The Fireball 500

      Spencer drove a 1972 Ford Pinto. He called it The Fireball 500, because it was the model that often burst into flames in minor accidents. Ralph Nader lobbied to get Pintos removed from the highways. Ford had better lawyers.

      Spencer had lived on peanut butter sandwiches and mac-and-cheese for a year to save the money to buy it. The Fireball 500 was not in pristine condition, but its imperfections made Spencer love it even more.

     The speedometer was broken so Spencer followed the flow of traffic when he drove. When there was no traffic he counted hash marks. When there were no hash marks, he estimated his speed by watching the pavement through the hole in the floorboard by the passenger seat. 

     The air conditioner had transformed itself into a heater months ago, so he rolled down the windows. He enjoyed how the wind fluffed his red hair into an afro. When he exited the car, his thin frame and scarlet afro made him look like a mutant dandelion. Passersby shook their heads. Small children cried.

     The car’s body was held together by rust. When pieces fell off, Spencer put them back on with whatever he could find. Over time, the Fireball 500’s body became a patchwork quilt of metal, duct tape, and bondo putty.

     Spencer had bought his car to celebrate his tenth year at university. He had MA degrees in Journalism and Educational Psychology. He was working on a third MA in Statistics. His parents and relatives called him lazy and told him to get a job. Spencer did not care. He had paid his own way with part-time jobs and graduate assistantships.

     He might have stayed at university forever, but his last assistantship had ended and his part time job at the newspaper would not sustain him in his opulent two-room efficiency. He would be forced to downgrade to a sleeping room. He decided to at least apply for a “real” job.

     He went to the university’s job placement office. There was a large job-posting board outside the office door. One posting was printed on linen paper and embossed with a company logo, Fin-Pac. It read:

Are you a type A, looking for an A-1 job?

Please consider joining the Fin-Pac team. We are one of the largest and most prestigious financial planning institutions in the world. We are building a training center for newly hired executives and need help designing the curriculum. We have openings for individuals with excellent writing and communication skills. Preference will be given to those with advanced degrees in educational psychology and statistics. If this describes you, join us and help world-class experts build world-class courses for world-class executives.

Call 222-333-4567 today to arrange an interview.

     Spencer did get A’s in his courses, but his personality was more of a relaxed type C-. The type A personalities he knew were heavy drinkers and speed freaks. Spencer preferred the occasional puff of Panama Red.

     Spencer faced a quandary as he prepared for his interview. He knew he should wear a suit, tie, and wingtip shoes. That type of outfit would cost him a small fortune. How could he balance the expense with the fact that he might not get the job? He would never use the clothes again unless someone got married or died. None of his friends or relatives had marriage in their future. None of them even had a cold. Economy must override style in his choices.

     Spencer began his shopping with the suit. He knew most corporate types wore pinstripe suits, but those were out of his price range. If he didn’t get the job, he couldn’t imagine himself wearing one on campus. He settled on a beige corduroy number that he found at Goodwill. If the job didn’t pan out, he could salvage the coat by sewing suede patches on the elbows. Corduroy and suede were de rigueur for university professors and grad students.

     Spencer’s next challenge was to find a pair of wingtips. Wingtips might be admired at business school, but elsewhere they were the butt of jokes. J.C. Penny came to the rescue. He found a pair of brown suede wingtips. They would match his suit and if things didn’t work out, they would go well with his make-shift professorial jacket.

     He needed a white shirt and tie to complete his ensemble. He bought a short sleeve-shirt that would not incur too much ridicule if he had to return to the university. He ended his sartorial quest with the purchase of a brown nylon tie. He was certain its smooth sheen would impress interviewers

.***

     When he arrived at Fin-Pac’s education center, Spencer found a parking space and waited as the The Fireball 500 dieseled to a stop.

     The human resource director, Preston Blythe, met him at the door. Preston wore a navy pinstripe suit, a shirt with gold cuff-links and collar stays, a red silk tie, and wingtips that gleamed in the light.

     Spencer stifled a laugh. There was no way Fin-Pac would hire a rube wearing corduroy and sporting a red afro. This knowledge relaxed him. He wouldn’t have to tie himself in knots trying to convince people he was a type A in search of an A-1 job. He could relax into his C- personality. And, thanks to Fin-Pac, he would spend the night at a posh hotel and dine at a Michelin star restaurant.

     His first interview was with Monty Stratton, Director of Curriculum Design. Monty looked like a toad wearing bifocals squatting in an office with walls covered with degrees an awards. His eyebrows moved up and down when he spoke. He nodded and pressed his fingertips together when he listened.

     Spencer had met dozens of ‘Montys’ at university. He answered this ones questions with ease. The interview was over in minutes.

     Spencer sailed through the remainder of the interviews.

     His final interview was with Charles Parker, Head of Evaluation and Research. Charles was a retired Marine. He wore his gray hair in a flat top – very short except for a small clump of hairs at the front that were held at attention with a glop of hair gel. Charles was without doubt an A+.
They shook hands. “Welcome, Spencer. I’m Charles. Charles Parker.”

     Spencer did not know it, but Charles had two objectives – confirm Spencer’s knowledge, and more importantly, provide HR with an assessment of Spencer’s honesty and character.

     Similar to the other interviews, Spencer answered technical questions with little effort. Then the questions changed focus.

     “Spencer, imagine that you are an employee at a small grocery store. One day you see another employee steal some steaks. When you confront them, they pay for the steaks and beg you not to tell the manager. What would you do?”

     Spencer sighed. “If I went with my heart I might not tell, but why would I lie and hurt the owner? He was kind enough to hire me. And how could I tell if the thief hadn’t taken other things, or that he wouldn’t steal again?”

     Charles grinned and Spencer relaxed. They chatted for a few more minutes before Charles walked him to the door. Charles put his hand on the door knob and paused. “One last question. Do you smoke pot?”

Spencer debated whether or not he should be honest. Then he remembered Fin-Pac would never hire someone dressed in corduroy and sporting a red afro. Besides, he doubted if he could work in a place where people wore clothes that cost more than a month’s rent. Why not be honest?

     “Yes. I do, on occasion.”

     Charles smiled. “I like that. I smoke too, ‘on occasion’ – on many occasions since I was in Nam. I saw things I’ll never stop seeing. Pot helps me sleep.”
Spencer was surprised. “You still smoke? Aren’t you afraid of being fired?”

     Charles shook his head. “This is a work hard, play hard, kind of place. Management is more concerned about the quality of our work than what we do after hours. Like us, many of them smoke and even more drink like fish. They would have to fire themselves and half the division, if they were sticklers about our personal habits.”

     Charles opened the door and followed Spencer into the hallway. “By the way, I love your car. Reminds me of my first set of wheels. Not much to look at, but it got me from point A to point B.”

     Spencer sighed with relief as he walked back to HR. The ordeal was over. No more questions. Now it was time for his rewards – a world class meal and a solid night’s rest.

     Preston, the HR director, opened the door and motioned Spencer to sit at the chair by his desk. “Congratulations, Spencer. Your interviews went very well. We would like to offer you a job.”

     Confused, Spencer asked, “But why? I have the skills you need,  but I don’t fit your dress code.”

     Preston chuckled, “We’ll give you an advance so you can upgrade your wardrobe and find a hair stylist. As you said, your skills are top notch and Charles praised your integrity and honesty. He’s a tough cookie, but he gave you the highest recommendation he has ever given.”

     Spencer rubbed his chin. “This isn’t what I expected…”

     Preston stopped him. “I understand. But there was a final factor that cemented the deal. All of us were amazed by your car. We were astonished that you could keep a vehicle like that operational. Someone with the ingenuity and perseverance to pull that off is the kind of person we want as an employee.”

     Spencer felt as if he had been cursed. He was grateful for the offer but he knew he would never would be comfortable at Fin-Pac. He couldn’t picture himself as someone who had his hair cut every week and dressed like GQ model.

     “Wow, Preston. This isn’t what I expected.”

     Preston smiled. “You weren’t expecting an offer?”

     When Spencer didn’t reply, Preston said, “I can see this is a surprise for you. Why don’t you go check into your hotel. We’ll discuss the details over dinner. I'll send a car.  Is seven o’clock okay?”

     “Sure, Preston. That sounds great. See you at seven.”
     Spencer shook his head on the way to his car. He rubbed the roof, the only place free of repairs. “Don’t worry. I’m not ready to leave you just yet.”

     Spencer tried to turn right and go to the hotel, but The Fireball 500 pulled him to the left. Spencer might miss a fine meal and he would have to move into a single room. But he had lived on peanut butter before and a single room would be easier to clean.

     Spencer took off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. The Fireball 500 carried him toward home. He never saw the semi.