The Eighth Door Eunice Chang Mrs. M, English 9, P1 November 12, 2010 I knew I’d made the biggest mistake in the world when I peeked through my squinted eyes and saw that big, grey, metal door. Hahhh...... I cauEously open my eyes, close them and open them again. The door remains sEll, and the strong smell of papers and the beeping from the printers sEmulate my senses, proving that this isn’t one of my nightmares; it’s reality. It’s 8:45am. 15 minutes leM before my appointment Eme. I swallow, rub both hands on my jeans and carefully breathe in and out. Just a step more. It takes just a single step for me to reach the door. But how to open it? Which key would fit in that keyhole for the door to let me in? I look at the many keys that I’m holding Eght right now. I skim through each of them. Dilligence. Intelligence. Generosity. Or is it Team-‐work? Honesty? Nope. None of them. I’ve already tried them all out. The door. Another door, and the next door aMer the other. Seven Emes I’ve been rejected at my job interviews. For God’s sake, seven Emes! I mean, even one of my most hopeless friends managed to get a job, and me? Stuck in my own dark world, staring at the slammed-‐shut door, full of loathing. It’s not like my college grades were bad. The professors always complimented on my wriEng abiliEes, how I made the wriEng come alive and I was assiduous in my studies. I was skilled at English and I’ve always been into oratorical work, so I’ve decided to follow my desEny and become either a reporter or an editor. However, the denial at my very first interview sucked all the pride and confidence out of me. The first interview sEll vividly remains in my memory, it being my first Eme to apply and then fail. Nevertheless, the company I applied for was one of my role-‐model companies, which hurt even more. “So, tell me a good reason why we must choose you to be part of our company?” the interviewer asked, staring at me intently with those sharp eyes of hers. Well, I….,” I began, stuaering slightly then conEnued, “I personally think that my talents lie in literature, and I would really appreciate if my talents were contributed to this company and more.” I couldn’t believe I’d tripped over my own tongue. I was dismissed soon, our liale ‘talk’ over in a snap. The unknown chills I felt running down my back at that Eme must have been the sign of my failure. The company didn’t call back. The rest of my interview experiences fly past my mind and I reach the very last interview I had with another company just a month ago. “Our company is very curious to know how people respond and come up with an answer to this quesEon. Tell us your opinion, if you happened to receive a billion dollars one day, what would you spend that money on?
I was perplexed. I am sure the interviewer sensed it, from my shivering hands and that pale face of mine. I rethought the quesEon and carefully chose my words before replying. Just like the other six interviews, our talk ended with me failing to give saEsfying answers and my poor resume probably chucked or crumpled in a bin. I’ve been standing in the exact same spot for 12 minutes. HOLY COW! Three minutes unEl nine o’clock. Shoot, shoot, shoot! I am not ready for this, what if I fail again? Like magic, a long-‐forgoaen saying of my middle school teacher scrambles out from the back of my mind and spreads its wings. The words speak to me. “Believe in yourself, Anne. Be confident.” I square my shoulders. Chest out. I realize my past mistakes. The quesEons from the interviewers were designed to test me and to let them know me beaer, what kind of person I am, not just how I handled my studies in college. I finally understand the soluEon to my problem. I just wasn’t using the right keys I own for the right door. AMer those constant failures, I must have lost my confidence and I wasn’t trying hard enough, so instead I was blaming my stupid desEny and bad luck. Now that I know which key I’m using for this company, I’m going to conquer this stupid door so that I never have to face these inEmidaEng monsters. This thought makes me smile. I open my shoulders, whisper goodbyes to my trembling hands. With a quick khmm, khmm, I take a step, press the handle, swing the door and walk in with confidence, knowing that things will finally work out for me: “Good Morning, Ma’am, my name is Anne Miller. Nice to meet you.”