How to Crush a Job Interview
by Pinky Tourette

It has often been said that you can’t bullshit a bullshitter, and while the truth of that can be debated, it misses the point entirely. Fact is, nobody appreciates bullshit like another bullshitter. Nimble bullshit is truly an art: the timing, the ambiance, the set-up, the pitch, hook, sell, and final satisfying snap of the glistening steel jaws; at its best a finely-tuned gambit of bullshit is as intricate and intoxicating and rewarding as a dazzling painting, a glorious piece of music, an exquisite meal or ravenous sex.

 

I had the guy pegged as a flinger of dung from the moment I laid eyes on him. John J. Montgomery, IV was the name printed atop the resume he presented – and that’s exactly how it came across: like a presentation, like a gift. Like he was doing me a favor by granting me a copy. An arrogant asshole, right? But, see, here’s where the sleek finesse of bullshittery comes in. Instead of narcissistic hubris he pulled off a subtle reset the moment he strutted into the room, a nuanced shift of tenor and tone that magically made it seem like we needed him more than he needed us. Partially it was effortless, confident demeanor and casual-cool attire. Partly his hip Brooklyn veneer with the tinted horn-rimmed glasses, the streaked goatee, the shaved sides and tousled mop up top. Partly the way he fell into the chair opposite me, slouching down with his left ankle atop his right knee, tapping his cellphone absently on his heel. Most of all it was his first words: Pleased to meet you, let’s get this crock over with.

 

Bovine manure through and through. Fine, thought I, Pinky Tourette, crackerjack interviewer and bullshitter nonpareil. Let’s see where you take this. At least he wasn’t another recent film-school grad sitting telephone-pole straight in the chair in his new Forever 21 garb, or worse, in designer punk chic.

 

The band and I were looking for someone new, someone fresh, someone with untried ideas who hadn’t been through the system to the point that they knew all the things they shouldn’t do. We wanted someone willing to experiment and do things wrong. Wrong was our friend. Wrong was our middle name. This guy, this John J. Montgomery, IV, he was wrong all over.

 

A quick glance at his resume brought up an item of interest. His name meant nothing to me and most of his credits were meaningless, but one line stuck out on the back page listing of a dozen and a half videos he’d directed for young bands: “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alt-Right,” by Peaches Valentine. Someone had sent me a link awhile back thinking I’d appreciate it. They were right. I recalled it being a solid low-budget black and white romp with an appealingly retro B-movie vibe.

 

I was about to ask my first question when John J. Montgomery, IV raised his hand and spoke first.

 

Let me save us both some time, he said, and launched into a snapshot of his qualifications. He’d heard about the job through a friend of a friend. The reason he wanted to work with us was because we played by our own rules and were unafraid to be radical, political, or confrontational. What he would bring to the table was his outsider, iconoclastic mentality and an aversion to the mainstream; he’d straight-up kill himself if he were ever nominated for a Grammy. His favorite directors were Michael Curtiz, Billy Wilder, Roman Polanski, Henri-George Clouzot, Kaneto Shindo, Fritz Lang, and Buster Keaton. His idea of collaboration was to present a portfolio of irreverent ideas to the band, mold them together into eccentric shape, then focus through his personal prism to deliver a piledriver of a video. His way of handling stress was to buy a pet bunny and strangle it. He was not only willing to work with a furiously headstrong band like Thee Tourettes, it was the only kind worth wasting his time on; he didn’t need to babysit empty rag dolls. His superpower was his ability to make the camera sit up and do tricks. His Kryptonite was his ability to see the future so nothing ever surprised him.

 

The words came out in a quick, steady stream, not quite bored but near enough. All the time he kept tapping his phone on his shoe. When he finished I couldn’t help chuckling. He’d hit most of the standard first-round questions.

 

You’ve been through this before, I said.

 

This charade? This circus? Sure, he said. And I know how it ends. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I’ll be on my way now. He started to stand.

 

Not so fast, I told him. We’re not done.

 

Of course we are, he said. You’re not hiring me. You may not know it yet, but I do. I told you, I can see the future, and this interview’s going absolutely nowhere.

 

Aha. I’d been waiting for the hook. There it was. Everything prior was set-up, was bait. This was the twist. Now we get interesting.

 

How many bunnies do you strangle in the course of an average shoot, I asked.

 

He smiled and sat back down. None, I was kidding about the bunnies. I actually shoot stray cats. And before you ask, my middle name is John.

 

It hadn’t occurred to me to wonder, although I had noted the J. on the resume. Looking again, it struck me. John J. Montgomery, IV.

 

That’s right, he said. John John Montgomery. My great-great-grandparents named their kid John John. Must have been cute for a baby; not so much for a grown-up. Great-grandpa went by JJ. His son called himself John Junior. His son, my dad, went by Monty. Now all the good nicknames are gone so I’m just John. Just Plain John.

 

My thoughts skipped sideways to how extraordinarily unimaginative a family had to be to name even one child John John, much less four full generations. I’d always considered it supremely selfish for fathers to name their kids after themselves to begin with, to christen their offspring as mini versions of themselves, saddling them from birth with that burden of expectation to live up to, that weight of following in the footsteps and measuring up to the grand old man from the get-go. And Just Plain John, he had three generations of expectations draped across his shoulders.

 

Unless he was lying. Another layer of embellishment to misdirect, to hide the hook. Convincing, meaty, adroit bullshit always hunkers down and hides amidst the details.

 

I told him I wanted him to listen to something and then brainstorm some ideas for me. To see how well he thought on his feet. He sighed and settled back in his chair.

 

I played him a rough mix of “City of the Living Dead,” slated for imminent release. He listened attentively, seeming to really focus for the first time since arriving, leaning into the music. Afterward he settled back and spewed out three or four ideas for a video in rapid succession. Strong, workable ideas. I was impressed.

 

And with that, he said, I’ll be on my way. Again he stood.

 

You’re hired, I told him.

 

One thing I’ll give him: he had his con down cold. He gave me a look of legitimate surprise. It was a solid act all the way, sharp enough to catch my interest, breezy enough to seem authentic. And it accomplished his goal: I knew he had the creative juice to take us someplace new and interesting.

 

You can’t do that, he sputtered. You can’t hire me.

 

I just did, I said, looking at my calendar for a date to schedule our initial story conference with the band.

 

No, you don’t understand, he continued, waving his phone. I saw it. I saw the future. You don’t hire me.

 

So in the future I won’t hire you, I said. But today I do.

 

He dropped into the chair again, brow furrowed, mouth half open. Overselling it, I thought. He already had the gig. Drop the act.

 

Listen to me, he said. The last shoot I did was almost a year ago. Three days later I got sick and within a week I was on a ventilator. It was touch and go for a while but I pulled through. Only I wasn’t the same afterward. Long COVID, they call it. Constantly exhausted. Random headaches, soreness. Smell and taste and perception just… off. Brain in a fog. Then one day I was shaving and in the mirror I saw myself nick my chin and start bleeding. Only I hadn’t. Not yet. But it startled me and a moment later, I cut myself for real.

 

He paused for effect. Waiting for my reaction. I shrugged. So? Brain fog. You were disoriented.

 

That’s what I thought at the time, he said. But it kept happening. Little insignificant incidents. Each time I saw a few moments further into the future. I watched myself putting away the toothbrush in the mirror… while I was still brushing my teeth. Getting dressed and walking into the bedroom – while I was still toweling off after a shower. It happened with other mirrors and even reflections in windows I passed on the street. On the phone with selfies. I saw myself, minutes ahead. I became transfixed. The visions stretched longer and longer into the future. Five minutes, ten.

 

As he spoke I leaned back and said nothing, letting him spin. Frankly, it was rather annoying. He must not have expected to get the gig so quickly and had mapped out a whole escalating grift to pique my interest. But I’d bitten early, so he should have known enough to wrap it up. Let it go. Move on. Maybe he wasn’t as smart as I thought.

 

If you can see the future, I said, unable to resist, why not put it to good use? Make a fortune on stocks. Or prevent crimes. Be a superhero. I was goading him. Even a bullshitter has a bullshit threshold. I had reached mine.

 

He hadn’t. I can’t see long enough ahead to make a difference, he said. Or anything that’s not in the immediate view of the mirror or camera. It’s maddening. I go out and try to get jobs because I have to, because I need money. But I know the outcome before I even start so it all seems so rote, so worthless, so meaningless.

 

It was like watching a method actor so deeply immersed in his role he’d lost his mooring in reality. I rummaged in my desk and pulled out a deck of cards. I’m going to select a random card, I told him. I want you to tell me what—

 

He leaped up and knocked the cards from my hand. This isn’t a parlor trick, he said. It’s no joke. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation. You were supposed to thank me for coming and tell me I was under consideration and then toss my resume in that trash can over there. I saw it. That’s what happened. That’s was should have happened.

 

So why even bother walking in the door, I asked. If you know it’s a waste of time, just turn around and go home.

 

That’s not how it works, he said. I don’t have a choice. I have to do what has to be done.

 

Because life is completely predetermined, I said. No free well, no choice, just a scripted role we play out like robots?

 

Yes! No! I don’t know, he said. Maybe. Maybe there are multiple timestreams for different choices.

 

His face slowly lit up, like recognition was dawning.

 

You bumped me into a different timestream, he said.

 

A different timestream. Right. I have one question for you, I told him. Do you want the job or don’t you?

 

Of course I don’t! He was shouting now.

 

Well, too bad, I said. You’re hired anyway. By this time I was annoyed enough to hire him out of spite. Which, admittedly, confused the hell out of me.

 

Across the desk he stood and paced. Please say I can’t have the job, he begged. Please. I saw it. You blew me off. You gave me a weak line and sent me on my way. I saw it on the phone.

 

As he spoke he waved the cellphone around in the air.

 

Show me, I said.

 

John J. Montgomery IV froze in his tracks. He looked at me. I repeated what I said. Show me what’s on the phone right now. I want to see the future.

 

A litany of emotions scrolled across his face. I waited for him to scheme up a worthy excuse. He’d boxed himself into a corner. The phone wasn’t going to display the future. We both knew it. Now he had to talk his way out of it.

 

Instead he surprised me. Okay, he said, and plunked his ass down on the desktop. Stabbing his finger at the screen he brought up the camera and turned it so we both could see.

 

Oh, he was good, all right. He’d out-thunk me. Like a good chess player he’d anticipated my move. The phone screen showed a furious array of a million jumbled images displacing each other at hyperspeed. Faces, bodies rooms, landscapes, streets, interiors, exteriors, vehicles, buildings, all spinning wildly past in a jagged display overlaid by static and distortion.

 

You broke my timestream, he said again, rising to his feet. His eyes began blinking spasmodically as he stared at the mad display on his phone. You broke my timestream!

 

Enough was enough. I took a deep breath and spoke calmly. You made your point, I said. Very creative. Bravo. You ready to talk money now?

 

He ignored me, staring fixedly at the screen. Suddenly he looked up. A mirror, he said excitedly. Where can I find a mirror?

 

As if I had one in my hip pocket. Down the hall, I told him. First door on the right. And off he shot like his balls were on fire.

 

I have to admit, I reveled in the momentary silence. By now the last thing in the world I wanted was to work with this nutcase. On the other hand, I knew beyond question that he could give us something nobody else possibly could. Wrong was our middle name, and John J. Montgomery, IV was as wrong as they come. I’d just need to find his “off” switch. He’d pitched a nice grift in the beginning, then didn’t know when to stop. Like an artist who paints a delicate, gorgeous scene and then keeps slathering on layer after layer until it all congeals into a dreary mess on the canvas.

 

At the sound of breaking glass I snapped from my reverie and jumped up. He was yelling. I heard the word No over and over, and snatches about being in the wrong timestream and needing to go back. Sprinting to the bathroom I yanked at the knob. Locked. I rapped on the door and called for him to open up. More yelling. More breaking glass. I knocked more urgently, shouted louder.

 

Then: silence. Sudden, immediate. Like the film strip broke. One moment action, the next… nothing.

 

I tried the knob again. This time it turned. For just an instant I hesitated, not sure what to expect. Smashed mirrors, certainly. Blood, maybe. An overwrought, hyperventilating method bullshitter sprawled across the tile, tangled in his own elaborate fantasy?

 

No on all three counts. The room was empty. The mirrors were unbroken. There was no blood, no broken glass. No John J. Montgomery, IV. I’m not sure how long I stood there, staring at the empty bathroom before it occurred to me to check the window. Small, single-paned, pebbled glass. Big enough to fit an adult… barely, if they were determined. He must have exited that way. Not sure how he locked it after himself, but that was not something I planned to concern myself with as I closed the door and headed back to my desk.

 

I was staring at his resume and scratching my head when the next interviewee arrived. I buzzed them in and set aside the piece of paper just as John J. Montgomery, IV stepped into the room, looking cool and aloof, and gifted me another copy of his resume, then fell into the chair, saying Pleased to meet you, let’s get this crock over with.

 

Yes, let’s, I agreed. You’re fired.

 

Never before or since have I seen anyone so happy to lose a job.