They introduced themselves in quick succession. Their names, their companies, their positions in the volunteer leadership of the organization. They were all company presidents, and some of the companies I had even heard of. None of them were old and none of them were young. They all looked at me with a kind of placid understanding, as if they had already decided who and what I was.
The questioning was led by their chairman, a guy named Steve Anderson. He was the only one among them not wearing a tie, just an open collar shirt under his suit coat. First, he wanted to know more about my background and my current responsibilities. Had I really done the things my resume said I had? Then he wanted to know more about why I was looking for something new. Was there something wrong with the company I worked for or the organization I served? Where did I see myself in five or ten years? And then he wanted to know more about my plans for their organization. What did I know about their goals and objectives? What would be my plan for the first ninety days?
Unlike the experience with Mister Thompson, this felt like something approaching normal. The stakes were high -- I hadn’t needed Pamela’s warning to understand that -- but at least I felt like I was somewhat prepared. The questions were direct but appropriate to the situation. Jenny and I had rehearsed many of them, and most of them I answered without even looking at my notes, trying to remember to make eye contact with as many people as possible around the table. In doing so I received an array of silent feedback. Some eyes were encouraging, seeming to root for my success, while others were skeptical, hoping to knock me off my game so they could kick me while I was down.
There was really one moment where I felt like things might go off the rails.
“Tell me about your time with Mister Thompson.”
“My time with Mister Thompson?” I said. “What do you mean?”
Steve -- and he had twice insisted that I call him Steve so that is what I did -- smiled. “You spent some time with him before coming in here, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
I looked around the table. If I had sensed some silent supporters before, on this one they all seemed to have deserted me. One wasn’t even looking at me, his eyes down and looking at a few pieces of paper spread across his leather table pad. Another seemed to be licking his chops, his hands up and one slowly spinning an enormous class ring around the other’s finger.
“Well,” I said slowly. “Mister Thompson spent much of the time telling me more about the history of the organization.”
“Uh huh,” Steve said. “Like what?”
“Ummm,” I stammered. “Well, there was something about a capital campaign, and something else about the launch of your Foundation.”
Steve was nodding his head. “What did you think of him?”
“Of who? Mister Thompson?”
“Yes.”
I saw a pit opening at my feet, a pit with poison-tipped spikes jutting up from below.
“I just met him,” I said.
“How did he strike you?”
I had no idea what this line of questioning was about. It felt like Steve was fishing for something, like he wanted me to commit to one direction or another, but the safest path seemed to be tip-toeing through the middle.
“He cares a lot about this organization,” I said. “He’s dedicated a large part of his life to it.”
“And yet here you are. Trying to push him to the side.”
It wasn’t Steve who said this. It was one of the other committee members, the one with the class ring, a guy named Fred Zeidler.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said without thinking, not knowing what he was talking about. “I’m not here to push anyone to the side. He’s retiring, isn’t he? I’m just applying for the job. Am I missing something?”
Fred looked like he might argue with me, but Steve quickly jumped in. “No, no,” he said. “You’re not missing anything.” And then he pushed a button on a small keypad in front of him and I heard the door behind me open.
“Yes, Mister Anderson?”
It was Pamela Thornsby. She must have been standing just outside the room, waiting for the signal. I could sense her presence behind me, but I did not turn my attention away.
“Pamela,” Steve said. “We’re done with Alan for now. Can you please ask him to wait in his conference room while we speak with the third candidate?”
“Of course,” Pamela said, moving forward, standing behind my right shoulder, and present in my peripheral vision.
I looked across the table at Steve and met his impassive face. Not knowing what else to do, I slowly gathered my things and stood.
“Well, okay, then,” I said. “It was a pleasure meeting all of you. I am excited by this opportunity, I hope to hear more about it later.”
Steve simply nodded, and I felt Pamela step even closer and grasp my elbow.
+ + +
“Dragons” is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. For more information, go here.
This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can follow him on Twitter @ericlanke or contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.
Image Source
http://lres.com/heres-why-amcs-need-to-pay-close-attention-to-looming-regulatory-changes/businessman-in-the-middle-of-a-labyrinth/
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