This time, upon entering the office, she immediately took three steps in and stood
quietly. Sanders watched her the whole time. He smiled a half smile, and nodded again.
"I'm pleased to see you here, Brenda. I give my card to only a select few. I
realize all this may seem very strange to you, but as you will find, assuming you're
selected for the position, Haller Airline maintains the strictest of disciplinary
standards among its female staff. Now about that-"
"Just the female staff?" said Brenda, interrupting.
Her question was met with a withering moment of stony silence. "As I was
saying," said Sanders at last. "About that plaque on my door. It originated with
our founder, who, as I believe I mentioned before, was named Harry Haller. He, um, died,
by the way, unexpectedly last year."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
Sanders shrugged. "It's no matter. But it always intrigued him that he had
been named, quite unintentionally, after the main character in a classic novel."
"Really? Which one?"
"Steppenwolf."
"I thought that was a rock group."
"Hm, yes. But before that it was the title of a novel. By Hermann Hesse. A very
peculiar book. Never quite clear what's really real in it. But anyway, in the book,
the fictional Harry Haller keeps coming across a door that says, 'Magic Theater:
Entrance Not For Everybody.'"
"Just like your door!" exclaimed Brenda.
"Quite. Anyway, once Harry goes into the so-called Magic Theater, he finds
himself in a fantastical world where incredible, often erotic, sometimes violent, things
happen. He learns to accept his dark, wolf-like, side. Et cetera, et cetera. There's
more to it than just that, of course."
"Yes, of course," agreed Brenda, nodding.
"Which bring us back to this office. It used to be our Mr. Haller's, and it
amused him to have that sign on the door. After he died, and I took over, I left it there
as a sort of tribute."
"How sweet of you!" said Brenda. She was feeling much more relaxed by now.
"Hmph," he muttered, and then went on. "Well, now. Having answered a
question of yours, I have just a few questions of my own for you. You're about five
foot four, maybe five. Is that right?"
"Yes. I'm five-four in my bare feet. Is that important?"
He ignored her and jotted another note on his pad. "And your weight?" he
asked.
Brenda was taken aback at the second, highly personal question. He certainly was
blunt! "I'm, um, well, about a hundred and ten."
"Yes, yes, good..." He marked his pad once more, then looked up and stared
at her with keen intensity. "Turn to your right!" he barked. Though he continued
to speak at a normal conversational volume, he snapped the words at her like a drill
sergeant. She turned briskly, like a new recruit. "Good," he said. "Arms at
your sides. No, don't look at me. Eyes straight ahead."
Brenda did as he ordered, ending up standing at attention and staring at the blank
wall of his office. She fought the urge to turn toward him. She could almost feel his eyes
as they scanned her profile. Her lips quivered with the rising sense of... anticipation.
This just kept getting more and more weird. What was next?
Presently, he spoke again, but without the drill sergeant tone. "I'd say
you're a 'C' cup. Is that right?"
This time, she decided she wouldn't stand for any more such personal questions.
She turned to him, placed her hands on her hips and glared. "You can't ask me
that!"
"I can, and I did. So just tell me your measurements, Brenda."
"But, you're not allowed to ask... I mean, that's not..." Her face
flushed. She knew such questions were off limits in job interviews, and yet... She also
knew perfectly well her appearance had got her the interview in the first place. And the
fact that she was here was her tacit agreement to it. Swallowing her indignation, she
blurted out, "34-24-34. And yes, a- a 'C' cup!"
For the first time, Sanders allowed himself a true smile. "Excellent, Brenda.
You're catching on quickly. Remember, it's not your place to ponder the meaning
or appropriateness of my questions, but simply to answer them. Do you see how simple it
is, Brenda?"
"I- I suppose so."
"Good." His expression became serious again, and he leaned over his desk.
"Now place your hands upon your shoulders," he said with a glint in his eye.
"No, no. Don't cross your arms like that. Right hand to right shoulder and left
to left."
Bewildered by his bizarre request but reminding herself not to question it, she
obeyed, ending up with her arms folded in half, as if she were about to do an imitation of
a chick flapping its wings. She felt foolish, but her interviewer seemed perfectly
serious.
"Turn to your right again, Brenda," he instructed her.
She complied, again permitting herself no thought as to why.
"Good girl. Keep turning now, so you face the door."
She did as he told her. She could no longer see him, but again knew all too well that
he was eyeing her from head to foot.
"Now... Bend over," came his voice.
Still keeping her hands on her shoulders, she shuddered at the command. "M- Mr.
Sanders, I really don't think-"
"Bend over!"
"Okay!" she cried out as she quickly leaned forward. She had to spread her
feet a bit to steady herself. Panting with indignation, she stared down at the small patch
of gray carpet. Her cheeks burned. This is crazy, she told herself. What am I doing? He
can't order me around like this. He can't make me pose in ridiculous, revealing
positions.
And yet, despite her misgivings, she held the pose. Held it, knowing full well how
prominently her shapely bottom was displayed for his inspection, a virtual stranger,
someone who had felt perfectly at ease reaching under her skirt aboard a crowded
airliner.
The more she thought about it, the more she realized that she had to call a halt to
this shameful farce of an interview. But just as she was about to stand up anyway, she
heard him say.
"You can stand up now."
"No!" she said defiantly, before she really thought about it.
"Fine then. I'm still enjoying this angle."
At that, she did finally stand upright, and spun around to face him. "This- This
is- It's outrageous! That's what it is!" she fumed. "I've never
been so humiliated in my entire-"
"Are you wearing panties, Brenda?" he asked. His voice was calm but firm,
apparently oblivious to her outburst.
"Am I wear- You can't ask- How dare-"
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