It was raining in the park. Trees were tossing their leaves and the wind was blowing hard.
On Psy Blog that morning I learned that a twenty- to thirty-minute walk in nature could release a whole lot of stress, so I decided to venture into the woods. My wife and I had been cooped up for almost nine months. I was hoping that the woods would work their magic on me.
I walked to the park and stepped onto the trail that wound into the dense part of the scrub trees where I lost the trail in the wet yellow leaves.
In the summer, kids put up jumps for their mountain bikes and I thought I could follow their path. But no such luck. They had left their jump to rot and mold for the winter.
I turned around looking for another brace of trees that might be able to soothe my anxieties, and saw the rose garden that tops the hill hiding behind dark pines.
I sniffed a few wet roses and then stopped to see someone coming up the hill with an outrageously large backpack that forced him to bend forward awkwardly.
He looked like the Michelin tire man, padded and stuffed with layers of heavy cloth, armored with gloves, cap, hoodie, and heavy boots, walking laboriously in a park where most people wear only sneakers and flip flops.
As he got closer I could hear his breathing and see his breath steaming from his mouth. At first I thought he was an old homeless person, but no, he was a young guy.
Because I had been cooped up all day I felt like I needed to talk.
I stood on the path and asked, “How much weight are you carrying.”
He immediately shot back, “Sixty pounds. I’m going into the army.”
Obviously he was proud of his decision and proud of carrying such a heavy load,
“Congratulations,” I said, which meant absolutely nothing coming from me. I have no idea what it’s like to want to go into the Army.
I wasn’t a draft dodger, but I considered myself lucky in 1969 when I got a high number in the draft.
The Michelin tire man shuffled past me on the path. I turned back for a moment and saw again how proud he was, how dogged and obedient he looked, struggling with his burden.
Cannon fodder, I thought.
I was concerned. I was thinking that he was a loser, a flunky, a guy who could not even make it into a community college.
I imagined that he lived with his grandparents, that he was an only child, that his family was dirt poor, that his grandmother wore a black dress, like the mourning dresses of Spanish widows.
I was making up stories about him. Just by looking at him. I noticed he was tubby. I guessed that he had gone to the army recruiting station in the next town over where they told him to get that fat off you and then we’ll take a look at you.
And he went. He was desperate to get into the army because once in, he wouldn’t have to think, just do what he was told to do.
I had him perfectly pegged as a sad sack.
But then I thought, well maybe he is a gung ho guy just starting out, young, naive, trying to get in shape, carrying 60 pounds on his back to prove to himself and everyone else that he can be all that he can be in the Army.
Maybe he wants to enlist and be a hero. So many TV shows are about military operations. Guys like him love technology, computers. They eat that up. Twirling the knobs on the consoles. He might be really good in the military, like Radar O’Reilly.
Am I a snob? Do I look down on people who go into the military? Do I have a stick up the old wazoo? Maybe my Michelin Tire guy could be a General someday. A tank commander. Or a guy who saved his buddie’s life by smothering a live grenade.
Or it could be that he wanted to get into the Army for it’s benefits. He could have been the kind of guy who had a plan, that the Army would make him a man, that he would get an education, become a civilian, get married and work in tech.
And yet I only said a few words to the guy, “How much weight are you carrying,” and “Congratulations.” Seven words.
I make up stories in my head all the time. Stories about the people I run into, stories about the people I know. I suspect many of us do.
So let me warn you. Don’t be like me with the Michelin Tire guy. The stories you make up are almost always wrong, incorrect. In fact you often don’t realize that you are telling yourself stories as you wander through your days, mumbling and rumbling, deep in your cerebellum, which is Latin for “little brain.”
If you are a professional tasked with screening massive numbers of people it can be a slog. It’s exhausting work trying to squeeze all the juice out of strangers who are nervous under the lights of your judgment.
And don’t forget the introverts. Many of the best people are hard to open up.
I suggest spending as much time as you can with them. Be creative in your questioning, and go deeper, beyond the usual interview questions. Have your own method of finding good people. Trust your gut.
Don’t trust first impressions, they are always wrong. Everyone is different in different settings, different contexts, different times. Dig for gold.
Einstein said, “The measure of intelligence is the ability to change. It is not that I’m so smart. But I stay with the questions much longer.”
The questions you are asking can change many lives. Treat those questions with white gloves.
And revere this from Abraham Lincoln, who said of someone, “I don’t like that man. I must get to know him better.”