The Interview - 4. It's probably just someone selling something

Chapter 4: It's probably just someone selling something

It's probably just someone selling something, I tell myself as I cautiously approach the front door. There is no peep hole to peer through, but I can see the shadow of at least one set of legs through the small gap under the door.

            'Who is it?' I call out hesitantly.

            The melodic voice from the phone answers, only her voice is even more beautiful and compelling. 'It is your Eleven O’clock appointment. Open the door.'

            Before I realise what I am doing, I find my right hand reaching for the door knob. I try and pull it back but it won’t co-operate, and I have to use left hand to restrain it. I stare at my rebellious hand incredulously. 'Who are you really? Is this some joke?' My voice is a little shaky.

            'Let me break down the damn door,' I hear the gruff voice growl.

            'No, Michael.' It’s the main voice on the phone, the one who called himself God. His voice is deep, smooth and in control, and has a calming influence on me. 'I'm here for the interview Dan, and would appreciate if you let us in. We will not hurt you.'

            Once again I feel the need to open the door and let them in. Unlike the earlier voice which reminded me of an Old Jedi mind trick from Star Wars, this time I do not feel compelled against my will to do it, rather I suddenly want to let them in. It's as if I know that somehow the world will become a better place if I open the door for them.

            I reach up again and release the deadlock. When the door is immediately pushed open, I start to doubt the wisdom of my decision. A large, imposing man muscles his way past me into the apartment. He wears a pair of jeans and sneakers, and a grey hoodie, zipped up but hood down. A black print on the front of his hoodie displays a crest featuring a set of ornate scales with a pair of swords crossed diagonally behind it. His face is stern, but angelic, with sharply defined jawline and prominent cheekbones. His skin is unblemished, while golden, shoulder length locks frame it, spilling down from his head. Once in the apartment he moves from room to room, exploring the place as if he expects a team of ninjas to jump out and fall upon him.

            'Easy Michael,' the soothing voice says, drawing my attention back to the doorway. I can't help but do a double take as my eyes fall upon the voice's owner. There in the doorway is a virtual Zac Efron look alike. Similar to the man who entered before him, his face and skin are blemish free. His face is soft and youthful and he has long eye-lashes and brilliant blue eyes. He is short, standing just over 170 centimetres tall. In contrast to his size, his hair is large; dark blond in colour, with a long and thick sweeping fringe running from right to left, covering his entire forehead. He is wearing charcoal coloured skinny jeans, white high-top sneakers and a loose fitting white t-shirt. He holds out his hand to me and speaks again in the deep soothing voice which seems far too mature to be coming from the body it is. 'Nice to meet you Dan, thank you for inviting us into your home.'

            I nod mutely as another man follows him into the apartment. He looks similar to the first man who entered, though is shorter, standing as tall as I am, around 180 centimetres. He has a kind, rounded face and gives me a fleeting smile as he walks into the room. His brown eyes are gentle and forgiving, his hair a slightly lighter shade of blonde than the first man. He carries a glass bottle of what appears to be refrigerated water, beads of condensation dripping down the exterior of the glass. In his other hand he holds a plain wicker basket, with a red and white tartan tea-towel covering the top. He is dressed all in white, much in the image of a caterer, though a red scarf tied around his neck contrasts against the spotless white.

            The last to enter the room is a woman, and I am immediately intimidated by her height and beauty. She stands taller than me, though this is amplified by a pair of white high-heeled shoes. She wears a mid-length white skirt and a tight-fitting white blouse, with the top three buttons undone showing off a near-perfect cleavage. Over the shirt she wears a sky-blue jacket, with an emblem in the image of a scroll and a lily printed over her heart. Her body is perfectly proportioned, but athletic and healthy.

            In one hand she carries a large lamp, like something from the set of a TV studio; essentially a large spotlight mounted on a tall pole. In her other hand she holds a clipboard with a thin pad of paper and a pen clipped in place. Her features are not as severe as the others, and her skin seems to almost glow, as if she is wearing flawlessly applied makeup. Her eyes are a piercing emerald green. As she looks around the room she fails to hide the look of disgust from her face.

            I close the door and the one referred to as Michael returns from his short scout of the apartment. 'It's clear of immediate threats, though not sure about the long-term effects of being in this space.' I realise his deep, gruff voice matches that of the one talking about holy wars on the phone message.

            'I agree, you should not have to sit and endure an interview in these conditions, Lord,' the lady holding the lighting equipment says as she sets down the lamp. Her voice is a match for the one who first asked me to open the door, and I feel myself falling under the sway of her melodic tones once again, ready to agree with her every statement. Then I focus on what she actually said and my indignation gives me the strength to resist.

            'Now, now, Gabriel,' the Efron look-alike chides before I can say anything. 'That is an exaggeration. I've washed the feet of beggars, thieves and prostitutes alike, and this place is not so bad. Besides, you are being rude to our host. Now, let me make proper introductions; this is Michael, Gabriel and Raphael and they will be sitting in on our interview today. I of course, am known to you as God.'

            He holds out his hand to me, and I look at him bewildered for a moment. The one called Raphael, who has not spoken yet, nods in greeting and then moves off into the kitchen, where I see him set down his bottle and basket and begin busying himself cleaning up. The others stare at me, Michael with a slightly wary but otherwise neutral expression on his face, Gabriel continuing to glare at me with ill-contained disdain and the Efron look-alike, or God, awaits with a gentle and expectant smile on his face.

            Eventually I break into a grin and shake his hand. 'OK, you guys are pretty good. I have no idea how you got my letter, but these “angels” you have are pretty convincing. Although I’m pretty sure Gabriel was meant to be a male angel. Still, they'd fit right into the Jesus Christ Superstar stage production. What I don't get is you, God. What's the go with the Efron get-up? It doesn’t seem very God-like.’

            'I'll have you know that I have never taken on a male avatar!' Gabriel thundered indignantly. 'It was the patriarchal bastards in the church back in the...'

            'Easy Gabe,' the Efron look-alike interjects, raising his hand to stymie further comment. 'I can assure you, Dan, that Gabriel is and has always been a female angel, though there have been incorrect depictions of her within the church for a few centuries now. But I'm concerned that you don't like my avatar. I did the research and found a look suitable to the youth of today, those I am most eager to get my message out to.'

            'It's hardly god-like,' I reply. 'It certainly doesn't add to your credibility. Anyway, sorry to be rude but I have a splitting headache and need to get some rest. It's a good prank, but I'm going to have to call it.'

            My announcement causes a small ray of metaphorical sunshine to pierce through the thundercloud sitting over Gabriel's head,  but before I can start to usher the group out, Raphael returns from the kitchen and hands me a glass of water, smiling a gentle, encouraging smile. I raise my eyebrow sceptically at him, but could use some more hydration so take a sip. Immediately a feeling of coolness spreads from my centre, radiating out until it reaches my fingertips and toes leaving behind a pleasant tingling sensation. I take another mouthful, feel a brief fizzing sensation in my head and then find my hangover has disappeared completely, the next-day alcohol taste immediately gone from my mouth and throat. While it originally tasted like water, the aftertaste left in my mouth is subtly delicious, like a combination of citrus, berries and cinnamon. I hold the glass up to my eye, looking at the remaining fluid. 'Wow, I don't know what's in it, but this stuff is amazing. You should bottle it and sell if for hangover cures.'

            When I look up from the glass, I take a step back in shock as I find the Efron look-alike gone and a man the spitting image of George Clooney standing in his place. He is dressed in a tailored grey pin-stripe suit, with polished pointed black shoes and a white collared shirt with no tie. The angels continue to stand where they were, looking on impassively.

            'Is this image more pleasing?' Clooney asks, speaking in his smooth, gravely voice. 'It was my second choice.'

            'What happened to Efron?' I ask, looking around the room trying to see where he has hidden himself.

            'You said my appearance did not look godly enough so I changed it to ensure the interview goes well.'

            'OK, nice. Very impressive,’ I say with a mystified smile, my eyes still roving the room to see where Zac had gotten to and work out how they slipped someone else into the apartment. ‘You threw me with the Efron look, but now you are starting to impress me. Still, Clooney? I mean, I see what you were going for, but I get the feeling he is the type of guy that uses his looks to seduce the ladies and then moves on when he gets what he wants. Is that the image God would be looking for?'

            The look on Clooney's face was definitely one of disappointment now. 'No, that's definitely not the look I was going for. What do you think God is meant to look like? Truth be told, I was going to come as a woman, but I didn’t want to risk it distracting you. And given most of the literature over the centuries have shown me as a man, I thought it might be confusing. But I’m neither man nor woman really, so could appear as either. Just please don't tell me you were going to say, long hair, long beard, white robes?'

            'Well…' I start, exactly the description that came to mind.

            'What would your friends say if you wore the same clothes every day for a year?'

            I glance down at my faded T-shirt that I've had for many years and pretend like that's not the case. 'They'd bag me out, I guess.'

            'Exactly! Think what my friends would say if I turned up in clothes and a haircut two thousand years old. They'd crucify me, excuse the pun.'

            'Fair enough.' I think for a second. 'Well, I was thinking the Jesus look – long hair, white robes, beard – but I guess you could modernize it a little? Haircut and beard trim. Replace the robes and sandals with some slacks, a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of casual slip on shoes, no socks. Beards are back in fashion at the moment, kind of.'

             I take another drink from the cup in my hand, tipping back my head to drain the glass. When I bring my gaze back down I nearly drop the glass and begin to choke on the last remaining drops at the sight of yet another man in front of me, in the spot Clooney was standing a second beforehand. The man looks like a hipster; almost the spitting image of the man I had just described with short cropped, styled brown hair, a neatly trimmed beard that is only a little more than stubble. He wears a light blue collared shirt, top button undone and his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His pants are perfectly fitting grey suit pants, with a black belt and silver buckle. On his feet are a pair of white canvas shoes with no socks.

            His smile turns to a look of concern as I choke, and he quickly steps forward and pats me on the back. 'Are you alright? Is the look still not right?'

            'No, it's good,' I gasp before coughing twice to clear my throat. 'How do you keep doing that?'

            'Well, I am God.'

            'Right.'

            'Sorry to break up this little fashion show,' Gabriel interrupts icily, 'but we've got a tight schedule to keep. We need to get this farce of an interview moving.'