First Impressions
The office was on the fourteenth floor of a building downtown that Thomas had walked past a thousand times without noticing. Inside, the lobby was decorated in what could only be described as "corporate fever dream." The walls were painted in colors that shouldn't exist together. Fuchsia and mustard and a green that made his teeth hurt. Modern art hung at angles that seemed to defy physics.
"Mr. Johnson?" A receptionist appeared from behind a desk shaped like a giant paperclip. She was wearing a suit made entirely of bubble wrap. It crinkled when she moved.
"Yes. I have a ten o'clock interview for the Senior Analyst position."
"Wonderful! You'll be meeting with Mr. Pemberton in Conference Room Banana. Third door on the left, past the ball pit."
"I'm sorry, did you say ball pit?"
She smiled. Pop pop pop went her suit. "The ball pit. You can't miss it."
Thomas did not find this reassuring.
The Gauntlet
The ball pit was exactly what it sounded like. A rectangular pit filled with colored plastic balls, situated directly in the middle of the hallway. Employees were wading through it, laptops held above their heads, conducting what appeared to be normal business conversations.
"Excuse me," Thomas said to a woman currently submerged up to her armpits. "Is there a way around this?"
"Around? No, no. Through is the only way. Company policy." She pulled a phone from somewhere beneath the surface. "Jenkins, I told you the quarterly reports need revision. Yes, I can hold."
Thomas removed his shoes, rolled up his pants, and waded through the ball pit with what he hoped was professional dignity. Colored balls bounced around his knees. One got stuck in his pocket. He decided not to mention it.
Conference Room Banana was painted orange. Of course it was.
Inside, a man sat at a round table. He was wearing a normal suit. Thomas had never been so relieved to see a normal suit in his life.
"Mr. Johnson! Please, sit. I'm Harold Pemberton." Harold gestured to the chair across from him. It was a beanbag chair. It was the only other seat in the room.
Thomas sank into the beanbag, his knees rising almost to his chin. "Thank you for having me."
Questions and Answers
"First question," Harold said, clicking a pen. "If you were a kitchen appliance, which kitchen appliance would you be and why?"
Thomas blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Take your time."
"A... toaster? Because I deliver consistent results?"
Harold wrote something on his notepad. It was a very long something. Thomas had said four words.
"Excellent. Second question: You discover that your desk is haunted. The ghost is friendly but very critical of your spreadsheet formatting. How do you handle the situation?"
Thomas decided this was some kind of test. A way to evaluate creative thinking or stress response. He straightened in his beanbag, which was challenging. "I would... ask the ghost for specific feedback and incorporate its suggestions where appropriate. Collaboration is key, even with supernatural colleagues."
More writing. Harold hummed thoughtfully.
"Third question: Sell me this." Harold held up what appeared to be a small rubber duck wearing a tiny business suit.
"Is this about persuasion skills?"
"It's about the duck, Mr. Johnson."
Thomas took the duck. It squeaked. "This duck represents... reliability. It's dressed for success. It floats, symbolizing adaptability. And its small size demonstrates efficiency."
He squeaked it again for emphasis.
Harold smiled broadly. "Wonderful. Truly wonderful. Can I get you some coffee? Snack? We have a vending machine that only dispenses foods from the 1970s."
The Offer
The interview lasted another forty-five minutes. Harold asked about Thomas's opinion on silent letters, his dream pizza topping, and whether he believed furniture had feelings. Thomas answered each question with increasing confidence and decreasing coherence.
By the end, he was fairly certain he'd either had a stroke or stumbled into some kind of elaborate prank. Maybe both.
"Mr. Johnson," Harold said, standing, "I have to say, you are the most delightfully rigid candidate we've ever interviewed."
"I... thank you?"
"Most people loosen up by the duck question. Start playing along. You maintained your professional demeanor throughout. Never cracked a smile. Answered everything like it was a real interview." Harold extended his hand. "That's exactly what we need. Someone who can keep their head while everyone around them is losing theirs. The job is yours if you want it."
Thomas blinked. "Wait. All of that was... a test?"
"Of course. We're a think tank, Mr. Johnson. We solve problems that haven't been invented yet. We need people who can function in chaos." Harold smiled. "Plus, the ball pit is just really fun."
Thomas hauled himself out of the beanbag. His back cracked in three places. "The salary?"
"Twice what your last job paid."
"The benefits?"
"Extensive. Including unlimited access to the 1970s vending machine."
Thomas thought about his forty-seven previous interviews. The rejection emails. The positions that went to other candidates. The years of safe choices that led to a layoff and a desperate job search at fifty-three.
"I'll take it," he said.
"Excellent!" Harold shook his hand. "One more thing: the duck. It's yours. Company tradition. Every employee gets one."
Thomas looked at the small rubber duck in his hand. It stared back with painted eyes that seemed oddly wise.
"Does it have a name?"
"That's up to you, Mr. Johnson."
Thomas considered for a moment. "Gerald," he decided. "His name is Gerald."
He walked back through the ball pit, Gerald in his pocket, feeling lighter than he had in years. Sometimes, he realized, the strangest path is the right one.