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The Job Offer

“So, are you going to accept the job offer?”

It was a simple question, innocent in conception, deceptive in depth. Mark had asked it simply, but the edges of his lips curved upwards in the hint of a smile, as if he was aware that I wouldn’t have a simple answer.

We were sitting in a coffee shop in downtown Toronto, Christmas music playing in the background, soft snow swirling in the wind beyond the windows. The conversation had been flowing smoothly in the shallow pool of pleasantries before his question suddenly placed us into deeper waters.

A young barista stepped towards us and put two full mugs of caramel macchiatos in the stained wooden table in between us.

“Enjoy your drinks. Would you like me to turn on the fireplace?”

I nodded, and flames crackled to life beside my seat, warmth seeping into my feet, thawing some of the ice cold dread I felt from the answer to Mark’s question. I hadn’t seen Mark in a year, but it felt longer — he seemed much older, and much wearier, than the energetic mentor I remembered. His wrinkled hands shook as he reached towards the mug. He brought it up to his lips and sipped in silence, waiting for my reply to his simple question.

“I don’t know,” I said finally.

Mark’s grey eyes met mine. He leaned in and asked a rapid series of questions, each one more targeted than the last.

“Do you need the money?”

“No”

“Do you need the experience?”

“No”

“Do you like the work?”

“Not particularly.”

“Do you like the people?”

“I don’t dislike them.”

“What do you want to do over the long term?”

I hesitated, tried stuttering out a response, before opening my mouth closing it again. Mark smiled with satisfaction. He had extracted the source of my fear as a surgeon extracts a tumour.

“I see. Now I understand why we’re here.”

A shiver shot through my spine.

“Can you help me?” I asked softly.

Mark began to drum his fingers against the table.

“I can’t help you. But I can tell you three stories. That’s it. Three stories, we finish our coffees, and go home.”

“They’re actually caramel macchiatos, but that seems like a fair deal to me.”

He ignored me and began speaking, leaning back in his chair, looking down into the hardwood floor.

“The first story is about choice. When I was your age, my decision making process was simple — do what everybody else is doing. There’s safety in numbers, and it worked for a long, long, time.”

He paused.

“It stopped working when I found myself alone in a hotel room on a snowy day like today, isolated from my friends and family, disconnected from the work I was doing, disconnected from my values.”

His eyes shimmered and became moist, before hardening.

“I quit the job that day and chose the three values that I would build my life around — things that are important to me, regardless of external circumstances. I developed and protected them, and they have in turn developed and protected me. So the question to ask when faced with a fork in the road, is if the decision you make is in line with your values that you have chosen for yourself, instead of the values that others have chosen for you.”

As Mark spoke, broken images and distant voices from the past began to flash and echo through my mind.

I was a teenager deciding which university to attend.

“Take the safe choice, you won’t go wrong.”

I was a university student deciding my major.

“Have a backup option, always.”

I was an entry level employee, hating the job I had but afraid to quit.

“Pay your dues, the rewards come after.”

The voices stopped. Mark continued.

“The second story is about goals. Would you show up at an airport, without knowing where you want to go? I did. Just after quitting that job, I went to the airport and traveled to the first sunny beach that came up on the departures screen, expecting that a few days of rubbing cocoa butter over my body would help me heal. It didn’t. I had written down my values, I hadn’t connect them to action. The actions that we take today only make sense in terms of a long term goal, which are like mountains towards which we make progress every day. So ask yourself: will this choice get you closer to the mountain?”

He spoke quietly, but every word pulsed with purpose. He continued to keep his eyes fixed on the floor, and I sensed that he saw in me, a younger him, and was therefore speaking to himself through the ether of time, trying to explain the mistakes of his past and my future.

I liked his analogy of a mountain. It provided substance and permanence to an ephemeral concept, but also solidified a ghostly fear that had been lurking underneath the surface — I didn’t have a long term goal.

“What if I don’t know where my mountain is?” I asked.

“Then any choice you make can be right. And any choice you make can also be wrong. That brings me to the third story,”

Our drinks had now cooled and sat half finished on the table between us. Mark shifted in his seat and ran his fingers through his grey hair, his hands shaking once again.

He looked drained. The lines on his face reminded me of a washing cloth that had been wrung of its water too many times.
A dark thought began to form in the back of my mind about why he grown so old in the year since we had last met.

“The only real resource we all have is time. Time can be converted to any other asset that you want — skills, money, relationships. Life gets away from you when you think that you can reach your goals tomorrow, but not today.”

“Why are your hands shaking?”

He blinked rapidly, and continued without answering.

“Tomorrow is not guaranteed. You need to get as much done today as you can. But only if it’s in line with your values and gets you closer to your mountain.”

For some reason, an image of when I had first met Mark floated to the surface of my memory. Four years ago, he had been standing in the centre of a crowded university hall, surrounded by eager college students seeking entry level jobs. He wore a crisp blue suit and exuded the confidence of a man completely sure of his path. He answered questions and dispensed advise with authority. Did he anticipate, back then, that one day he would be shoved off his path and stripped of his energy? Probably not.

“So, have I helped you or only confused you more?”

He wore a wry smile on his lips, and his eyes were filled with empathy, and perhaps, a plea for understanding.

His stories had made it blindingly obvious that I should reject the job offer. At some level, I had known it was the right answer for a while, but a solid black hammer of fear slammed into me every time I considered actually making that choice.

“I’m going to accept the offer.”

My voice didn’t shake.

He nodded. We both finished our cups of caramel macchiatos in silence, paid the bill, and headed out into the snowy streets of Toronto.

“When will I see you again?” I asked him, peering from below the hood of my winter jacket.

Mark faced away from me into the winter wind, his eyes closed as if in prayer.

“I’ll see you on the other side.”

****

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