Mid afternoon on a Friday in late February, I headed reluctantly to an interview for a class which although poorly paid, was located conveniently enough to make worthwhile. The thought of doing this job any longer left me cold but I had steeled myself to stick with it whilst working on my writing. In my determination to front out the interview, I was probably a little over dressed and drew some flattering attention from my fellow passengers on the Metro. To assuage the constant internal and infernal critique of myself, I felt compelled to also notice the couple of the sideways glances from a young gay man for the sake of balance before I could really give Janis Joplin my undivided concentration. Cry Baby, track number two on Pearl is probably not the song for anybody on an emotional edge and the following track, A Woman Left Lonely, might be pressing one’s luck. Akin to having a stowaway free loading on my consciousness, I have learnt to keep my moods on a short leash and to recognise an upwelling in time to head it off.
After a couple minute’s walk back out on the street, I stopped to check the directions I’d been given and turned right down some insalubrious looking steps with a sign for a discotheque boasting ‘kisses’ on its cheap signage. Feeling even more overdressed than was already the case, I descended the steps and saw directions to a police station. I’ve often thought the combination of cop shops and dodgy looking night clubs is as good an indication of a thriving sex trade in the area as there is. Once I’d rounded a pillar obscuring my view of the exit from this basement type environment, the language school was, as promised right in front of me. On seeing it, my heart both rose and sank as it appeared to take itself quite seriously. In my experience of such things, the more that is the case, the more it smacks of a sect and my flight instinct needs quelling. The upside was it looked solvent. The dull seventies styled concrete exterior and surroundings seemed to have been built with a baseless, blind optimism that we could all live together if only we actually did. Worryingly it looked professional and I feared my lip was in for some biting over the next while.
Following an interview the year before I had felt my tone become noticeably darker and I had adopted a style far less interviewee than potential adversary. Given the money on offer and the fact I hadn’t really looked around, this had to be simple or I would pass it up.
I got to the door and being a rather heavy looking metal and glass one, I gave it a decent yank only to be met by the stubborn resistance of it being locked. Weird I thought, who ever held up a language school next door to a police station? I looked at a man sitting at a computer through the glass and half smiled, half grimaced thinking he must go through this routine a few times every day and I bet they’ve not even been threatened once. My dislike for him needed subduing; I hadn’t even got in yet.
Sure enough he buzzed me in and I smiled with as much authenticity as I could muster. Doing my utmost to avoid mentioning that I was there for an interview, I said I’d arranged to meet Peter Johnson. Smiling back with no noticeable pretence, the man informed me that Peter had just stepped out and would return shortly then told me to take a seat. I was a few minutes early anyway so I had expected to wait and I sat down and played with my phone. No messages, no new Tinder matches, fuck the news anyway, I put it down and wound up my earphones. Nice, I mused that Janis had been a door to door listen bar the instrumental track I always skip. Poor Janis, if she hadn’t died before finishing the album, I bet that track would’ve been a belter too. But she did, fuck and Amy as well, Jesus wept, why does all this talent burn up while mediocrity goes on ad nauseam. Probably for the better Peter Johnson arrived and broke my reverie with a head of studies style greeting and fake smile. He wasn’t really pleased to meet me and I knew straightaway the job was almost a given unless I punched him. It had been advertised as urgent and both the hour and frequency went heavily against it being filled quickly. We made small talk as we walked the few metres to the class he’d set aside for our interview. I don’t excel at small talk and never have felt the need to add it to my skill set beyond the perfunctory. Conversation matters to me and besides Madrid doesn’t usually have a great deal of weather to talk about.
Tending to the effeminate, Peter seemed a little edgy in my company but I was being as affable as the situation required and told him not to worry about the room temperature, I was fine. My mind briefly tracked back to being told he had stepped out and noting that he hadn’t passed me in reception, I guessed he’d been here all along. Perhaps he was a stickler for being on time or he’d been busy laying out his pen and few papers alongside my CV on the table in readiness. I pulled my attention back to the moment and thought; so what if he’s a prick? This’ll be concluded in a few minutes however it goes. We both sat down although I let him sit first in some random, half-arsed stab at power play. I have often noticed how men do this to one another with body language, opening doors for each other and assuming some kind of alpha role whilst insinuating there was a beta role to be taken. It had always struck me as a bit dickish but here I was living out the duality of being a subjective man and on this occasion, a bit of a dick.
I really can’t recall the opening question Peter had lined up for our interview but it was so asinine, I felt a little sick. It was as if nothing had changed since I was 25 years old and facing my first English school interview. Who says time travel isn’t possible? Something about my experience and views on what the important factors in a class are, or some other hollow crap. It was all I could do to stop my mind going elsewhere for a reprieve. The fucker had my CV in front of him. If I’d made it up, it wouldn’t be that damned elaborate and this was for a one and a half hour job, once a week, take it or leave it. Although he was just going through the motions, I could feel the fire getting stoked and knew I had to keep on top of it. I drew on my dependable level voice tone which due to a recent flu had retained enough rasp to give it a touch more gravitas. Barely had I mentioned that I’d been doing this over the past twenty one years than Peter felt the need to chip in and throw down his twenty seven in a petulant act of one-upmanship. I must have rubbed him up the wrong way already but so what, now we were both dicks and I had the measure of him.
My tongue was not getting out of this without a few bite marks but my restraint pleased me and I don’t think I even flinched. I have long been steeped in the boring cauldron of men reciting their age in some attempt to establish seniority but reliably achieving the contrary. Any mention of the past and as predictably as a clockwork cliché, they quickly reference an event that you couldn’t possibly have been old enough to experience. I guess these markers of seniority must matter in a throwback to our ancestry in some way so I smile wryly if I can, but for deference you’re going to need a good deal more.
I decided I didn’t much care which way the cookie crumbled in this interview and although without the wish to go the way of Michael Douglas in ‘Falling Down’, I set my stall out with some clarity and made clear my conditions. I sidestepped the usual routine of how to structure a class and went straight in with the importance of establishing rapport, finding out what they expect and then asking what they were prepared to sacrifice for the cause. Should the two things be at odds, the student would need a bit of grounding in reality and then we could set realistic targets. Before being asked, I went on to say I would take the class despite its relatively low remuneration due to its proximity to home. I would however need it to be regular and not endure endless cancelations which are as dysentery to a self employed teacher’s salary. Peter took advantage of this doubt and went off to ask his boss probably in as much need of a break as an answer. He returned shortly a little renewed and informed me that although they usually tried to have a 75-80% minimum charge over a month regardless of cancelations, it wasn’t the case with this particular class which held no guarantees at all. I nonetheless said I would take it on a trial basis and told him if it should appear anything but regular, I would have to jump ship. By this time Peter had already given up on any pretence the job wasn’t already mine if I wanted and said he understood my position which, needlessly I went on to embellish by expressing my discontent at the self employed system of hiring teachers. On a roll, I said I would need the attendant paperwork at the month’s end to be streamlined so I didn’t have to travel across Madrid unnecessarily or spend too long on it. Realising at that point I had set out my stall with undue clarity and firmness, I offered a token olive branch by saying I thought honesty to be an imperative in any relationship and despite the low fee, I gave my word I’d do the class professionally. I sensed Peter had something he wanted to say but the circumstance of the job which started the following week, may have made him think better of it.
Perhaps as a final box that needed ticking, he recited a few of the extras that came with working for this particular school. On top of use of the photocopier, they sent out circulars in the form of emails to teachers with new material and class management tips, they held training courses for teachers, though wisely anticipating my response he quickly added they were optional. Professional development was something the school took seriously but he’d lost my attention by then and cut himself short anyway. Telling me he’d confirm everything on Monday he then invited me to see the facilities the school offered.
Besides a few rushed introductions to one or two other teachers en route we made it quickly to a resource room that boasted a few books of the type I’d seen at a hundred or more schools. Dutifully labelled on their spines with some code or other they were slouched across the shelves without stiff covers or bookends to keep them looking more ordered. Peter then directed me to two computers under a high prison like window and told me grandly they contained the sound files. With that we were done.
I don’t recall shaking hands as we parted but I suspect neither of us can.
Back outside once more I glanced around at the dreadful seventies architecture of this concrete residential and business area in the heart of Madrid. It had probably once spoken of the promise of the future but now was just aching for some kind of remodelling. Some views were a little less claustrophobic but still unappealing whereas others were simply squalid and owed more to a failed balance between the utilitarian and the utopian.
Who cared? It was still warm enough in the sun to amble nonchalantly among the business folk and shoppers in the direction of the Castellana. I wasn’t going underground; I was dressed well and in no hurry to get home; the bus it would be. I felt oddly OK about myself and even the stowaway was keeping quiet, perhaps these were small moments of happiness to treasure.
David Sanders Feb 2018
