Interviewing Callais

by Rebekah Anderson

I could tell the interview wasn’t going well when Callais got up and walked out. He looked like he wanted to throw something before leaving, give me some kind of gesture that spelled finito. But I was the one doing the interview and so I was the only one holding anything. When he got up he kind of looked around and then waved his hands--a little ineffectually if you ask me--and stormed out. I threw my pencil on the floor for him in solidarity. If I was Callais, I would have had it with me too. What was I driving at anyway?

The only thing I am good at anymore is eating Altoids like candy, and while that is certainly an acquired and impressive skill, it was not helpful in an interview situation. Maybe it was the crunching that finally did him in. But I have to chew them. I mean, they are way too strong to let them dissolve in my mouth. And sometimes I sneeze right after I eat one.

Or maybe it had more to do with the kinds of questions I was asking. His publicist told me he’d been on the junket for something like six weeks, and so the repetition was getting to him. Truth be told, I am not a big fan of Callais in the first place, and so I have to admit, I didn’t do a lot of so-called research before our meeting, and I will also admit that I had a run-in with some pretty aggressive bourbon the night before and so my interview skills were not firing on all cylinders.

But is that really a good enough reason for him to stalk out of an interview? Well, maybe. See the thing about Callais is he just isn’t very good. And not very good means I don’t really give a shit. And me not giving a shit means questions like, what’s your favorite color? But I mean, I didn’t think Callais would be above that kind of banal banter, but it would appear that I was wrong.

Callais got bored with my questions, thankfully, because I was bored with me too. "Don’t you want to ask about the work?" he said. Hey, who’s the interviewer here, buddy? I didn’t say that, I said, “ummmm…” instead and flipped limply through my notes, but I wanted to say that or something like it. Oh Callais, so polished, so professional. Callais, what would you have done if I had jacked some Makers all over your suede shoes right then? Hmm? Would you have been all white suit? Would you have recrossed your legs uncomfortably? Would you, Callais? Would you have offered me a hankie and then told me to keep it? No! No you wouldn’t, Callais. And that is why I asked you the question I asked you. You know the one I’m talking about. The one you walked out on.

Listen, Callais, I will readily confess here and in my column that my behavior was total balls. Everything about me is bullshit. Hey Callais, what if I told you I don’t even work for any magazine? Then what?

Of course these are things I might ask Callais now, or maybe not even now. They would certainly make me seem more prepared, wouldn’t they? But when I opened up my mouth to ask Callais the question I really really really wanted a goddamn answer to, it actually came out and that was not a good thing. When Callais insisted that I ask him about his work, my feebled hung over mind shut down and my true feelings erupted: “Okay, Callais…, “ I said and took a deep breath. “Why is it that while everyone else thinks your work is so great, to me it’s like a pustule on the face of Art, a face not already known for its clear complexion? Or would you say it’s more like flotsam--or is it jetsam--covered in sand and pecked apart by gulls on an oil slicked beach? Or would you say it most resembles a discarded chili dog in a Central Park garbage can waiting for some bum to come along so desperate to find a something worth eating in all that trash?”

That’s right about where the interview ended. Hell, I would have walked out too.