Why I Still Don't Have A Job

It'd been a long time since my last job interview.  I wasn't nervous however.  A job interview is just another kind of business meeting after all, and I am all about giving people the business.  No, if my resolve was shaken at all it was because the all night pogo stick contest I had just competed in against the mayor of my town had dislocated a vertebrate in my spine, causing my right fist to occasionally swing forward involuntarily.  I'm sure that the involuntary fist swinging thing, just like the random pogo stick contest, won't have any bearing on the rest of the narrative.
    I arrived five minutes early.  I was dressed well, but not too well.  I didn't want to intimidate anyone.  At least, I didn't want to intimidate anyone until after I got the job.  
     No one was there to meet me when I arrived so I took a seat on a bench and pried the cork out of the bottle of wine I'd brought with me.  
     As you may already know, I rarely leave the house without consumables such as liquor and/or non-streaking window cleaner and today was no exception.  Any job worth having would make arrangements for my special needs and advertising my taste in fine pinot noir would allow them to see what kind of classy person I am.
    I poured a third of the bottle out onto the floor in remembrance of Biggie Smalls then quickly consumed the rest.
     "Mr. Cottle?"  A voice called out from behind a desk I hadn't mentioned yet.  In fact, this whole room has been left pretty vague, hasn't it?  Oh well.
     "Right here," I responded.
     "The manager is on his way.  He'll be just a moment."  The voice– which belonged to a woman, by the way.  Not that it matters or anything.  I just feel like a bad writer when I don't point these things out, even when they're completely inconsequential to the plot.  
     What was I saying?  Shit, that's right.  The manager.
      The manager, a well groomed older gentleman wearing a smock over a nice blue dress shirt, entered the room and introduced himself as George Brown.  He then inquired about the puddle of red liquid around my seat.
     "What happened here?"  He asked.
     I pounded my chest with a closed fist twice.  "Respect.  That's what happened, Mr. Brown."
     The manager shrugged and told the voice-lady to call for a janitor.  Then he led me back into a small room with two chairs and a table in between them.
     We sat down and the interview began.
     "Let me start by saying," Mr. Brown started saying before I interrupted him with my much more important opening.  First impressions are key to ingratiating yourself with both superiors and future male secretaries, and it was inevitable that George here would be one, and then the other to me in due time.
     "No, Doc Brown.  Let ME start by thanking you for this wonderful opportunity!"  
     Nailed it.
     He looked stunned for a moment.  Probably because he was in awe of the rad new nickname I had just given him.  Everyone wants to be Doc Brown.  
     "As I was saying, these interviews are usually just a formality.  But then, we usually only interview with people we intend to hire."
     "I beg your pardon?"  I begged his pardon.
     "See we've reviewed your application.  We've reviewed it all nine hundred and seventy-two times that you've sent it in," he explained.  I had sent in that many applications to show how persistent I was.   All of them were hand written, except for the ones where I had just photocopied the back of a John Grisham novel and signed it.  At the time it seemed like a good way to get my point across.
     "And you were overwhelmed, right?  I hope you don't think me too qualified for the position," I said playfully.  
     "No.  If you were the main character of The Rainmaker as you seemed to be trying to imply with all these photocopies, we'd be happy to have you.  As it stands though, we can't hire you.  In fact, I called you here to ask you politely to please stop loitering around here and to please, please stop trying to get hired by us."
     The words came out clearly as if they were rehearsed many times before now.  It was obvious how important to him it was that I understood the message he was trying in earnest to convey to me.
     "We will never employ you," he said to underline his point.  "Leave and do not come back."
     "I understand," I replied knowingly.
     "You do?"  Hope glimmered in Mr. Brown's eye.
     "Yeah.  You gotta be able to tell the people upstairs that you played a little hardball with me.  Make sure I'm the perfect guy for the job.  I get ya'."  I winked at him with one eye, and then the other.  It was more of a weird blink really; an extremely awkward gesture.  Still not sure why I did that.
     George hung his head seemingly in disgust, though I can't imagine why.
     "Okay," he spoke, the word coming out as more of a sigh than anything else.  "Then it is our hope that by going forward with this mock interview we can help you to understand why we do not wish to hire you.  Then, in turn, you might go away and stop calling my house."
     "Anything's possible," I answered brightly, in a way that would display my can-do attitude.  "Let's rock this interview."
     Mr. Brown reached under the table and pulled out a folder, placing it between us.  Excited, I reached under my side of the desk to see what kind of prizes might be lurking for me.  I was hoping for candy, but came up empty handed.  This interview was taking its first bad turn.
     "Mr. Cottle--"
     "Doc."
     George looked like something had pained him, but he quickly recovered and moved on.
     "Why do you want to work for us?"
     "That's a very good question," I said honestly, and not at all because I was stalling until I thought of an adequate answer.  "Here I would have the opportunity to not only work for you, but with you using my own unique set of skills to provide a valuable service to both our customers and the community."
     Satisfied with my own answer, I took a victory sip from the new bottle of wine I was now holding.  How did I suddenly get a new bottle of wine?  That's one of those unique skills I was talking about.  
     Mr. Brown seemed unshaken by the fact that I was drinking what could only be magic wine and instead asked a follow up question.  "Andrew... Can I call you Andrew?"
     "That or Marty!"  I answered cheerfully.
     "Ha.  Right.  Marty.  I get that 'Doc Brown' joke now," he admitted.  Apparently George only shares a name with the beloved Christopher Lloyd character, and not the advanced brain power.  
     I may have said that last part out loud.  
     Mr. Brown looked very sad, but continued on.
     "Andrew, do you even know what it is we do here?"
     "Of course I do.  Don't be silly," I said honestly, and not at all because I was stalling until I thought of an adequate answer.
     Mr. Brown looked at me impatiently, and I bit my bottom lip.  "You guys make those little plastic bits that go on the ends of shoe laces, don't you?"
     "This is a zoo," George responded abruptly, as though he'd been holding his breath.  He was right too.  We were actually conducting this interview in a small reptile exhibit.  The smock over Mr. Brown's shirt clearly labeled him as someone who worked at the zoo, and the room I'd been in before this one wasn't actually a room but an outdoor food court where the lady behind what I'd earlier described as a desk was serving snow cones.
     "So it is," I said with a chuckle.
     Mr. Brown took a deep breath and shuffled through the folder.  "Let's just move on to prior employers."
     "Grand."  I said with a nod.
     "Under previous job titles you've written 'time cop,' and that your only previous employer is 'Uncle Bill's Timecoppery Warehouse.'"
     "Yep," I nodded proudly.  "I worked there for six years, but because of hypertime compression it only seems like negative two."
     George took the piece of paper with that information and balled it up before tossing it over his shoulder.  He then snatched my wine out of my hand.
     "Hey!  Asshole," I spat as he took a huge gulp.  He could of asked.  I'm not stingy.  I have plenty more where that came from.
     "Moving on!"  He shouted, pitching the now empty bottle to the side.  I wanted to yell at him for just stealing and chugging my beverage like that, but I decided to play it cool.  After all, he was going to be my new boss soon.
     He leafed through the papers again, then cleared his throat.  "Despite your lack of... not completely made up work references, we have a large list of workplace grievances that have been filed against you in the past."
     I scoffed.  
     "How could you of possibly gotten a hold of those?"  I asked.
     "How are you holding yet ANOTHER full bottle of wine?"  He shot back.
     "Touche," I answered wryly, taking a sip.
     "There seems to be an awful lot of sexual harassment complaints filed against you."  Mr. Brown sounded a little surprised by that, which at this point is strange enough to be worth pointing out.
     "That's unfounded.  I've never treated a woman in a way that I wouldn't also like to be treated in the workplace.  All of that so called harassment was reciprocated later.  Bitches be loving me at work."
     "Huh," was his only response.
     It's true that I've had many the office romance.  If any women are mad at me about it, it's only because the next one began before the one preceding it ended.
     "One of these complaints was filed on behalf of a 1998 Ford Taurus.  Mr. Cottle, how do you sexually harass a motor vehicle?"
     That one really hit me close to home.  I sighed and took another sip of my wine.  "Ah, unrequited love..."
     "No," Mr. Brown broke into my daydreaming before it could even start.  "Don't drift off.  I want an actual answer to this question.  Did you try to have sex with a car?"
     I scoffed again.  "Is that what you call a passionate night of love making?  Just 'sex'?  Is that all it is to you sir?"
     "I don't even... It's a CAR."
     I shook my head.  "To you maybe.  Let me ask you a question.  What kind of car do you drive, Doc Brown?"
     Please say Delorean.  Please say Delorean.  Please say Delorean.
    "Ugh.  A Nissan Sentra."
     Damnit!  That would have been totally fantastic and not at all contrived set up for more Back to the Future jokes.  Still, I had to make the best of a bad set up line.
     "Oh?  What year?"
     "2009?"  He answered, growing increasingly disturbed.  
     "Mmm.  What color?  Wait.  You know what?  Doesn't matter.  Could you just pass my phone number along to it for me please?"
     "If I say yes can we end the charade of an interview?"  Hope was returning to his voice.
     "Only if you promise to speak highly of me to her."
     "Fine!"  Mr. Brown said, snapping to his feet.  "Now please leave the zoo at once."
     I considered George Brown's generous offer to hire me as King of the Zoo.  I thought about it for a whole thirty seconds before deciding that I could never accept his offer.  In spite of the fact that I'd been pursuing that job– A job that I didn't at all make up, by the way –for close to three weeks, it's not what I really wanted.  This talk about passion and cars and dreams had led me to realize that I had to get back to myself.  I needed to start writing again.  I needed to start loving again.  I needed to start stealing pictures and cards from Ben's wallet again so he thinks that he's misplacing stuff even though it's all just in my desk drawer.  
     "I just can't be your king," I said to George as I rose from my chair.  "I'm sorry."
     "Excuse me?"
     "Your offer is better than any I'd hoped for, especially in the current job market, but I just can't work here.  I'm sorry.  I know I got your hopes up.  I only hope seeing me walk out that door doesn't crush you like the thought of throwing this opportunity back in your face crushes me."  My words were sincere, and although it must of broke Mr. Brown's heart, he smiled through the pain.
     "I'm sorry to hear that.  I think.  Please get out of my zoo now."
     "You're a strong man," I said to him, then offered him a handshake.  Mr. Brown leaned in to accept it, but my dislocated vertebrate^* sprung into action and neuron firing beyond my control caused me to punch George in the neck.  
     The grown man clenched his throat and fell, hitting his head on the desk on his way down.  Sputtering, he lay on the ground motionless.  Except for the shaking.  He started that almost as soon as he dropped.  So not motionless.  Motion full, really.  Extremely, alarmingly motion full.
     "Oh.  Sorry.  That happens sometimes this month.  You okay?"  I asked, trying to care.  It was difficult to make myself empathize about someone who was no longer going to be my boss and therefore would not be giving me money every week.
     Mr. Brown replied only with more shaking, along with some drooling.
     "Cool.  I'm gunna go now."
     I left, presumably forever.   

     It was a beautiful morning.  A clear morning.  The kind of morning that made you feel like a brand new start was not only possible, but going to happen whether you went along with it or not.  The morning would get no such reluctance out of George, however.  After being home from work for a whole two weeks to deal with injuries to his head and neck, he was finally going back to work at the zoo.
     With his keys in one hand and a song in his heart, he closed himself inside his car and buckled his safety belt.  Then, he placed the key in the ignition.
     He didn't turn it.
     Time passed, and he became increasingly aware that something was deeply wrong.  There was an odor in the air.  Not just a smell, but light fog.  It was as though the interior of his automobile had an entirely different atmosphere than the world outside.  That atmosphere wasn't comprised of things like oxygen, but of sweat and shame.  
     Entranced, he slowly turned his head around to the back seat and let his mouth fall open with horror before quickly gagging on the sinful air of the car.  
     "Hey Doc Brown!"  I said enthusiastically, even though I was a little upset that he'd walked in before I was finished having intercourse with his Nissan Sentra.  He looked bothered by something, though I'm not sure what.  "Are my pants or any of my other clothes up there?  I lost them in the fray."
     Mr. Brown started sobbing uncontrollably.  He is a strange, strange man.  


_{*From back in paragraph one.  Something about a contest?  I don't remember.  That was so long ago and I was already nine drinks deep when I started writing this.}