That way,
concluded the Interviewer,
you can tell if a buyer is a buyer.

And, what if he’s not a buyer?

This question came from two rows behind me.
I had seen the guy changing his tie to one
he’d bought in the lobby.

The Interviewer’s part crinkled
while his face remained flat.

Without speaking, he walked past me to the guy who’d asked the question.

What do we say about our inner skeptic?

I turned partly around to see the Interviewer standing above the guy, crotch to face. It was an unsettling thing to see. The guy wanted to back away, but the table behind him was too close, and he was big. I guessed a former high school wrestler.

The moment lasted forever. The guy composed himself and remembered the script. This wouldn’t be a replay of the last call-out.

I had almost turned around when I noticed, at their feet, a tiny recorder sticking out of the bag on the floor between the guy and the next participant. I couldn’t tell if the machine was recording, but I hoped if he were, that he had enough tape to last the entire session. It would plague me for the next 20 minutes if the machine clicked while the class, or audition, or whatever this terrible situation I was held hostage to completion, did end.

Somewhere, a radio began to play. It was down the hall, but the Interviewer turned his tiny, slicked-back head to the music.

Wordlessly, he stepped into the hallway and clicks of his loafers were heard. Then the Platters song went silent, and the clicks returned down the hall.

————————————————————
My line was the end of Stephen King’s Hearts in Atlantis.
“They sat that way without speaking, and from the radio at their feet, The Platters began to play.”