You’re ready.
For the past twenty minutes, you’ve been hanging upside down in the Toronto Reference Library striking aerial power poses. You have achieved peak confidence level.
You’re dressed impeccably. Your suit is made from tortoiseshells. Not only will you stand out, but when the interviewers ask you about it, you can seamlessly transition into an anecdote about your gap-year in the Galápagos. Interviewers love travel stories. You complete the outfit with elevator shoes. Bay Street loves elevators.
The others students, your lowly competition, are either reading over their notes or milling around the buffet table. The fools. Your notes are memorized, and you wouldn’t be caught dead eating free food. You had caviar before you came. Not only does caviar get you in the zone, but the interviewers will be able to smell success on your breath.
It’s time for the interview.
Kim Snell from the CDO smiles at you as you stride towards the booth. You give her a well-rehearsed hand signal, and she presses play on the boombox you provided for her. Levels by Avicii suddenly fills the hall.
Just as you rehearsed, and perfectly timed to the music, you pull back the curtain with your left arm, do a 360 on your way in, and extend both hands, crossed, and shake both interviewers’ hands at the same time. Boom.
You settle into your chair as Kim frantically turns off the boombox outside. She doesn’t know why she agreed to the boombox thing.
You’ve done meticulous research on the interviewers; you know all their dreams and fears. Your private investigator told you everything about Brendan Dobson, a partner in the tax department.
He has a goldendoodle named Joey, lives in St. James Town, and his wife is having an affair with their next-door neighbour, Pierre. You don’t anticipate needing to use this little tidbit, but knowledge is power. Never hurts to have an ace in the hole. You smirk at Brendan as you sit down. “Little lamb,” you think to yourself, “how naïve you are.”
The interview goes exactly as planned. You effortlessly weave a tapestry of humblebrags and feigned interest comments. The conversation moves smoothly from your stories about sailing to the intricacies of Tax Law, to something you like to call “deep chats,” in which you disarm the interviewers with insightful questions about their personal lives. “Does law fill the void, Brendan?” “I know the Law Society accredits lawyers, Lindsay, but have you accredited yourself?”
After seventeen glorious minutes, you exchange tearful goodbyes. They give you a firm-branded pen. You give Brendan a money clip with your personal logo on it and a Pez-dispenser modeled to look like you. To Lindsay, you give a baby rattle with an engraving of the name “Maggie.” She gasps and puts her hand to her belly. “How did you know?” she asks. You wink. She swoons.
After leaving their booth, you take a tiny vial of your own urine from your pocket and sprinkle it on the ground. Wolves use urine to mark their territory. “Humans are much like wolves,” you whisper to yourself.
Interview complete.
When the firm comes calling, begging to offer you an interview, you know just what you will say.
Of course, you will reject them. Just like every other firm. Why? Because this is all just a game to you.
And you love the game.
