I've been thinking about interviews lately. Having conducted several score in the past few years, I've found myself weighing in on other people's discussions of the subject.
Being on an apocalyptic sci-fi kick lately, I stumbled across Kurt Vonnegut's 1968 "Deer In The Works." It's a typical piece of Gray Flannel Suit existentialism, but contains an interview sequence that shocked me:
He walked into booth twenty-six and extended his hand to Mr. Dilling, a man of his own age. "Mr. Dilling, my name is David Potter. I was curious to know what openings you might have in advertising and sales promotion, and thought I'd drop in for a talk."Mr. Dilling, an old hand at facing young men who tried to hide their eagerness for a job, was polite but outwardly unimpressed. "Well, you came at a bad time, I'm afraid, Mr. Potter. The competition for that kind of job is pretty stiff, as you perhaps know, and there isn't much of anything open just now."
David nodded. "I see." He had had no experience in asking for a job with a big organization, and Mr. Dilling was making him aware of what a fine art it was — if you couldn't run a machine. A duel was under way.
"But have a seat anyway, Mr. Potter."
"Thank you." He looked at his watch. "I really ought to be getting back to my paper soon."
"You work on a paper around here?"
"Yes. I own a weekly paper in Dorset, about ten miles from Ilium."
"Oh — you don't say. Lovely little village. Thinking of giving up the paper, are you?"
"Well, no — not exactly. It's a possibility. I bought the paper soon after the war, so I've been with it for eight years, and I don't want to go stale. I might be wise to move on. It all depends on what opens up."
"You have a family?" said Mr. Dilling pleasantly.
"Yes. My wife, and two boys and two girls."
"A nice, big, well-balanced family," said Mr. Dilling. "And you're so young, too."
"Twenty-nine," said David. He smiled. "We didn't plan it to be quite that big. It's run to twins. The boys are twins, and then, several days ago, the girls came."
"You don't say!" said Mr. Dilling. He winked. "That would certainly start a young man thinking about getting a little security, eh, with a family like that?"
Both of them treated the remark casually, as though it were no more than a pleasantry between two family men. "It's what we wanted, actually, two boys, two girls," said David. "We didn't expect to get them this quickly, but we're glad now. As far as security goes — well, maybe I flatter myself, but I think the administrative and writing experience I've had running the paper would be worth a good bit to the right people, if something happened to the paper."
"One of the big shortages in this country," said Dilling philosophically, concentrating on lighting a cigarette, "is men who know how to do things, and know how to take responsibility and get things done. I only wish there were better openings in advertising and sales promotion than the ones we've got. They're important, interesting jobs, understand, but I don't know how you'd feel about the starting salary."
The first thing that struck me was how much of this conversation would be illegal nowadays. The smoking, obviously, but the first question the interviewer initiates is "You have a family?". The second shocking thing about this exchange was that the interviewer never actually asked the applicant to demonstrate a single skill relevant to the job.
Does anybody know how accurate Vonnegut is? Was the post-war period really like that? Or is this just a bit of poetic license appropriate to the genre?
Posted by Ben Brumfield at January 18, 2006 08:50 PM