I was surprised the district invited me for an interview at all, considering the criminal background. Not to mention the period of unemployment stretching well beyond the double-spaced boundaries of my resumé. Or that the job listing specified need of a “person,” which I had not yet begun considering myself again. But here we were: a windowless Special Education office, a middle school I’d never heard of, the acrid, chemical scent of adolescence loitering in the gray carpet.
We sat across from each other at a round table, three women and me, and between us waited the polygraph, blanketed in fluorescent light.
“I didn’t know schools did lie detector tests,” I said, rubbing my arm, and the oldest, wisest-looking of the interviewers bowed her head.
I remember at some point one of them assured me, “Bodily fluids are the day-to-day.”
“Biting, kicking, screaming,” another added. “In all likelihood you will bruise and bleed…”
Somehow, the conversation was built on smiles and laughter, and I found myself nodding over and over again, telling them everything there was to tell of myself, stripping layer by layer the Goodwill facade of my dress clothes (through which they no doubt already saw), and baring myself to their judgment, every quiver of insecurity rippling from my mouth like pebbles down a slope.
To my further surprise, it seemed they liked what they heard. They, too, nodded over and over again. “You must have a lot of patience,” they said. “Call it grit.”
I didn’t know how I’d given this impression. I said thank you. I said, “You don’t need me to explain the misdemeanors?”
“Lord no,” said the wise-looking one. “Those are of the least concern here.” She had long, straight black hair, parted down the center and streaked with gray. She bowed her head whenever I spoke. “But there is one thing we need to get straight before we proceed,” she said.
The other two revealed cords from under the table, Velcro straps, and threatening black doodads intended for the surface of my body. Between us, the polygraph clicked on and began to whir, an orange light surging and fading from its face like a deep, blinking eye.
“The questions we’re going to ask may seem strange,” she went on. “But it’s crucial you answer as well and as honestly as possible.” She nodded to the other women, and they huddled around me, affixing the cold little pieces to my chest and hands and around my head, the black band pushing the hair from my eyes. The machine chirped, its stylus swaying back and forth, and when the women sat down again, the wise one pressed her palms to the table. “Taken on the whole,” she said, “Do you think life’s good?”
“Life is good,” I said automatically, and when the women looked from me to the polygraph’s first, rhythmic etchings, I said, “Depending, of course, on who you are. For some, life can be very… uh, not good.”
“But taken on the whole,” said the wise one, smiling, closing her eyes behind her black hair. “All together. Good or bad. Yes or no.”
“Then,” I found myself saying, “then life is bad. I believe life is bad,” I said.
“You at least believe there’s some meaning in it, though?”
“Not really.”
“No meaning in suffering then?”
“No.”
“No meaning in joy?” she said.
“No.”
“So, in your view, is it even worth it?”
“Depends,” I said, flustered under their constraints, terrified at how this line of questioning could be relevant to the work ahead.
“No. All together. Is it worth it? Yes or no.”
“Well, yes,” I said. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?” she said, lowering her head. “There are children involved.”
“Yes,” I said.
There was a pause now while the machine chirped and the women conferred among themselves and the scattered lines emerging on the polygraph paper—the little motor purring and purring until all at once it came to a stop with the click of a button.
“Excellent,” said the wise-looking one, folding her hands.
The other women stood and began removing the pieces from my body.
The sound of a stapler clanked down. Papers were passed across the table.
“We’ve made copies of the interview materials, and these are yours to keep. We can’t say anything now, but…” and here they all exchanged smiles and more nods. “Expect to hear from us soon.”
“Thank you,” I said, and she bowed her head.
The next Monday I received a voicemail confirming the district’s offer of employment. A week after that I was in the classroom, and there were so many eyes.