Interview Day
by Gracjan
Kraszewski
I set my alarm
for 6:11 A.M. I overslept by eleven minutes. I’m
behind schedule on the latest most important day
of my life. I’ve gained and lost nine jobs
in half a year. All this is becoming too familiar.
The thing is I’m not nervous because I don’t
want this job. I didn’t want the last
nine, either.
Cool water
hits my face. Grisly stubble is trimmed. Cracked
eggs simmer, sticking to a pan I forgot to grease.
It’s 6:33. The bus comes at seven. I can’t
be late. I’m a finalist for this job. I’ve
been told I’m just the type they’re
looking for. And if I get this one maybe I’ll
finally have the steady and secure work that
guarantees I’ll never have another
spontaneous day until I’m dead. Dead? Sorry,
I meant retired.
In the back of
mind (or is it the forefront?) I know I want to
travel to New Zealand. I want to eat grasshoppers.
I make it to
the station on time. 6:44. The familiar vessel
comes rumbling around the corner. The bus stops
and the driver gets out. His smile disarms me,
causing me to relax right at the moment that his
burly right hand crashes over my jaw—like a
milky and frothy and salty Pacific swell. His
punch knocks me to the ground. He gets on the bus
and drives away. Thank you, brother.
|
