Mediocracy

Rebecca is convinced she didn’t get the job. She says she bombed the Q&A in ways she didn’t even think possible. Sounds like she left in a bit of a tizzy. She probably did fine, but self-doubt crept in, and the theatrics of her inner saboteur may have ruined things. Ah well, onward and upward. I’ve got two more interviews lined up for her this week and a meeting with a potential new client in a few minutes. Things are picking up for me, even if I haven’t had too much success with my first client yet.

Reviewing my notes on Grace, I realize I forgot to ask anything about her. I don’t even know how old she is. A knock at the door brought me back from my reading.

“Come in.” I wait a moment before calling again, a little louder. “It’s open!” The knob turned slowly, and the door opened gently. A deep but soft voice replied.

“Sorry, I couldn’t quite hear you.” A younger-looking man entered the room cautiously.

“Hello, I’d love to meet with you right now, but I have an appointment in a minute. Leave your number with me, and we’ll set something up.”

“I’m here for the appointment.” He seemed certain.

“Are you Grace’s boyfriend or husband? It’s not very often that I meet family before the client.” I only had one other client, but he didn’t need to know that.

“No. I’m Grace.” He smiled slightly. My gears were turning a little too slowly. “I’m trans.” He filled the silence.

“Oh, my apologies, ma’am. I shouldn’t have assumed–”

“It’s okay. I don’t go by ma’am, either. I’m non-binary, trans-masculine. Any pronoun is fine, I suppose, but I prefer they/them.”

“Of course.” I caught myself staring at her beard and looked frantically around the room for something else to focus on. “I’m sorry for my mistake. I haven’t met… I mean–I don’t know anyone else who… you know. Is. Like. You.” I trailed off. This was not going well. I needed to recover quickly. “So, you mentioned needing some help job hunting. What sort of work have you done before?”

“My last job was in a factory setting.”

“What did you produce?”

“Marijuana.” He spoke so matter-of-factly that I almost missed what was said entirely.

“Like–” I hesitated.

“Pot. Weed. Cannabis. Reefer. Yeah, that. It’s a grow facility for a chain supplier.”

“Gotcha. That’s, uh–niche. Could be a hard sell, but I can work with it. What did you do there?”

“Trimming.” There was another awkward silence. She didn’t want to give me much.

“Just trimming? No cleaning, marketing, or selling?”

“No.” This was not a transferable skill.

“Okay. How about personal goals? What would you like to accomplish in the next year?” Silence. “Anything at all.”

“I want a job.”

“No. Not professional. Personal. Like, do you want a relationship? Do you want to move somewhere? Do you want to create more structure? Things like that.”

“Oh. Um, yeah, I suppose. I’d love to use my days better. I just kind of sit around right now. I watch a lot of TV. I’d like to change that.”

“Great! Let’s start there. Habit changing can be very challenging, so we’ll choose something small, like less TV. Did you have any hobbies growing up?” They crossed their legs and looked at the ceiling. Thinking, I assumed. Several moments passed. Finally, I looked up at the ceiling, too. There was a stain they appeared to be examining.

“Water damage.” She spoke without looking away from the spot.

“What?”

“Looks like water damage. You should get that checked out.” Finally, she looked back towards me, but through me.

“Right. Well, I’ll call–uh, yeah.” I stammered. “What about your hobbies?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Have you ever?” They smacked their lips before answering.

“I don’t remember.” What the fuck? What had I gotten myself into?

“Okay, well, maybe I can help you find something new that you like. Ever played a sport?”

“No.”

“Great, let’s start there.” I picked up my pen and began taking some notes.

“I don’t like sports.” I dropped my pen.

“Okay. How about art?”

I couldn’t imagine something more opposite to athletics than art. It was a broad enough net that he could choose any medium or form of expression. I eyed them carefully. I didn’t want to seem irritated, but I also wanted to convey that I was becoming slightly exasperated.

“I’m not very creative.” Christ. What did this person want from me?

“Okay. How about I send a list of questions for you to answer? Once you’ve finished writing up your responses, we can meet and go over what you said.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Just the basics. Stuff about your parents, upbringing, interests, jobs, routines, etc. I need to get a better idea of who you are. I’m getting the sense that you might be more comfortable sharing these details with me in writing, though.”

They didn’t say anything but nodded their head. They gave me an email to send the list and left. That has to be the strangest meeting I have ever had. I’ve met awkward and shy people, but this individual took the cake. I don’t think they, he, or she was there. Mentally, I mean. Like, they were dissociating or something. That was one traumatized and depressed puppy.