Are these people going to rip off their faces to reveal lizard-likeness and slurp out our guts – one twat at a time? I hope so because I would rather be sliced opened than stand another moment in this office.
I arrive to my destination unfortunately unscathed, early, and appear eager – which couldn’t be any further from the truth. I timidly hop out of the bus and per the lovely bus driver’s directions begin my sojourn down the lonely paved path. I have traveled so north of the city that the torrential downpour has turned to sleet or is that real snow? Either way, the stockings and black patent leather flats are about the stupidest choice I’ve made today and the faux loose curls, which are now, matted against my head, are obviously not ready for this.
The corporate farm rests unapologetically on the sprawling soon-to-be-icy black asphalt. White parking lines disappear underneath the rain’s wet blanket. Beyond the chain link gate, blurring the clear cuts and sad secondary forest, the 5 races itself eternally. The languid saplings start to weigh heavy as the freezing water accumulates stressing their branches.
I am surprised with the amount of parking vacancies at 10am. Hidden behind a large Douglas fir, shadows and lending dreams haunt an empty US Bank. The streets seemed to be named and restricted to this office farm only. It’s as if they don’t want to be found nor did they want you to leave. The hiss of air brakes and the crunching of chained tires ring with life and hope at the park and ride where I had just left.
Kayleigh, felt as if it was temporarily erected in Bellevue as a front for something. Kayleigh, sounds like the name of that annoying girl in high school. I could hear Sister Mary-Margaret sucking up to her right now.
“Oh Kayleigh you are the brightest and prettiest in the class. God loves you better than the rest of these heathen faithless brats.”
“Yes, sister,” Kayleigh replies with a plastered on smile trying to hide the fact that Kayleigh actually spends her weekends getting her ass fucked by the local high school boys to pay for her copious amounts of the finest Columbian.
If not some coke whore’s name, what? Could it be a code name? Yes that’s it!
~Kayleigh, hiring one insipid twat at a time.
My genius-interviewing lover’s words accompany my thoughts,
“Don’t talk too much. Act as if you are retarded. It makes them think that they are smarter than you.”
My lover is like Peter Gibbons, the character in Office Space, after he gets hypnotized – he has figured the game out without a college degree and the bloody student loans to accompany the pathetic degree. He can interview and get a job on the same day, without breaking a sweat – without taking 1 ½ Xanax to ward away any anxiety dreams – without rechecking the bus route 80 billion times.
While he is off to work I’m still bogged down with which bra provides the best support, dress vs. skirt vs. pants; thigh highs vs. tights vs. stockings; if a torrential downpour occurs, how will I guard my faux loose curls designed by the curling iron to say I am professional, I am sexy, and I am ready for whatever this job throws at me?
As I enter into her office, my thoughts are not on the game. I try to remind myself of my man’s advice – be retarded, be retarded.
“Who let’s these designs by Wal-Mart happen?” I ask myself shocked.
Why is it ok for some lazy cheap ass to paint walls a dark grey and then feel compelled to attempt to match them with the wrong dark grey chairs? I ponder this as I drape my snow/rain/sleet soaked coat on the back of this embarrassment to furniture design as we know it. Am I really the only one witnessing this mini 911?
While my head lolls these very important thoughts around, unbeknownst to me, she had begun.
I quickly sit and trying to appear very accomplished the dyke in me is unhinged. I had expected Lisa but seated across the curiously empty desk was Apollonia. Her large round sparkling dark eyes would be the envy and pursuit of Korean girls everywhere. Her small buoyant firm tits peak through the burka-like blazer.
I wonder if she likes to give or receive head. Why hasn’t she given better thought to her thick lovely, but damaged hair? But this gorgeous creature has loaned her heart and beauty to the male professional world. She is still reading magazines left over from the 80’s right before Melanie Griffith vacuumed in her underwear and let us ladies know that we could have a bod for sin and a mind for biz. No this mysterious lovely with the bod for sin and the outfit from K-mart, had left her sense of self, probably, in some frat boys bed from the days of college past.
“…my three assets to bring to this company?” I’m back in the room.
Making you come, burning your burka blazer, and loaning you my Vogue to introduce you to this millennium’s fashion trends, I thought cleverly.
What actually chirps out is,
“My personality…I’m very personable…folks really get on with me well, I’m just always so happy.”
I didn’t even give her 3 assets! Me? Me who dreamed to re-decorate this place and make it suitable for a human being; suitable for those that think for themselves and not some bleeding soulless paper cut – outs willing to support the façade of progress, pro-activeness, fiscal responsibility, and that everyone be on the same page. Why hadn’t I, on the way to Kayleigh, been in a minor car accident? An ever so slight accident in which the one at fault’s insurance covers everything – or better yet I’m on Seattle metro and the city foots my bill and I lounge about the hospital sipping chilled Lillet and thumbing through Vogue brought in by my sympathetic yet envious gay boyfriend.
“Bitch!” he accuses as he fluffs my pillows.
I might even take up smoking while on this brief hospital sabbatical. Although I am guaranteed the job out of sympathy and guilt I must turn it down for the doctor has advised against any stress of any sort. Appollonia comes to visit me…
“WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN 3-5 YEARS?????????”
Well, right now I see my face buried between your legs. Focus! Focus!
You’d think at 40 years old I would have the savvy distinct answer ready. That my answers could color the dark grey walls and transform the room into a HGTV Christmas special.
“Having a baby.”
Her dark illustrious eyes pop open as if I have buried my face between her legs. We sit for a long second in silence. I should hit the bricks, but no, instead I hear myself claiming that I want to begin my own production company.
You know like the one that I just had with a colleague whose suffering I dreamed of to sleep better at night. The colleague, that when in a car accident, I debated whether or not to just leave her on the road and hoped for dead.
“Yeah so me and my best friend had a production company that put on a play and it was cool and yeah so I want to do that in 3/5 years with my baby sticking outta my ass!”
So Apollonia wraps up the interview by informing me how they will be contacting folks between 4/5p today for a second interview. If they do not call then I am to assume that my 3-5 year plan does not jive with either Kayleigh the coke whore or the lizard-like creatures ready to slurp out my guts.
So here it is 20 minutes past 5pm…hmm…maybe they are so overwhelmed with my amazing interview that they are already sizing me up for a management position? Or perhaps they are re-decorating the place to suit my taste. She probably read my business like a book considering how ‘personable’ I am. She’s probably wondering if it’s totally unprofessional to ask an interviewee out. Gee, I hope that it’s a corner office.
“What was the job interview for?” my girlfriend asks me as we drink too much at our neighborhood bar.
I think to myself, for a rather long time wondering why I had just trucked my ass practically across the dim damn state, suffered a damn near anxiety attack, burned a zillion more split ends of my hair, risked getting pneumonia to pull off that crisp professional look and not know what on God’s earth these people did. It could have been a Klan rally for all I knew. The ad read that they did PR and marketing for Fortune 500 companies. What does that even mean? Is it like getting an academy award? Does Donald Trump show up when they need to fire someone?
I reply bemused.
“I’m not really sure.”
We both laugh uproariously.
When my smart interviewing boyfriend asks how it went I say it was quite frankly shitty. He reassures me that I was way too over qualified for that sort of job and that they didn’t know what they were missing. Yes sweetie, I was way out of their league. Oh and I have I told you my 3-5 year plan?