Broken Code

Part 2

When I think back to my interview, I can't shake the feeling that I got through by sheer luck. To the guys interviewing me, I was a rookie, and no one seemed to expect much in the way of instant results. The promises of rapid promotion and a possible transfer to another department sounded enticing at the time, but I knew they were unlikely in practice.

I'd been running through the rain, leaping over puddles and overtaking startled pedestrians. The wind was biting, and my heart pounded—not just from exertion, but from the creeping fear that I was already late. "Great impression you'll make," I thought sarcastically as I dashed through the glass doors of the office building. The rain had long since stopped, but my carefully chosen "professional" trousers were splattered with mud halfway up my calves.

The lift, as if by a stroke of luck, was waiting on the ground floor. I slipped in at the last moment, just as the doors began to close. The small space was packed with young people, all clearly here for the same reason as me. Instinctively, I started sizing them up. Polished, confident, some even in expensive suits. They must all have experience, impressive portfolios, and glowing references. "What am I even doing here?" I thought for the hundredth time. "My chances are zero." Strangely, that thought brought a weird sense of relief.

When I reached the correct floor, I joined the flow of people exiting the lift. The wide corridor buzzed with activity: candidates clustered together, talking in technical jargon, competing to showcase their expertise. This was a different world—one I had only glimpsed from the outside. No one noticed me, which, I realised, was an unexpected advantage of being invisible.

After signing in with the receptionist—a young woman with a rehearsed smile—I was told the interviews hadn't started yet. I decided to find the coffee machine, hoping it would help me collect my thoughts.

The air buzzed with conversation, filled with words like "API," "algorithms," and "optimisation." The corridor seemed to be a sea of men: varied in age but equally focused. I felt like an outsider.

While I fumbled with the coffee machine, fishing for change, someone noticed me. A short guy in a ridiculous brown jumper with diamond patterns. He didn't fit in at all—too relaxed, with a mischievous sparkle in his eye. I couldn't help but smile—and then, inexplicably, I stuck my tongue out at him. Why? I had no idea. He raised his eyebrows in surprise but smiled back. He looked as though he'd wandered into this event by accident or was just there to accompany someone else.

A few minutes later, I heard my name. The receptionist called me for my interview. Taking a deep breath, I walked towards the door, trying to suppress the thought that this was probably going to be yet another morning wasted.

The interview was short and felt more like an exam. There were several desks with computers and a separate round table for the actual interview. They asked me to write code in several programming languages on an outdated program. I had the impression no one even bothered to check my work. After a couple of standard questions, one of the interviewers handed me a three-page questionnaire to fill out.

The questions were only loosely related to my field, but I managed to answer most of them. I sat at a separate table, spending about forty minutes carefully crafting each response. Meanwhile, it seemed they'd already finished interviewing the other candidates, and the room had emptied out. Looking around, I noticed the guy from the coffee machine at a nearby desk.

"I've finished the test. Do you know who I should give it to?" I asked. He held out his hand. "Don't worry, I'll make sure it gets to the right place. Don't go far; the results might be ready soon."

I left the room, joining a few others still waiting in the corridor. When I heard my name called again, I was stunned. I even asked if there had been a mistake.

The company was young and nothing like the rigid corporations or banks where everyone wore grey suits and ties. Here, no one adhered to a formal dress code. The office felt more like an informal club: hoodies, jeans, T-shirts—everyone with their own unique style. Sometimes it was impossible to tell who did what. It reflected the new wave in the tech industry, where creativity and freedom of expression were becoming more important than conformity.

Though we were on our way to success, the company was only a decade old and had just celebrated its first major milestone. It was still growing, with a staff count nearing 180, about half of whom were freelancers working on just a few projects. It wasn't a startup anymore but not yet a fully established corporation with entrenched traditions.

In this environment, there was room to experiment and grow quickly. Unlike many of my previous jobs, this place genuinely felt like it had potential. It wasn't always easy—there was competition and uncertainty—but the freedom and informality of this new-wave company gave me hope.

Looking back at my interview, I remember how nervous I was, and how desperately I wanted the job—even though the position didn't align with my dreams. At the time, I thought I'd impressed them with my knowledge and enthusiasm. "We'll likely consider you for promotion or a transfer to another department soon," the manager had said as he handed me the contract. For a moment, I believed it. "Why not? If I work hard, they'll see what I'm capable of, and I'll achieve something!" I told myself.

Months later, I'm not so sure. Looking at my mostly male team—each one with glasses, obsessed with code, processors, and the latest tech—I see their passion, almost mania. I understand it; I love programming too. But I can't shake the feeling that we're from different worlds.

During rare breaks, escaping the office for lunch, I meet up with Emilia, an old friend. Emilia is the polar opposite of my colleagues—and of me. She's a chatty, energetic hairdresser who loves lively discussions. Luckily, our workplaces are close by. We sit in our favourite Starbucks, debating work. I describe my office—the focused gazes, brief conversations, and intense concentration of my colleagues. Emilia laughs.

"You don't know how lucky you are, working with men! In my salon, it's all drama and gossip. I'd kill for the kind of peace you've got."

I tease her, describing the near-silent environment of my office—nothing but work, no hints of intrigue or gossip. It's as if the men live in another dimension. Emilia shakes her head.

"See? And you were complaining! I'd trade my salon for your office any day."

Maybe she's right.