The closest I’ve ever been to becoming a grown-up was at age twenty-two. But, as life would have it, circumstances conspired against me, forcing me to get off that train not long after boarding it.

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I caught a glimpse of adulthood the day I attended my first real job interview. I was nervous, ill prepared, and especially annoyed by the rain that day. One assumes that, at least on important days, it’s not going to rain. I know it’s always an important day to someone, but don’t I get special treatment?

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The architecture firm where I intended to make my debut as a productive member of society was one of the largest ones in the city. I bet that for some folk that’s encouraging. Not for me. For me, it was intimidating. I had nothing to offer to these people. What the hell was I doing there in an outfit that didn’t suit my childish face and a wet folder containing a curriculum vitae that may as well have been a letter written and signed by my mom reading “He’s a good boy, I swear.” It’s in these moments when I recur to my favorite affirmation: life is absurd, life is absurd, life is absurd. Didn’t work that day. “You are absurd, you are absurd, you are absurd,” is what I heard back.

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​I stepped into the building like a cow steps into a slaughterhouse; certain of the outcome, the only hope being for it to be quick and painless. And quick it was, but painless it wasn’t. Everything was too bright and clean and professional, I can’t work in an environment like that. “Are you looking for someone?” asked the front desk lady, which I interpreted as “are you lost? Are you looking for your dad?”

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“I’m here for an interview,” I replied in a quavery voice.

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She picked up the phone and asked the person on the other end if he was expecting someone. He clearly had no idea what she was talking about. “What do I tell him?” She asked. “O.K.,” she said and hung up. “He’ll see you in a minute,” she told me and pointed me in the right direction. 

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A serious man in a serious suit welcomed —for lack of a better word— me into his office. We both stood near the door despite there being two perfectly comfortable chairs, that’s how little reason for existing the interview had. I handed him my CV. His eyes told me he wasn’t impressed by it. He asked me what position I was applying for and I managed to stutter the word “anything” before my throat completely shut. I bet he wasn’t very impressed by my answer either. Thankfully, little more than a minute had passed when he dismissed me with a “thanks for coming, we’ll call you if a position opens up.”​

 

I am lucky to have been born into a generation that still believed facing your fears is a good idea, so instead of being discouraged by the nefarious experience, I decided to grab the bull by the horns and get myself another  job interview before the post-traumatic stress disorder settled in. A couple of weeks later, I got one. This time, for a construction company.

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I can’t say I was better prepared this second time —unless I count the formerly described as a growing experience— but for some reason I felt comfortable and in control. I knew I had gotten the job almost instantly and my suspicion was confirmed shortly after by means of a phone call. Those were the only two job interviews I ever attended. A 50% success rate. Not bad I’d say.

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On my first day at my first job, I discovered that one of my five bosses was a distant uncle of mine. I also discovered that this person existed and that he was a distant uncle of mine. He walked into the room while one of the other bosses was struggling to explain my job to me. He stopped, glanced, squinted, frowned, deliberated, pointed, and lastly, spoke: “Are you Jaime’s son?”

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“That I am, sir,” I replied. I can’t seem to speak like a normal human being for even a second. 

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“Do you know who I am?” he inquired.

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“Can’t say I do,” I replied. I was going to justify myself by explaining that I was terrible with faces, names, or anything involving memory of any kind, but my guardian angel slapped me in the face, reminding me that I shouldn’t downplay my capabilities to my boss.

 

He proceeded to explain the way in which we were related, but at that point in my life I still hadn’t delved into my rather branchy family tree, so I got lost by the first person —out of five— he mentioned and simply nodded and said “aha” a couple of times. I hope my job doesn’t involve remembering the way in which we are related. He ended the brief family history lesson by saying that he didn’t know I had applied for the job, otherwise he would have put in a good word for me, which seemed like a dumb comment to make in light of the fact that I had already gotten the job without his help.

 

There was another —equal, if not bigger— coincidence. I knew beforehand that the job was in a city two hours away from my hometown, where I —up until then— lived with my parents, but it was only after getting the job that I found out I would be supervising the construction of a building located half a block away from my grandfather’s summer house. When he heard the news, Grandpa put the house at my disposal immediately. 

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