An old man wants a job, but the foreman won’t hire him until he passes a little maths test.

 “Here’s your first question,” the foreman said, leaning back with a look that suggested he enjoyed making things difficult.

“Without using numbers… represent the number nine.”

The old man blinked once, then smiled faintly.

“Without numbers?” he repeated, as if confirming the rules.

Then, without hesitation, he picked up a pencil and drew three simple trees.

The foreman frowned. “And this is supposed to be…?”

The old man shrugged. “Three trees. Tree plus tree plus tree. That’s nine.”

The foreman paused—then gave a slow nod. It was absurd… but technically, it worked.

“Alright,” he said. “Fair enough.”

He leaned forward, a bit more interested now.

“Second question. Same rules. This time—represent ninety-nine.”

The old man didn’t answer right away. He stared at the drawing, thinking. The room grew quiet. Then, casually, he picked up the paper again and added small smudges to each of the three trees—darkening them slightly—before handing it back.

The foreman studied it, turning the page slightly as if that might reveal the answer.

“I don’t get it,” he admitted. “How does this represent ninety-nine?”

The old man pointed calmly. “They’re dirty now. Dirty tree plus dirty tree plus dirty tree.”

The foreman blinked… then laughed despite himself.

“Alright,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re… creative.”

He sat up straighter, now fully engaged.

“Last one. Same rules again. Represent one hundred.”

The old man leaned back, eyes drifting for a moment as if searching somewhere far beyond the room. Then he leaned forward again, picked up the drawing, and added a small mark at the base of each tree.

He slid the paper across the table.

The foreman looked at it… then looked back at him.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said. “That’s supposed to be one hundred?”

The old man leaned in slightly, lowered his voice, and tapped the marks with his finger.

“A little dog came along,” he said, “and left something by each tree.”

The foreman squinted, then suddenly froze as the meaning clicked into place.

“Dirty tree and a…,” he stopped, then burst out laughing. “Plus dirty tree and a… plus dirty tree and a… That’s one hundred!”

The room filled with laughter.

What started as a trick question turned into something else entirely—not about math, but about perspective. The old man hadn’t just answered the questions… he had played the game better than anyone expected.

---

Later that same day, in a different room, another kind of question was asked.

At a job interview, a man sat across from a recruiter, trying to appear calm and confident.

The interviewer glanced at his notes, then looked up.

“So,” he said, “what would your friends say are your weaknesses?”

The man didn’t hesitate.

“I don’t have any.”

The interviewer raised an eyebrow, slightly amused.

“That’s unlikely,” he said. “Everyone has weaknesses.”

The man nodded, completely serious.

“Oh, I think you misunderstood,” he replied. “I don’t have any… friends.”

For a second, the room went silent.

Then the answer landed.

And just like before, what sounded confident at first… turned into something entirely different.

Two moments. Two questions.

Both simple on the surface.

Both revealing something deeper underneath.

Because sometimes, it’s not the question that matters—

…it’s how you choose to answer it.