundane, typical interview questions. But then she casually said, “my children gave me a painting recently and I do not know where to hang it.”

She hadn’t used a contraction yet in her speech, an oddity I’d begun to obsessively note.

We walked into the formal office and she pointed to the painting I’d noticed when I walked in. It was a piece of modern art, somewhere between a Rothko and a Pollock, and it was fairly large. I realized this was probably the truest test of the whole interview: does this kid have enough style, polish, charisma and chops to find the perfect spot in a historic house chock full of historic items and family heirlooms to hang a modern painting given by her kids.

Oh crap.

We wander out of the office, down a hall passing an original, signed Emancipation Proclamation, the framed handwritten-then-typed notes of her late brother-in-law and a bunch of other odd bits of history that many museums would die to have. And enter The Salon. Yep. I’m pretty sure that’s what she called it: The Salon. It was a large room, clearly an addition, that ran the depth of the house with floor-to-ceiling windows on every wall that was used as the entertaining space. It was beautiful.

It was also full of history, like her late husband’s desk chair from his office at the Department of Justice.

“I want the painting hung in here,” she said.

But there wasn’t much wall space.

I walked around the room trying to determine where the large gift could go, painfully aware that, in this house, everything had a story and was placed with purpose.

Except for one painting. I remember it clearly. Oil on canvas in a large, gold frame, it was a sailboat in darkened, rough seas. It looked like something you’d pick up at one of those “starving artist expos” for $15. And the wall where it was hung practically swallowed it, making it invisible yet obvious simultaneously.

Bingo. I’d found my location.

She had been tottering around the room fussing with various things until I said, “while I do not know the history of this particular painting, I believe it is too small for the wall on which it is hung. This is the perfect location to hang your children’s gift.”

I had nailed it. (I had also stopped using contractions.) I was sure I had picked the best location. I had thought it through, crafted my verbal response carefully and set myself up for a victory.

And then, looking at me straight in the eye, she said, “that painting you want to remove was my engagement gift from my late husband, the Attorney General, young man.”