Mock Interview

Paul’s excited about this one. The job that’s going to get him back on track. When he asks to meet up at the pub, I suggest a coffee shop. He laughs and says, “Who are you? My sponsor?”

 

I find him at the pub, already two pint glasses and two shots down. “How ya doing, bro?” He gives me that handshake which pulls into a mushy hug. I’m reminded of Paul’s actual brother every time he calls me “bro.” Paul never mentions him. The three of us were inseparable. The star attack players on the lacrosse team. The “Three Mooseketeers” we’d joke, since our mascot was a Moose.

 

“Lauren says I’m the perfect fit,” Paul boasts, while motioning for more drinks. Lauren is Paul’s ex-sister-in-law, and she’s the one referring him for the job. It’s complicated. But everything in Paul’s life is complicated and has been since his brother was killed in that car wreck. “She’s probably referring me so I can give her sister more alimony.”

 

I take a sip of my Guinness to avoid this minefield.

 

Eventually, we get down to business and Paul’s surprisingly thoughtful in his responses to my mock interview. For a moment, I picture him getting ready for the workday, putting on a suit, and gelling his unruly hair. I imagine Paul getting back to the gym, even suggesting we meet up for a run instead of a drink.

 

But, as soon as our little interview ends, as soon as I say something encouraging, Paul gets that Cheshire cat grin, displaying his perfect (but false) front teeth, and I remember when he got those teeth knocked out and still scored a hat trick. I remember celebrating in the locker room after the game. Paul standing there next to his twin brother, Derek. Those two bruising, blonde He-Men. The whole world at their fingertips. And how Paul had joked, “Well, at least it will be easier for folks to tell us apart.” Paul got his smile fixed, but after the wreck, his smile only came out when his words were slurred.

 

“We should have another round to celebrate,” he says, already glassy-eyed.

 

When I tell Paul I have to get home, he gives me shit and then another sweaty hug.

 

“Don’t stay out too late,” I warn. “You want to be fresh.”

 

“I got this,” he says, as if he believes it.

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