The driver informed me that my hotel was "very nice" and located across the street from the "Fabulous Fox Theater." This had to be a strip joint. When we pulled up to the hotel, it was clear that the cab driver knew from very nice. It was fittingly elegant. I checked in, proceeded upstairs and entered a suite that was larger than any apartment I'd ever occupied. And it was all mine! Why? Because I'm a superstar, that's why. I forgot that for a minute, lost focus, what with my mother's endless pre-departure requests to take out the trash and get a job blending with my embarrassment about the chicken show miscommunication to create bizarre reverberations in my head.

But this suite was a four-room affirmation. It was a manifestation of my glowing promise, complete with windows that opened and a balcony overlooking Peachtree Street. I let loose an evil cackle, took a shower, dressed and headed down to meet those I would soon effortlessly vanquish in the competition for precious employment.

Three gin and tonics and several handshakes later I was seated in the middle of one of two tables for 10 that made up our party. The other candidates were large guys in their mid-to-late-20s, all wearing some variation on a well-starched Banana Republic theme. I was the only one of the would-be young Turks wearing a blazer, which was just fine by me. Actually, I had no choice. I forgot to iron the back of my shirt before I left home. I was also the only one with hair that touched my ears, brown shoes, and sweating.

To my left was Cliff Rogers, a product engineer with the company. In speech, appearance and demeanor he closely resembled the children's television host with whom he shared a family name. After talking to him for five minutes I was sure of a postprandial invitation to join him in a visit to the land of make-believe. Across from me sat Mike, another candidate, who was my age and handsome in a bland, blond, Florida State date rapist sort of way. It turned out he actually lived in Florida, where he had spent the last three years selling "IT Knowledge Capital" to "C-Level Guys" in the "F1K." I don't know what was more powerful, my embarrassment for him for using such phrases, or for myself because I actually knew what he meant.

To my right was an unoccupied seat, which remained empty throughout dinner. This empty space was like an imaginary Maginot Line separating Cliff, Mike and myself from the other guys at the table. On their side of the line was Germany, a sober and efficient land filled with clipped talk of "creating a pure segmented distribution channel." (This was decidedly not a euphemism for the female sexual anatomy, regardless of what one might like to believe.) On our side was France: several bottles of wine and the occasional curse word, most of which came to or went from me. Mike, the consummate salesman, knew a little bit about a lot. He was a musician (trumpet), a golfer (18 handicap), fisherman (small-mouthed bass, which I consider the white trash of fish), and all-around nice guy. If we were France, he was the Vichy recruiter.

Just around the time I was finishing my guinea fowl and wondering if such boutique poultry were represented at the chicken show, the conversation turned to the Fox Theater, whose great flashing marquee was clearly visible through the wall-to-ceiling French doors and windows that lined the street side of the dining room. It was then that Salesman Mike revealed a subject of which his knowledge knew no end: theatre organs. Salesman Mike was passionate about theater organs. Did I have any idea of the range of sounds that these things could make? A human voice; silver, snarling trumpets; the noble bellow of the bassoon -- it seemed that a true old-school theater organ could do everything short of cluck. Apparently, the organs were built above great catacombs to allow them to rise up from the floor before a movie and then back into the recession afterwards. When in playing position, the great hollow beneath allowed sound space to swell and rise before its thunderous release into the theater.

According to Mike, many a gentle organ player had met his untimely end by falling off his seat during a particularly rapturous performance and tumbling into the empty catacomb beneath. Most of the organs built in the 1920s were no longer around, but the Fox was one of the five or six original organ installations still in existence. Unable to resist, I suggested we all go across the street after dinner to negotiate a peek at the Fox's organ. Dirty bastard that he was, Mr. Rogers chuckled. Mike, however, looked desperately across the table. He had already gone in and pleaded with the manager for a tour. He said he "just wanted to caress that organ, man." Mr. Rogers executed a well-timed spit take.

Just before dessert, a vole-like man with no eyebrows seated himself in the empty seat beside me, ordered a double martini with five olives and three onions and a salad with extra balsamic vinegar, and began talking at a rate and volume that would have made an auctioneer blush. He did not stop until dinner was over. It turned out he was the founder and CEO of the company I was interviewing with. He was a former director of one of the world's biggest consulting firms and talked at length about the art of consulting. He considered himself a "Jedi Master Consultant." When he said this he had a large piece of lettuce hanging from his lower lip. Near the end of dinner he rose on the tips of his toes and leaned in over the table to make a particularly powerful point about a group of people who worked for him and whom he called "package-slammers." Apparently the package-slammers were spending too much time thinking about the big picture and not enough time slamming packages. One can imagine the problems this creates for the business. I can only imagine because I had fallen victim to the hypnotic rise and fall of the lettuce leaf, thereby missing several key points. Eventually the lettuce fell into his triple cappuccino, breaking the spell.

Dinner ended with the general agreement that everyone staying in the hotel that night would meet at 8 a.m. in the lobby and walk to the office together. As I was leaving I stopped to say goodnight to Mr. Rogers.

"It's going to be a beautiful day tomorrow. Oh, boy," said Mr. Rogers. Fueled by all the cabernet at dinner, Mr. Rogers had obviously made an early departure for the land of make-believe. "You better watch out, Andrew. I've got a few doozies up my sleeve for tomorrow. Oh, boy."

"Really, Mr. Rog -- er, Cliff? Well you tee 'em up and I'll hit 'em, isn't that right Mike?" I nudged Mike with my elbow. Now with a boozy handle on the salesman vibe, I was starring in a play of my own creation: Glen Gary-Glen Stupid.

Mike was sincere in his agreement. "Got that right, buddy."

"OK. I'll give you an idea of the kind of hardball questions I've got planned." said Mr. Rogers with a purple-toothed grin. "How about this one: Why are manhole covers round?"

Mike revealed his own version of the blank stare. It was more handsome than the one I'd directed at Vole Man, CEO and founder during his caffeine-addled monologue. Mr. Rogers may have stumped Salesman Mike, but not me. I was soon-to-be ace Salesdude, ready to slam whatever package Vole Man said to slam in the battle for earnings in the cutthroat, no-nonsense New New New Economy. I knew the answer to this question.

"Because manholes are round, Cliff."

Score one for the AG.

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