The Etiquette of a Handshake; or For Once, Not a Tall Tale

BY DAVID H.

Looking for a job has become something of an annual tradition for me. I seem to be suffering from a syndrome called “Real Job Denial”: clammy hands when thinking about 40 hours a week, inexplicable adherence to a school calendar when you’ve been graduated for five years, etc. So as the Fall semester approaches, it’s been time for me to look for new employment.

Per the usual, I’ve been looking for a balance between fair pay and ridiculous work; for instance, one position I’ve talked with someone about was simply called “Pole Holder.” You literally hold a pole that emits a signal while another, the more trained of the two-person team I imagine, drives around in his van to check said signal. I’m still not sure who uses this signal. But for $12.50 an hour, I don’t really care.

The other job that bears mentioning, and that I actually had a job interview for, was for an “eBay Auctioneer” at a car parts warehouse. I inquired about the position over Gmail, and I got an e-mail back from a Bob Thompson, asking that I call him about the position since he’d found my resume to be satisfactory. I called and tried to sound pretty tough, assuming that a dude named “Bob Thompson” from a car parts warehouse would be the burly fellow who wouldn’t want a nancy like myself calling up. But after calling 3 times with the mysterious, sure-to-be-muscle-bound Bob not available, I finally just left my number.

An hour later, my phone rang, and the squeakiest, most androgynous voice I’ve ever heard filled my ear.

“Hey, David! This is Bob Thompson!” So tinny. So minute.

After the conversation, I hung up confused. I wondered if perhaps I had gotten the name wrong, whether it had actually been Barb Thompson. I relayed these concerns to my wife, as I tried to explain the unexpected voice on the other end of the phone.

“It seriously sounded like…a weaker version of Bart Simpson’s aunts.”
“What does that even mean?” she asked.
“I don’t know…like an older lady who’s been smoking for a long time, combined with someone who is having trouble getting up the nerve to talk loudly. It sounded like a munchkin! From The Wizard of Oz!”

I think that helped her.

I arrived at the warehouse later the next week for the interview we had scheduled. I walked in and saw a man with the burly build I had been expecting, and had difficulty picturing that voice that still rang in my head coming out of this guy. I said a quick prayer, hoping against hope that it wouldn’t be this man in front of me with his unbuttoned denim shirt and trucker cap. I prayed because I didn’t think I could contain myself if those two elements were combined in one body.

“Who’re you here for?” he boldly directed at me. My prayers had been answered. But then, as I prepared to answer, I realized I had never confirmed the first name and gender of my interviewer.
“Borb Thompson,” I slurred, hoping that the new name might suffice for either. “For an interview,” came out feeling tacked on, as though to distract from the strange utterance muttered a second earlier.
“Fill this out,”directed Not-Borb, as he slid a generic application across the desk to me.

Before I had finished, out of the office came Mr. Thompson. The reason for the voice should have been more obvious from the beginning. I actually hadn’t been far off.

Let me say, before I go into this anymore, that I feel okay about writing a light-hearted story about this because by the end of this story, Mr. Thompson will attempt to slight me very subtly, and so I feel justified writing about something I would normally never laugh at.

Bob Thompson was a midget, which by itself is only interesting because I don’t meet many little people. But Bob also had a neck brace. Neck braces are funny on anybody, and now that I’ve seen it I have to say, especially on midgets. He also had a moustache. It really was just too much to take in all at once. A bald, moustache-sporting midget with a neck brace. He put his little paw out there for me to shake, and the interview began.

We actually had ourselves a nice little time throughout the interview, telling stories about cars and talking about Michael Moore and whatever else the conversation led us to. The guy in charge of the “listing department” that I’d be working in came over and joined in the small talk. The interview eventually concluded, and we began heading towards the door.

As we wound ourselves around a particularly tight turn into a thin hall, I gathered that this was as far as Bob Thompson and the Department Manager planned to escort me, so I turned around to shake their hands and say farewell. I shook Bob’s hand first, and then went to shake the other guy’s hand.

A quick question of etiquette: Can you shake hands with someone over the head of a midget who just interviewed you?

Sure, it was tight in that hall, but there was still plenty of room. But without thinking, I shook hands with the other guy over the head of the midget. For a moment, the action was happening in his blind spot, and it was my fault. I thought I observed Bob take on an icy countenance as he excused himself while I left. There went my chances at landing this job.

I said earlier that Bob would end up slighting me, and I hope you will agree that his desire to do so was completely unwarranted. The Overhead Handshake was a complete accident, an unintentional social gaffe that no one should hold against you, least of all someone who has been dealing with things like that his whole life. But in the end, my comeback to his attempt to offend came without me even having to say a word.

Bob saved his moment of revenge for when he called me back about the job. He of course waited to call me back for a good two weeks, knowing that I would be at my lowest state of esteem by that time. He offered me the job, but not without, in that gender-less voice of his, offering some kind words first.

“We had a few really excellent candidates for this position — really great folks — but they’ve ended up each having something that didn’t work out. So now we’re calling you.”
“Oh. Great…!” came my effort to still sound enthusiastic about being what sounded like fourth or fifth on their list. I came after “really excellent” and “really great.” What other types of people could they possibly still call to fill this position? Was I one of the candidates in the “fairly competent” category?
“Great.” I reiterated. This little bastard was still mad about the handshake? I wanted to get him back, but there was no way to do so…not a future employer.

But would he be a future employer? I still had questions, mostly about their health care package. His company offered only 50% of the employed individual, so the spouse had to be paid for separately. I voiced my hope that perhaps there was a way to save up the money he would spend on my health care right now (while I’m still covered by my wife’s package), and later use the saved money to defray the extra costs when I put both my wife and myself on his insurance plan.

“You’re talking about a Health Care Savings Plan! No, we don’t have that. I know exactly what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, okay, so that wouldn’t work?”
“No, I know what you’re talking about. But, no, I’m too small for that.”

. . . .

What followed was a pause so laden with shock and fear and amazement such as I have never experienced. It had happened so fast, this rapid-fire exchange about benefits that when he shot out, “I’m too small for that,” it was hard to believe what just brought the conversation to a complete standstill. We both knew what he had said. We both understood what the other was thinking. And we sat there until something, anything would happen. Nothing did, and so finally Bob spoke, attempting to casually correct his statement, as though to clarify.

“My company. It’s. Too. Small. You know?” He trailed off with those last few words.

Indeed, I had just witnessed the crown jewel of impossible occurrences: a midget making an unfortunate and unintentional pun on his size, and catching himself…and trying to correct it. I sat there speechless for a few more seconds before trying to resume the conversation, blustering something about understanding what he meant. We hung up pretty quickly after that, but that line was burned into my mind, possibly forever. I think back to it and am pretty sure I could hear him in the background smacking his little hand on his little forehead after saying that. But maybe he’s the sort of guy that always makes these accidental comments. Like he can’t help it. Maybe he’s always smacking himself on his forehead.

Maybe that’s how he got the little neck brace.

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