My boss asked me, “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”
As someone who smokes a pack-a-day and is still trying to hide his vodka stained breath from the night before, I was kind of just hoping to be alive. That was a lie too, because I really didn’t give a damn either way. So, I just kind of stared at him in response.
He’d be tickled pink if I told him off.
“Good question,” I’d said. It was, that is, a good question, which is what pissed me off the most.
An impasse:
He wants me to say something off the books so that he can finally fire me, and I want to reach over, pull the pen out of his pocket, and drop it to the floor. Yet, despite everything, I need the job. Without this position, my first extended vacation into the adult world, I’m back to slinging double Caesars at family restaurants. Back to being a 30 year old singing happy birthday to 21 year olds that don’t know they’re looking for a kick-in-the-ass.
The silence between us wasn’t just palpable, it was a damned elephant head on the desk. I kept leaning left and right to carry on the stare-down between us. “Ten years?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
He knew I should have answered right away. Anyone who has to think about this kind of question for more than five seconds has probably never thought about this question.
This paycheck was rent and poker. The next was insurance and a new tire. The one after that might as well have been my last for all the thought I put into it. And that’s what he’s really saying – you don’t think.
And I don’t. But I don’t care either.
“Well?” he asked.
“I’m really more of a 20 year planner,” I say. “I figure I’ll work ten years here, take your position, build up the company, and I’ll either start my own organization or apply here for a board position.
“Wonderful,” he said. “That’s a lofty goal.”
“I guess I’m just a dreamer,” I told him.