The final applicant walks into the conference room holding nothing but a clutch purse. She smiles at us, a forced smile. Chester, our interview panel chairman, stands and extends a hand.

“Welcome, Mackenzie. Thank you for coming. I apologize for the delay…but we’ve had a full day and had to take a dinner break.”

Mackenzie nods and shakes hands, then sits in the chair across the table from us five exhausted interviewers. I’ve waited for hours to talk with this woman and hope she does well. We need to break up the Boys Club in the Planning Department, get a woman’s perspective. Besides, I need at least one ally on my staff

Chester continues with his much-practiced soliloquy. “Mackenzie, you are one of 20 people we have invited to interview for the position of Senior Planner.”

All day we’ve listened to scrubbed-clean-and-pressed men and one other woman. Now it’s going dark outside and the wind blows strong with a winter storm on the way. I adjust my pants suit, damn thing cuts me wrong across the bottom, and glance at the score sheet in front of me. Mackenzie sits on the edge of her chair, spine straight as a surveyor’s pole, a blonde, pretty but with deep laugh lines around her green eyes. The guys will give her ten points just for looking great. That filmy V-necked blouse under a sky blue suit looks something like an old airline stewardess’s uniform, except the skirt’s cut way too short. I could never fit into that. Geez, I’ll bet she’s a size 2.

Chester clears his throat and continues. “We have a series of questions that we’ve been asking all of the applicants. Tell us a little about your background and why you think it qualifies you for this position?”

Mackenzie pauses, mouth open as if searching for words. I get a bad feeling in my gut. Her eyes close for a few moments before she speaks. “My resume…describes what you want to know.”

Silence. I groan to myself. Most applicants took five minutes to answer that first question. It helped them loosen up and expose some of their personality. But just look at the way she’s sitting, legs crossed at the ankles, staring straight ahead while white-knuckling that ugly purse. This gal’s wound tighter than a guitar string.

I page through her resume and decide to go off-script. “I see you were raised in Kentucky, spent your youth on a horse farm near Lexington.”

Mackenzie turns stiffly towards me and nods.

“So how did your early years influence your choice of the City Planning profession?”

She shifts in her seat. Her smile tightens. “They didn’t…and that life…has actually hurt me.”

More silence. Tree branches dance in the wind outside the window and I wonder about the mystery behind her answer. Why doesn’t she just give us the full story and not leave us guessing? She’s screwing this interview big time.

And the questions keep coming as each panel member reads them off the list in front of them. Mackenzie gives a one-sentence response to each, her lips trembling, voice barely above a murmur. We lean forward, straining to hear. Ten minutes into the planned half-hour interview, we’ve run through our questions.

I look down the table at my fellow interviewers. Most have already marked their score sheets and laid their pencils down. At this rate we’ll all be home for Jeopardy and The Wheel. Too damn bad. This woman looks great on paper…Masters Degree from Cal, four years working in San Francisco, then south to Monterey. She knows her stuff. But I’ve never seen a poorer interview.

Chester buttons his suit coat and sits up straight. “That concludes our interview. Do you have any questions for us?”

Mackenzie shakes her head.

“Then thank you for coming.”

She seems to concentrate for a moment, closes her eyes and stands slowly. Her opaque pantyhose fail to hide a red slash across one calf. As she turns to leave, I try one last time.

“Mackenzie, is there anything you want to add that will help us make a decision?”

She presses her purse to her chest and winces. Her face reddens; eyes fill with tears that she blinks away. She reaches for the chair back to steady herself.

“I…I apologize for my answers. Yesterday…my horse threw me. I have three busted ribs…and a cracked collarbone.” She swallows hard. “It only hurts…when I breathe.”

She tries to smile, dabs at her eyes with a sleeve, and moves shakily toward the exit. The interview panel freezes in place, mouths open. The door swings shut behind her. The room fills with our voices.

“What the hell was that?”

“Jesus, why didn’t she tell us earlier?”

“Would it have mattered?”

“Can’t we ask her back for an interview once she heals?”

“Nah, HR wants a name by tomorrow.”

“Yeah, and besides we’re required to ask them all the same questions. She’d have an unfair advantage if we gave her a second shot.”

“What about new questions?”

“No way. Different questions mean the interview isn’t the same for all of them.”

“Can’t we just score her based on her resume? She really looks like she has the best work experience.”

“Hell no. That would be unfair to the others.”

Finally everyone shuts up. We leave City Hall and escape into the cold night, going our separate ways. I realize that even when you want to do the right thing, rules for fairness can make it hard to be truly fair.

# # #

Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing short stories and essays. His work has been accepted more than 350 times by journals, magazines, and anthologies including The Potomac Review, The Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated twice for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.

Photo:  Emma Van Sant