Here is a story about a dream that turns into a night­mare. Deci­sions have con­se­quences and some­times we think a bad deci­sion will kill our dreams but often they are bless­ings in dis­guise and lead us to better dreams. Learn­ing what is impor­tant in life comes in all shapes, sizes, and disappointments.

The Suit

The inter­view was at 10:00 A.M. I had spent the last six months prepar­ing for this moment. I’d passed their pre­lim­i­nary exam and was phys­i­cal­ly and men­tal­ly ready. Today was the next step to becom­ing a Special Agent with the FBI. Quan­ti­co, here I come. 

When I entered their Boston head­quar­ters, I noticed only tall men wearing blue suits. Would that be a stum­bling block to my appli­ca­tion? I was a 5’2” female. It was too late to think about that. 

The first thing they asked me to do was to take the trigger-squeez­ing test. They put me in a small room with only a table. A proctor entered the room with an unloaded Smith & Wesson 459 semi-auto­mat­ic pistol. He asked me to squeeze the trigger in rapid suc­ces­sion. He counted how many times I was able to squeeze the trigger in a minute. I passed. All that hard work at the gym paid off. My rig­or­ous routine includ­ed weight train­ing, aer­o­bics, and running. The hand-strength­en­ing exer­cis­es were the most painful. I squeezed a gripper till my hand was numb and worked with rubber bands and weights to improve my grip. Chin-ups helped, too. 

Next came the face-to-face inter­view. I was escort­ed into a large meeting room by a sec­re­tary. The room had a grand oval-shaped con­fer­ence table with a glass top. The chairs had green leather seats, wooden arms, and swiveled. Two people were already seated at the table. The lead inter­view­er, Miss Randall, had mousy brown hair and wore a rumpled suit. The second inter­view­er, Mr. Perkins, was about thirty years old wearing a nicely pressed blue suit and was very pale. There were no smiles or warm and fuzzy banter to get the con­ver­sa­tion going.

Miss Randall first ver­i­fied my name, tele­phone number, and address. I passed. Next, she explained the format of the interview. 

“I will ask you three ques­tions. If you answer them sat­is­fac­to­ri­ly, then we will move forward to the second phase of the inter­view,” Miss Randall said. 

The first ques­tion was lobbed my way. 

“Have you ever taken any illegal drugs?” asked Miss Randall.

 Huh? What kind of opening ques­tion was that? What about “tell me about your job, your edu­ca­tion, your cat?” A few soft­ball ques­tions, please. I thought. 

Time moved slowly. The second hand of the wall clock screamed in my head. How could some­thing that was going well sour fast? Do I tell the truth or lie? What did they want to hear? I knew what they wanted to hear. Did I have the acting ability to deliver a lie? How badly did I want this job? Would my lip quiver? It usually did when I lied. Would they see it move? I could taste the second phase of the inter­view. Darn con­scious. I could only think of the Sir Walter Scott line, “Oh! What a tangled web we weave, when first we prac­tice to deceive!” If I lie, my ref­er­ences will have to lie, or at least one of them. If I tell the truth, am I dead in the water? No ques­tion two? 

“I smoked mar­i­jua­na in college,” I said. 

“How many times?” Mr. Perkins asked. 

“A few times,” I said. 

“Where?” Miss Randall asked. She looked angry and ready to slap me upside the head.

“Gee, I can’t recall, but I know it was only at parties,” I confessed.

“When?” Miss Randall asked. She wrote some­thing down.

“I don’t remem­ber, exactly. It was over five years ago,” I said. Kick me out. I know you don’t want me. Why prolong my suf­fer­ing? I thought. 

“Who were you with?” Mr. Perkins asked. He didn’t look up when he asked the ques­tion but tapped his pen on the table. 

“I don’t know. I was stand­ing with a group, and someone offered it to me,” I said. 

“Have you ever pur­chased any illegal drugs?” Mr. Perkins asked. The pen tapping continued.

“No,” I said. 

I never got asked ques­tion two.

 “I am stop­ping this inter­view. I will consult my supe­ri­ors to see if they want to con­tin­ue pur­su­ing your appli­ca­tion. Please remain in this room,” Miss Randall said. 

Was it all over? How could that be? What would I say when someone asked me how my inter­view went? Every­one knew it was today. I felt sad about telling my mother. She was excited and proud that I got the inter­view. Do I lie to her about why they dis­card­ed my application?

In prepa­ra­tion for the inter­view, my mother had taken me shop­ping for a new outfit—her treat. She took me to Filene’s, where she worked, and got a 15% dis­count. She encour­aged me to get some­thing special and make a good first impression. 

“You need to wear the right thing,” my mother said. 

I saw the blue wool suit on the rack labeled New Arrivals. It was full price, but it was beau­ti­ful. After we looked at every other suit, we decided the blue suit would do the trick. We got a new blouse and trotted to the shoe depart­ment for blue pumps. I felt like some­body. She spent over $300. That was a lot in 1983. 

A tidal wave swept over me as I sat alone in the inter­view room. There wasn’t a thing I could do but sit and think. I had been a private inves­ti­ga­tor for a licensed agent in Boston for the past three years. I was good at my job. My research skills were the best of any inves­ti­ga­tor in the office. I was the first female inves­ti­ga­tor hired by the boss. My col­leagues were skep­ti­cal, but I proved myself after working there for six months. Even though I loved my job, I wanted a more def­i­nite career path. I applied to both the U.S. Mar­shall Service and the FBI. Was my dream of being a Special Agent going up in smoke? I wondered.

I figured they were spying on me; I didn’t squirm but tried to remain calm. I knew I did the right thing by telling the truth—I have no regrets. But that didn’t make me feel better. College was a time to exper­i­ment, right? It was the 1970s. Well, there was no jus­ti­fy­ing it. Pot was illegal. I did wrong. The FBI cared about those things. Would they arrest me?

I stared out the window. It was a cloudy day. While I waited for the verdict, some­thing started to shift inside me. I real­ized I didn’t want the job anymore. Who wants to work with people who enjoy cru­ci­fy­ing other people? It dawned on me that if I became an FBI agent, I would do the cru­ci­fy­ing. Was I trying to reject them before they could reject me?

After an hour, Miss Randall returned to the con­fer­ence room with a dif­fer­ent man. 

“We will con­tin­ue this inter­view, but there is no guar­an­tee we will pursue your appli­ca­tion,” Miss Randall said.

It was time to lighten up this con­ver­sa­tion. Take control. I knew they wouldn’t be pur­su­ing me. They might as well see the real me, not the obe­di­ent mouse I needed to be to get the job. 

When the inter­view resumed, they asked some tra­di­tion­al inter­view ques­tions. Nothing about my cat, though. 

  “What was the most dif­fi­cult deci­sion you had to make in your life­time?” Miss Randall asked.

  I thought long and hard. I wanted them to know I wasn’t offer­ing a friv­o­lous response but seri­ous­ly con­sid­ered the question.

“What to wear for this inter­view,” I said. 

The room went silent. The inter­view­ers didn’t look pleased, but it was true. The day I spent shop­ping with my mother was impor­tant. She believed in me, and that full-priced suit gave me con­fi­dence. That was more valu­able than this job.

  I trotted out of that room, feeling pleased and lib­er­at­ed. That feeling didn’t last for long. Instead of crying an ocean of tears, I walked along my favorite beach in my blue suit and new shoes. Stunned as I was, I started to con­tem­plate my next career move. I drew a blank. 

I went back to being a private inves­ti­ga­tor with average-height people wearing jeans and t‑shirts. In a few months, I had a case that ended that career. A couple sued a doctor for mal­prac­tice because their baby was born deformed. My job was to get into the home under false pre­tens­es, look at the baby, and see how it func­tioned. I intend­ed to fulfill the require­ments of this case, but once I started to talk to the mother, I was heart­bro­ken for her. I left without making any effort to see the baby. I told my boss I couldn’t lie for a living anymore. It was then and there that I decided no more lying. It was a deci­sion I have never regret­ted. Not getting that job was a bless­ing in dis­guise. Forty years later, I still owned the suit, but I only wore it that one day.