Day 167
Our second
meeting was at a local restaurant*. I arrive early and skulk around, psyching
myself up. Mickey and Katsu arrive.
Katsu is wearing a boot. I make a
joke about him winning an ass-kicking contest.
He does not get it.
Our
waitress’s name is Flo. She is sixty,
extremely matronly and reeks of smoke.
Immediately, she calls Katsu a stud.
Whether Katsu gets it or not is irrelevant, the reaction is similar. I silently will Flo to take her cigarette
break for the remainder of the meal.
No such
luck. Flo comes back with our drinks. Mickey has taken off his jacket. “Jesus, would you look at these?” Flo
exclaims, as she seizes and kneads one of Mickey’s rippling biceps. My hopes of obtaining employment fade. I order the Caesar salad. It is flavorless, but I eat it anyway. Still no clue who is in charge.
I give
Mickey a copy of my book. Tears
literally well in his eyes, and I can see I have touched him. I am pleased.
Flo arrives and forces us to order a wedge of tasteless pie. My joy fades.
Upon our
exit, Mickey and Katsu offered me a ride home.
I demurred, but they insisted.
Mickey drove a Rav4 and listened to classical harpsichord music. Improbably,
this destabilized me further, to the point where my navigational powers failed
completely. Three miles later, I
realized I’d sent the three of us in the wrong direction. There was no way I was going to admit to
having forgotten where I lived. I ask to
be let out at the next corner.
“You live here?” Mickey asked, as I scrambled
out.
“Sure do,” I
replied. As Mickey and Katsu drove away,
I noticed I had gotten out in front of a methadone clinic. I got on the bus and rode back into town next
to a heroin addict.
Day 169
Two days
later, I got a call. They wanted me to
give a presentation. I’ve been crashing
at Susan’s place since the marathon, and have gone through my limited supply of
interview clothes. Susan buys me a shirt and tells me not to fuck this
opportunity up.
Next Time:
Noah makes his move.
*Later, I learn that it was
Mickey’s idea to hold this meeting in a bar.
HR pooh-poohed this unorthodox-yet-bold move.
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