2006 - Vol. 3, Issue 7

The pleasant receptionist tapped lightly three times on the office door, opened it a few inches and said, "Excuse me, Mrs. Carlisle. Your nine o'clock interview, Robin Simms, is here."

Robin detected no response from within the office, but the receptionist told her to go on in.

"Thank you," Robin replied, then said in a lower voice, "Forward."

A few steps inside the small room, Robin stopped next to a large desk. Taking a deep breath, she smiled and said, "Hello, I'm Robin Simms."

No sound indicated the presence of Mrs. Carlisle. Robin subconsciously checked the top buttons on her blouse. All OK. Then she ran her fingers through her hair, which seemed perfectly in place.

"Hello?" she tried again.

A pensive, two-pack-a-day voice a few feet in front of her said, "I'm Nancy Carlisle."

Robin stepped forward, hitting her thigh lightly on the wooden desk. She put out her hand and Nancy Carlisle accepted it weakly, as if touching a dead fish. An awkward few seconds followed.

Robin said, "Pleasure to meet you." In a lower voice, she said, "Sid, chair."

Her dog walked her two feet to the left and stopped. Robin's probing fingertips encountered the rough cloth of an office chair. She sat while commanding Sid to lay down, and pressed her skirt neatly across her lap.

Another painful pause ensued. The tick, tick, tick of a clock was clearly audible.

"Are you blind?" asked Mrs. Carlisle. The woman's voice verged on incredulity.

"Yes I am," Robin answered matter–of–factly.

"You didn't say in your cover letter or resume that you were blind."

Now the tone was moving towards aggressive. Less than sixty seconds, Robin thought, a new world record.

"I didn't mention I was five foot four or a Methodist either. With only one page, I prefer to just list my skills and qualifications." The words spilled out before Robin could stop them. She clamped her teeth shut to extinguish any more sarcastic comments.

"Well, don't you think it would be appropriate?" Mrs. Carlisle spat back at her. "Not only have you caught me unprepared, I just, ah, we don't have any jobs here that would be appropriate for a, um, visually handicapped person."

The old human resources training was kicking in, must be careful to be politically correct.

Robin unclenched her jaw and said, "I'm blind. Let's just say it like it is. I apologize for catching you off guard, it wasn't my intent. If you have my resume, you can see that I have a perfect background for the financial analyst position you advertised in the paper. My blindness is not an issue; my skills and work ethic are." She took a breath, hoping that had come out all right.

"Is that a Seeing–Eye dog?"

Oh boy, here we go with the amazing dog questions. Let's change the topic from my skills to the puppy.

"Yes, this is Sid — a guide dog. He helps me get around."

"Where did you get him — one of those guide dog schools?"

At least the woman was curious. Maybe things would lighten up and then they could proceed.

"Yes, I got him at a school in New York," Robin replied.

"How much did he cost?"

Well, she scores two points for directness.

"I didn't have to pay for him. The school has endowments and grants to pay for the dogs and training. From what I understand, they cost about twenty–thousand dollars."

"Taxpayers' money?" Mrs. Carlisle snorted, followed by a short rumbling cough.

Robin didn't take the bait. "I don't know," she said.

Another awkward pause filled the room with tension. Robin felt a droplet of perspiration rolling down her back. It was hot in this suit. This wasn't going well, and part of her just wanted to run away. Yet, she really needed this job — hell, any job, at this point. This position was perfect though — an assistant financial analyst, for which Robin was actually overqualified. She had a bachelor's degree in business, with a minor in accounting. Their office was only a block from the bus line, so at least transportation would be manageable. She crossed her fingers, which were folded in her lap, and silently prayed the interview would improve.

A rustling of papers came from Mrs. Carlisle's desk. More silence: tick, tick, tick.

"Who did your resume for you?"

Irritation, like tinder as it first begins to ignite, began to burn inside Robin.

"I did it myself."

"How? Shouldn't it be in Braille or something?"

Robin gave a short chuckle, her turn to be amazed. "I have a computer equipped with speech software at home. It allows me to do word processing, surf the Internet, use spreadsheet programs — most anything a sighted person could do."

More shuffling of papers. Sid got up, panting and wagging into Robin's leg, indicating that he had to go. Oh, not now, Robin thought. Soft but firm she commanded, "Sid, down." The obedient lab complied.

"I'm impressed to see that you graduated college Ms. Simms, and I'm all in favor of the disadvantaged matriculating into society. I'm sure you are an intelligent woman. But realistically, this is a small firm, and each of our employees is expected to contribute a hundred–and–ten percent. We don't have the time or the manpower to have people helping you to do whatever work you won't be able to accomplish on your own."

Now despair settled in on the young blind woman. There was no hope. She was being dismissed, without an ounce of consideration. This whole trip was going to be a waste of time.

"Listen, Mrs. Carlisle. I graduated from college with a 3.6 GPA. All regular classes, I didn't get any breaks. I've interned in the finance department at Shultz and Sons for six months, and they will give me a glowing recommendation. I have great computer skills; I won't need anyone to help me. If I get this job, I can get adaptive computer software and training in where and how things are done. I can learn everything in no time." Robin's voice was a little more pleading toward the end than she would have wished.

"Who's going to take you to the bathroom?" Mrs. Carlisle asked.

Robin sat, completely dumbfounded. Mrs. Carlisle couldn't have shocked her any more if she had said she was the love child of Elvis. Was this for real? Do people like this really exist in the world?

"I've been going to the bathroom without any help since I was three. Who helps you?" Robin wished she could see the agitation that she could sense in Mrs. Carlisle's face.

Mrs. Carlisle, however, was a trained professional and wasn't about to let this blind woman get the better of her. She moved on.

"We have our own computers here, with special software. What makes you think your computer will work with it?" Her tone was as flat and cold as a parking lot in winter.

"I would use your computers, equipped with speech software either provided by the state, your company, or me. The software might have to be customized to work with your programs, but if you are using either Axapta or Navision, I already have the scripts and could be working in a few hours."

These were the programs Robin used at Shultz. Amy Lopez, the woman that installed JAWS and updated the appropriate scripts on her computer for her internship, could also do it here.

Without losing a stride, the interviewer came in with her next question. "How you going to read mail and paperwork?"

Robin couldn't tell for sure, but she imagined Mrs. Carlisle was sneering.

Sid was up again, rubbing against Robin and wiggling his backside. She patted the dog on the head and said, "Sit for a little while longer boy, good boy." This was not the time for him to "Park." He'd just have to hold it.

She focused her attention on the hopeless Mrs. Carlisle.

"That depends. Of course, email is a great medium for a blind person, and as an added benefit it saves paper."

A noticeable exhale came from Mrs. Carlisle, but Robin continued.

"Printed text can usually be scanned, and then I can use the computer to read it. I have a PDA with speech for my personal notes, and I can use Braille for a variety of other note–taking tasks."

"I suppose that is all well and good," Mrs. Carlisle interrupted, "But what about a handwritten memo? What if I write you a note to redo the Smith calculations for 1994? How could you read it?"

Now the bitch was just being confrontational. "You wouldn't have to leave me a note. You could send me an email, or better yet, just leave me a phone mail. It's not an insurmountable problem."

Mrs. Carlisle made some sort of exasperated sound, which was followed by three light knocks on the closed office door. It opened, and a cheery voice said, "Mrs. Carlisle, Mr. Pastor needs to see you in the managers' meeting. He said it was important."

Without excusing herself, or even acknowledging the existence of the other person in her office, Mrs. Carlisle got up from her desk and scurried out the door.

Robin felt overcome with depression and her own insignificance. There was no point in continuing this painful charade. She got out of her chair, and on an impulse reached out and felt the cool, smooth surface of Nancy Carlisle's desk. She tapped it, a heavy, solid sound. Feeling like a kid with her hand in the cookie jar, Robin walked around the desk and sat in the comfy leather, high-backed chair. She leaned forward and ran her fingertips over the blotter, keyboard, Rolodex, and flat–screen monitor. Why did an idiot like Nancy Carlisle get such a magnificent desk? What could Carlisle possibly do any better than Robin could, except see? And what gave her the right to treat Robin with such disrespect, like a turd on the sidewalk?

A devious smile crept across Robin's face.

"Sid, come," she said. "Park."

A minute later, Robin bid the friendly receptionist a good day as she left the front of the building. This was not going to be her first real job. Oh, well, she thought, maybe next time.