To the Highest Bidder…

I’m standing in front of the mirror and I feel ridiculous. Wearing a suit is always alien. I think of David Byrne in Stop Making Sense and pull off the tie. Gotta get it right.
The interview is in forty-five minutes. I want to leave in fifteen. Half an hour will give me time to get across town, with a few minutes to spare. I want to be early. I need to leave a good impression. If I bring a bottle of water with me, my mouth won’t dry up. But if I drink too much, I’ll have to pee.
My beard. Dear Christ, my beard. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to keep the facial hair. It looks a little rough. I should have shaved. My Everything Get-a-Job book says to arrive clean-shaven. Do they mean me? Do I wear my contacts, or will glasses make me appear more intelligent.
I need to go to My mind has forgotten what it is to code. Do I call out the letters, SQL, or just say ‘sequel’? Never mind. I don’t have enough time, so I kiss Natania and pet the cats, and I leave. But I forget my resume, and my satchel, and a notepad. I forget my head, because it’s not attached.
Now I leave for real, and I’m heading down Friendly Avenue. NPR is going a mile a minute, but I flip off the radio. I need to think about the questions they’re going to ask me. The doozies that’ll make me slip up. I need to think of questions to ask them, because if I don’t seem inquisitive, they won’t think that I’m serious about the job.
I don’t want to get there too early. I’ll pull into a parking lot across the street if I arrive too soon, then head over. Five minutes early should be fine. No, three minutes. Maybe two.
My worrying is for naught. I’m there, four minutes early. Perfect. I slip out of the car, avoid the ice on the concrete, and I go inside. I give my name and sit down and I wait. Should I read the business magazine, or is Our State okay? Does it even matter?
Am I going to deliver pizzas for the rest of my life?


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