“What size?”
“Normal size.”
Thi punches buttons on the cash register. “Anything else?”
“Can I bum some more fruit? Oh, let’s make it no whipped cream please.”
“Sure. No whip. I’m fresh out of fruit. Sorry. Want a muffin?”
Flip absently scratches the back of his neck under his collar while considering his baked goods options. After a long moment the customer behind him exhales loudly. Flip is tempted to draw the decision out, just to spite the self-important douchebag behind him. But memories of a trucker with a hammer ricochet around his brainpan, so he tries a different approach.
“No. I’ll skip it,” Flip says. Then to the man behind him, “Sorry to take so long. My mind doesn’t make decisions until my first cup of coffee.”
The young man is tall, dressed in dark blue surgical scrubs, and has skin the color of café au lait. “It’s no problem,” he says, not unkindly but not overfriendly either. A woman in a business suit, farther back in the line, gives Flip an understanding nod. Beats a broken window and a busted taillight.
Thi punches in a few more orders, then starts his performance at the espresso machine. In no time at all he calls Flip’s name and wishes him good luck.
“I’ll need it,” Flip says. Then he takes his coffee and leaves.
DynaTech is located in a business park. Apparently business park is code for several commercial office buildings arranged along a meandering strip of asphalt whose parking lots are separated by sparse landscaping and an occasional bench. Flip drives around until he finds the appropriate building and checks the time. He has almost an hour before he needs to meet Ms. Myrna Mays.
On the drive over he’d refrained from slurping his coffee for fear of spilling it on himself. Also, he feels it’s essential to get the caffeine intake just right. Too much stimulus and he might have trouble being succinct, he could just blather on and on with no real point other than to expel his nervous energy. And too little caffeine might lead to a headache or a low-key demeanor. It was Flip’s experience from interviews he’d conducted over the years that it must be difficult to know how strong to come on. But being too unassuming can leave people with the impression that you have no passion or you don’t care at all. If given a choice, he’d rather be slightly too hyped, a little excitable, and clearly anxious to get the position, rather than seeming too cool or meek.
One of the winning strategies he developed at McCorkle-Smithe was to try and match the energy level of the highest-ranking person in the room. That’s what he would try today. But too much caffeine or too little could tip the scales.
He parks close to the glass and steel building. The shattered window, he rolls slowly up, conscious of the likelihood it could simply crumble. But it’s still in one piece. He slips out as smoothly as he can, considering his size and his sore back. He sets his espresso drink on the roof of the car and claws at his neck. From the back seat he unhooks his jacket and slides it on. He picks up his workbag, closes and locks the car, takes his coffee, and heads across the lot to take advantage of one of the benches.
The morning is humid. He feels sticky. The coffee makes him sweat; his forehead and underarms feel damp. His neck itches, so do his back and shoulders. He has an urge to strip down to his T-shirt and violently shake the hair out of his shirt. He wills himself to endure and ignore his irritation and discomfort the best he can. He remembers his breathing, counts his breaths. That helps.
He balances the paper cup on one of the tilted slats of the bench, careful to set it far from him, in case it tips over. He puts the workbag between his feet and pulls out his legal pad and resume. He had every intention of doing this yesterday, but the time never seemed right.
He takes notes, writing long persuasive paragraphs regarding his unique qualities, work experience, and skill set. He’s careful to relate everything to how he might help DynaTech. After three pages, he drinks some coffee while staring up at the dark glass building.
He can’t see into the twelve-story building, but he knows what it looks like. There are middle managers’ offices all around the perimeter of each floor, with the corner offices reserved for the senior managers and VPs. In the middle there’s a maze of high-walled, carpeted cubicles, a break room, restrooms, a bank of elevators, and some storage closets for supplies and custodial products. Although DynaTech might boast an open concept office, which means lower walls on the cubicles or even no cubicles, with the desks arranged in little clusters to encourage more socialization and foster a tighter work community. God I hope not, I hate that.
His back twinges as he shifts his girth on the bench. He remembers the pills in his pocket. He stands and fishes them out, knocks them back with a little coffee. As he swallows he wonders if he just made a mistake. Did I have to take them both? He slurps a little more coffee, sets the cup away from him, and rereads what he’s written. It’s solid. I’m good at this stuff. Even in high school he had a gift for the written word, especially persuasive rhetoric. I still got it. He checks his watch, half an hour to kill.
He lets his mind roam the possible avenues the conversation might take during the interview. Some of them he likes and takes a few notes, while others he rejects. He drinks more coffee, scratches his neck, and uses a finger to squeegee the wet from his forehead. He flicks his perspiration onto the hot cement slab the bench is fastened to, watches the splatter pattern of dark spots until they evaporate.
Flip’s as ready as he is going to get. Just to be safe, he takes a couple more minutes to write down questions he might like to ask. He is of the opinion that smartly worded and insightful questions are at least as effective in interviews as delivering really thorough answers.
He reads over the questions, tucks his pad and resume in his bag, and checks his watch. Almost time. He takes one more swig of barely warm coffee and begins to pour the last third into the grass, but reconsiders. Maybe someone from the building is watching and would find such an act rude. He carries the cup back to his car, just to be safe.
He unlocks the car and places the cup in one of the cup holders. He uses his nails on the back of his neck, one last time, before initiating the struggle with the stubborn top button of his shirt. As he pulls and tugs at the collar his head feels as if it might pop off, his face turns red, and pressure builds in his skull. He might be having a heart attack. Or a brain aneurysm.
No matter how much he tugs, the infinitesimal, pearly button refuses to be coaxed into the microscopic slit of a buttonhole. He draws a deep breath and holds it, tries one last time. He gives up, gasping for air. His neck is too big, his fingers too fat. He settles for pushing the triangular knot of his tie all the way up, largely hiding the shamefully unprofessional gap from view. That will have to do.
He has to piss. Coffee goes right through me. He looks himself over in an unfractured car window, decides everything is in order, and walks toward the lobby.
Flip avoids looking at his reflection in the doors as he strides forward to grip the handle. Cold air washes across his body when he pulls the door open, and he’s immediately grateful for wasteful corporate energy usage.
Inside, he takes in the twenty-foot ceilings and the elaborate, large scale, dangling light fixture that glitters high overhead. The glossy black, reflective tile clicks against his hard-soled shoes as he moves forward purposefully, flanked by undulating, low relief wall sculptures.
He approaches the amoeba-shaped security desk, rests his arms on the chest-high counter surface, and speaks with forced authority to the man in uniform seated in a rolling chair.
“My name is Mr. Mellis,” he says, absently rapping a rhythm with his knuckles on the expensive-looking marble counter. “Ms. Mays is expecting me. I have a ten-thirty appointment. Job interview. Director of Internal Communications.”
The tall, slender man stands in his stiff black uniform and fixes a matching eight-point cap with a glossy black brim on his head. “You don’t have to give me your life story, Flip.”
Flip looks at the man. Larry. The name comes to him. His new neighbor Larry.
“Larry,” he says.
“Yes.” The “obviously” is implied.
“I didn’t see you there, Larry. What a surprise.”
“I need to see a photo ID and you need to sign here.” He says it with no apparent warmth, even an undercurrent of contempt. He makes a quick stabbing gesture toward a plexiglass clipboard near Flip’s forearm.
Flip uses the pen and prints his name in one spot, signs it in another. He checks the time and jots it down along with Ms. Mays’ name.
“We could have carpooled this morning.” Flip tries to make small talk, one more time, as he pushes the form toward Larry.
Larry doesn’t answer. “The ID,” he reminds Flip impatiently.
Flip remembers Larry’s claim that Vanessa has been stealing. Given Larry’s generally sour disposition and pessimistic outlook, it’s hard to take any of his claims seriously. He watches his driver’s license disappear behind the counter.
Being in Larry’s presence makes Flip feel proud. He may very well be a depressed, suicidal, fat, miserable, and unemployed waste of genetic code. But compared to Larry he’s almost happy-go-lucky. Next to this sad sack I’m a regular ray of fucking sunshine. He’s tempted to share this observation with Larry, but refrains. Progress. He also tries to take note: being a pessimistic shitheel is no fun for the people around you. Flip recommits himself to be less of a mope; if he’s still alive this time next week he will definitely try to stop being so gloomy.
Larry returns Flip’s ID. “Look at me,” he says while aiming a tiny camera at Flip’s head. Flip looks. There is no sound or flash. Larry puts the camera down, jabs at some buttons, and Flip can hear the sound of something printing. Larry slaps a fresh, sticky-backed nametag on the counter, complete with Flip’s name and photo, as well as the word “Visitor” emblazoned across the top. “Put this on. It must be visible at all times.”
Flip follows orders by applying the sticker to his lapel. He hates it. His face fills the whole frame with no negative space left over.
Larry grabs a phone, checks a list of extension numbers, and taps on the keypad. “This is Larry at the security desk. Your ten-thirty is here.” He hangs up. “Walk through the turnstile,” Larry says.
Flip walks through the turnstile. Larry comes around and appears to buff Flip’s aura with what he assumes is a security wand. Little circles, little circles. Apparently Flip passes the test.
“Ms. Mays will be with you in a moment. Wait there.” Larry points at a low-slung, creamy leather couch with chrome legs in the shape of a squashed X.
“Larry. Question: Is there a restroom I could use real quick?”
Larry’s expression curdles to indicate how deeply annoying he finds Flip and his question. He starts to turn away and Flip is sure he’s going to be ignored completely.
“Past the elevators, on the left,” Larry says, while scooting his chair back in position and removing his cap.
“Thanks, Larry,” Flip says. Then, just for the fun of it, he adds, “Lare Bear, do me a solid: When Ms. Mays comes down, be sure to put in a good word for me. Okey-dokey?” He makes an overzealous double thumbs-up and walks away before Larry can give him another bitter look.
Standing at the most beautiful urinal he’s ever had the opportunity to defile, Flip regrets harassing Larry. He knows from Dean that Larry’s having a rough time. Maybe he should have been more empathetic, felt more compassion. But honestly, Flip is tired of eating shit. He figures Larry’s upset that Flip woke him with his horn the previous morning. It had been rude and inconsiderate. Flip is a big enough man to admit it. He wonders why Larry is even working during the day, maybe to pick up shifts so he can get into his townhouse.
He shakes his dick, tucks it away, and fixes his shirttail and belt. He spends a few moments straightening and washing and primping. He removes the nametag from his lapel, folds his fat head over on itself, and sticks it in a side pocket of his workbag. That’s better. Satisfied that he looks as good as he can at present, he pats his front pocket where his family pictures are stashed for reassurance and motivation. Here goes nothing. He shoves out the door with a medium-sized smile fixed on his large-sized face.
A tiny young woman in a fitted gray suit and a splashy mint shirt calls to him from the reflective interior of one of the elevators.
“Mr. Mellis,” she says while advancing with her hand extended. She cocks her hip against the open elevator door.
“Ms. Mays, I assume,” he replies. She looks remarkably like he’d imagined.
She pumps his hand with vigor, and engages him with her smile. She’s sure to make eye contact and hold his gaze as she speaks. “I am so happy to meet you. Did you get signed in with security?” She exudes Peppy-Go-Getter and Regular-Juice-Fast with a dash of Tiny-Dog-In-A-Purse thrown in.
“I sure did. No problem at all. Larry took good care of me,” he says, intentionally matching her general rhythm and tone, even raising his voice half an octave. When she glances toward Larry, the smile leaves her eyes without leaving her lips.
“Shall we?” she asks, and gestures him into the elevator, removes her hip from the door, and pushes one of the buttons. He follows her in.
“So. How are you feeling, Mr. Mellis?” Honestly, he’s feeling wretched. The elevator is lined floor to ceiling with polished, reflective, metal panels, and everywhere he looks he’s accosted by his own image. He stares at the toes of his black shoes before answering.
“Me? I’m feeling good. You may call me Flip, if you like. Everyone does. What about you? How are you feeling?” He really wants to ask inappropriate questions about his competition for the position. But it would make him sound as needy as he really is. So he leaves it.
“Just fine, Flip. Thanks for asking. The week is just starting and I’m ready for the weekend already. I hate to be inside while the weather is so nice out.”
Nice? It’s like a sauna out there. Despite his conviction that his core temperature won’t drop to normal levels until November, he says, “Oh, I know what you mean. Not many more days like this one.” Which he knows isn’t true. The heat could continue unabated for another six weeks. But it’s the type of thing one is expected to say in such situations.
“This is us,” she says, as she exits. Her heels clickety-click along the tile corridor and Flip has to move fast to keep up. She pushes a glass door open and says, “Come in.”
As Flip goes in he reads the black lettering printed across the door: Ms. Myrna Mays, Director of Human Resources.
The office is long and narrow, with the door at one end and a single window at the far end. Between is an elaborate organizational desk system of matching modular, wood-veneered shelves, drawers, file cabinets, and work surfaces. Myrna scoots around to the far side of a horizontal peninsula and takes a seat. Flip squeezes his rump between the arms of the chair opposite, setting his workbag on the floor beside him. He finds his pad of paper and pen, holds them at the ready, trying to appear attentive.
His mind is racing from one thing to the next. He wonders if he overdid his caffeine intake. Or maybe the caffeine and the back pills are a bad combination. His back feels good though. He had forgotten about it completely until just now. His neck, however, feels as raw as a carpet burn and he longs to rake at it. He’s jiggling his pen, making the cap knock out sixteenth notes against his legal pad, forces himself to quit. He counts his breaths and looks across the desk at Myrna.
She’s swiveling and rolling from cabinet to cabinet, gathering various materials into her lap before scooting back into her place across from him. She puts a file folder, some forms, and a couple of glossy packets on her desktop.
“So sorry for the delay. I had to rush straight from a meeting, didn’t have everything ready before I left,” she explains. “Now. Let’s get down to business.”
Flip has regained his focus enough to realize he’s already ahead in this psychological chess mat
ch. She’s being very deferential; it’s likely due to his age. Finally these graying sideburns are paying off. Also, she has seen his resume and apparently received good recommendations on his behalf. So what if she’s employed, fit, peppy, and has a Director in front of her alliterative name. He has more than twenty years of experience. She’s probably only been out of college for six years, or less even. Four maybe. No wonder she’s apologizing.
Now, to match her tone and be magnanimous: “Oh, no problem at all. I understand completely. There is always so much to juggle and not enough time.” He considers adding something about his own winning time-management strategies. This is an interview, after all; if he doesn’t toot his own horn, who will? But he concludes there will be plenty of time.
“My hope is to give you an understanding of the company structure, the retirement plan, stock options, company matching, performance bonuses, sick leave, and the health and dental coverage the company offers. After that, I will give you a tour of the departments and take you to a conference room to meet some of the folks you might be working with.” She looks at a tiny, rectangular, designer watch on her slim wrist.
“Excellent,” he replies. Though in truth, he finds this process a little backward. Typically, one might have to give some basic contact information at the most. Getting a big spiel about the details of the benefits package before being interviewed or offered a job is unusual. But he holds his tongue, for now.
“I’d hoped you could meet with the current Director of Internal Communications, Mr. McCloud, but he’s out of town for the day,” she explains. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
Myrna Mays methodically and professionally covers the materials she has in front of her. She turns each relevant page toward Flip and uses the eraser end of a number two pencil to indicate the passage of text that relates to the policy she’s articulating, all while reading long passages upside down. She is practiced and capable. He thinks it’s too bad she comes across a bit like a tabloid socialite princess. It will make it hard for people to take her seriously. But maybe she’ll grow out of it.
Good for Nothing Page 22
