In the fall of 1979, I had an interview one Friday afternoon for a bank teller position in Baltimore. I was my charming self and was told by the bank lady to return Monday afternoon for a second interview. She seemed very optimistic and I had every right to imagine that employment was on the horizon.Sunday night a few friends came over to celebrate something. And we did. We really, truly did.
The next afternoon, nearing the end of my second interview with a new hiring authority, a cumulonimbus of vague disorientation suddenly descended over my mind. Whereas, the evening before, I would have greeted this condition with ease, its unexpected return was complicating matters. I found it tough to focus upon the interview-at-hand. The H.R. lady's eyes bulged, her lips flapped, she waved papers to and fro and I couldn't for the life of me figure out exactly what is was we were talking about. I just knew it had something to do with me.
Without warning, she addressed me directly, jolting me back to earth.
"Do you have any further questions, Mr. Owens?"
I mean, what kind of question is that, fer crissakes? I had to think quick, appear normal and respond. I felt my mouth open wide and before I could stick a sock in it I asked,
"Can you tell me something about your dental and mental plans? Mental?! Oh, no! I meant medical. Medical! Not mental! Medical! Not mental! Nooo....."
The interview was over, as was my career as a banker.
