Of Jobs and Led Zeppelin (standard:other, 490 words)
Author: rb	Added: Aug 27 2001	Views/Reads: 3302/1	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A disenfranchised slacker goes to a job interview. His encounter with tourturous chairs, fascist secretaries and over-enthusiastic youths lead him to rethink his options. As always, feeback is more than welcome.

Of Jobs and Led Zeppelin 

Between this borrowed tie relentlessly cutting off all blood flow to my
brain and the stuffy corporate atmosphere of this stale dungeon-like 
waiting room, asphyxiation as become a real and vaguely attractive 
possibility.  I attempt to distract myself by opening my battered brief 
case, bought for two dollars at a thrift store, the contents of which 
include the single sheet of my sad little resume and an empty Twix 
wrapper.  I glance around the room and see pale aryan faces hovering 
above suits that fall perfectly into place, no doubt costing more than 
my car.  I wonder how many subscribers to “Forbes” and “The Wall Street 
Journal” are in this room.  How many in this building?  My periodicals 
of choice have always been “High Times” and “Batman.” 

It seems like I’ve been sitting here for hours.  The incessant hum of
fluorescent lights have become a permanent fixture in my mind.  I 
vainly try to find a comfortable position in this chair designed by a 
sadist that makes the Marquis de Sade seem like a hand puppet.  I look 
up from my efforts and see the secretary/executive assistant/whatever 
glaring at me with beady red eyes set deep behind mounds of makeup 
encrusted flesh demanding my complete and total silence.  I’m stunned 
and a little terrified by this woman who looks as if she were 
constructed of clumps of Play-Doh hastily thrown together by a 
particularly unartistic second grader. 

As I stare transfixed at the secretary’s elephantine arm fat, the Aryan
next to me leans over and decides to be friends. 

“How’s it goin,” he says, “My name’s Carter.  They sure are takin’ a
long time in there, huh?”  He motions to the door on my left into which 
we’ve been watching one applicant after another disappear for the last 
eon. 

I lean over to this fresh-faced automaton and say, “Yeah, he’s probably
sodomized that last guy pretty good by now.”  Then I stare at him, 
giving a slow knowing nod. 

“Yeah,” he says laughing, not really sure what to make of the insane
person sitting next to him.  He finds a spot on the wall on the right 
side of the room that intrests him greatly. 

I think I’ve had just about enough of this.  I stand up.  All the people
in the room look at me.  Some silently plead with me to sit down.  I 
pass these cookie-cutter people, these brothers and sisters in 
mediocrity on my way to the door lighting a cigarette.  I decide that 
leaving my defunct briefcase behind would be very symbolic and feel 
pretty proud of myself as I walk into the hall.  I hear the secretary 
rumbling something about this being a no smoking area, but she can’t 
touch me anymore. 

Tossing the much hated tie into the passenger’s seat of my Mercury
Topaz, I grope around for my Zeppelin IV tape.  Who the hell wants a 
job anyway?


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