Firing someone is the worst. Hiring them is a close second.

You meet with them, glance at their resume, try to engage them in some informal chit chat. Maybe, if you’re in an impish, dickish mood, you ask them, “If you could invite any 12 people in history to a dinner party, in what order would you seat them at the table and why?” Of course you have no interest in an answer to the question, you just want to see whether they get the joke and laugh at you, freeze up, or begin to fire off kiss-ass staples like Lincoln, Jesus and Gandhi in an attempt to say what they think you want to hear. (for the record: if you’re ever put on the spot like this, ask your interviewer who they would choose, or just be honest: if it’s Kyle from South Park, or Jenna from 30 Rock, or the Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons, then that’s who it is. Doesn’t have to be Immanuel Kant passing the peas to Rosa Parks.

So you sit with the prospective candidate and try to figure them out in five minutes. It’s actually not that hard, so I used to think. Like our sage 43rd president said upon his first meeting with Vladimir “Pootie Poot” Putin: I looked into his eyes and could tell he had a good soul. Words to that effect.

Well, I’ve tried Dubya’s approach, and more often than not, I’ve been burned by it. I thought my gut could never err. I thought first impressions were everything. Then a month or two later I find out that while my new bartender or doorman’s soul might be perfectly fine, their fingers have a serious problem getting twenty dollar bills accidentally stuck on them.

Current case: my new day shift bartender Andy. Great guy. About my height. Has a beard like me. Went to Catholic high school like me. Polite. Heck, a good soul. I hired him on the spot.

Day before yesterday five hundred bucks went missing from the change drawer. Odd. My manager did some calling around, some reviewing of our security camera tape, and boom, there, in grainy color: my good ole Catholic school compatriot Andy, entering the bar after hours, disappearing into the basement where the cash is kept, then re-emerging five minutes later and leaving the bar.

My manager had the phone in hand, ready to fire him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute,” I protested. “Andy always laughs at my jokes. There’s no way he’d steal from us.” My manager stared back blankly at me, thinking whatever flattering thoughts about my leadership skills he was thinking, then took a breath and offered to chat with Andy at the beginning of his shift about what he possibly could’ve been doing in the basement during off hours for five minutes. I reminded him that Andy had a certain sparkle in his eye that suggested to me he was probably in the basement to catch up on some voluntary deep cleaning of the mop sink.

Andy came in for his shift, my manager talked to him, and he immediately copped to having “borrowed” the five hundred bucks. But it was just for the day! He fully intended to replenish it before his shift began, ie, in five minutes, ie, right now.

So that would mean he had five hundred bucks cash in his pocket right then and there, right?

Here’s where it gets a touch complicated. Andy is also our janitor, and had texted me the day before, asking if he could get an advance on his janitorial pay to help with move-in costs on a new apartment, probably one closer to his church. Knowing his good soul through his eyes and beard, I said yes. So he tells my manager his plan was to take that advance, which was waiting for him at the bar, put it back into the change drawer, and augment it with an extra hundred dollars that he would get – right now – from the bank.

When my manager called me to tell me he had just taken Andy’s keys back while Andy went to the bank to get that extra hundred, I fretted. “Wait a minute, now, let’s not rush to judgment,” I said. “He went to Catholic school. They stress honesty. Andy might be in a tight spot with bills at the moment, but I just know he’s trustworthy.” My manager asked me if I enjoyed being fleeced by people. He asked if I had wired money to any deposed Nigerian princes recently. He suggested I paint a big bullseye on my back with the word “sucker” splashed on it. He offered to paint it on my back himself. I considered.

An hour later he forwarded me a text Andy sent him, presumably while waiting in a long line at the bank to get that extra hundred:

“I may have to drop the money off tomorrow morning. Please let Alfredo know that i am not trustworthy enough to work n that he can keep my last paycheck or anything i havnt been paid for yet. Let me know what I need to do to comply with any action u guys are going to take.”

That was two days ago. Haven’t seen that hundred yet. Poor Andy: guess the bank’s really, really busy.