by Eileen Glass
I know how it’s going. I’m relieved anyway when it’s over because I can regain my breath without panting in front of him. I keep my perky smile in place, and he gives me the news.
You didn’t pass. Go somewhere else.
“Okay, Collin, well, I’ve got your application here and I’ll give it to the store manager. We’re doing second interviews on Tuesday, and if you’re selected, you’ll hear from us soon, alright?”
Bullshit. If they wanted me for a second interview, he’d be giving me the time to show up.
My smile falters as I nod and tell him, “Thank you. I hope I get a call.”
He says, “I hope so too.”
Then he’s gone and off doing busy that he hates, but at least he’s getting paid. I’m not.
I sigh at the junkless mannequin. I didn’t actually want him. The manager guy, I mean, not the plastic underwear model. He was only a notion, a fantasy, a sign of how alone I’ve been. I could have never come out to my parents and stayed at home with them.
My dad…
I don’t think about that. Not ever.
That was a year ago.
I turn to leave the clothing store. I’ve interviewed at six other places in this mall, and I wonder if the store managers know me. I wonder if they discuss my answers, maybe in the food court at lunch, and if they joke about how red I get.
I know it isn’t true. I know they don’t think of me once they’ve gone home for the day. I might as well not exist. But in my paranoid thoughts, they analyze every tick and stray comment.
Maybe, I think, they don’t hire me because I don’t look like ‘real’ man. I’m not the guy you call to help move furniture. I’m not someone you’d put in the stockroom.
That’s probably what they thought. They saw I was a guy applying and they needed someone to move boxes. I can’t imagine it’d be hard work in a clothing store, but maybe their shelves are high or something.
I’m short. Super short. I have a friend who found out that I’m legally a dwarf. Or as he put it, a midget. I’m also on the skinny side, which means I look like a kid, and that manager guy might’ve thought I was lying about my age on the application. Maybe I should work that into my introduction.
Hi, I’m Collin. I’m legally a midget.
Heh. It might get a laugh.
But I’m not the happy, funny guy I pretend to be. I get along in customer service pretty well because I can force down my insecurities for a few hours a day. But in real life?
I’m shy. Painfully shy. I don’t talk much and I barely know how to say hello to people I don’t know. The workplace makes it easy because they give you the steps.
Hi. How are you? Would you like to sign up for our special loyalty program?
I can do that. But they’ll never know, and as I walk out, I pretend I don’t notice that every single person on a register is female. Most companies seem to want pretty, chatty girls in the checkout.
All of that is gone as the doors close behind me. I’ve left the super cool, stylish environment and stepped back into the real world, which is gray and ugly and has no place for me in it.
What am I going to do?
I pleaded and made excuses and stalled with my apartment manager as long as I could. Even if I got the job, I’d still be up shit creek. She’s bringing the sheriff tomorrow to get me out of my place. That’s what she said, banging on my door, shouting at me through it while I pretended not to be home.
So, what if I did the job? And got kicked out. What would I do then? Where would I rent with only that one place for rental history and no credit?
I’ve been researching homelessness a lot lately. There’s places I can get food. There’s resources to help me get a job, eventually. But there’s nothing for what matters most, which is: Where am I going to sleep? Where am I going to put my stuff? How do I get a shower?
I chew my bottom lip as I walk through the parking lot. I’m going to live out here. But the question is, where exactly?
I look around for a dumpster. There isn’t one in sight. Just the pretty glass storefront and the giant company sign, looking sophisticated and nice. There’s no homelessness here, their storefront seems to say.
I’m in pretty low spirits, needless to say, as I start to wander. Nowhere really, just anywhere, looking around for a sign or help. I don’t have a car, so I just start walking without a direction, sticking to the busy streets because neighborhoods won’t do me any good. I walk into a few places and ask about hiring. I go into the sleazy places because they’re the ones with paper applications and online takes too much time. I need a job today. I need a break.
And even that won’t fix anything. I don’t know what to do, and I do a lot of looking up, swirling around in my thoughts, wondering about myself as an organic entity, a thing on this planet that has to find a place and a purpose.
I fiddle with the pocket that has my cheap phone in it. I don’t think about calling my parents, but I’m very aware of the object as I move around. There’s the notion that I could. They’ve probably missed me. Maybe they’ve had a change of heart.
I think I could be calling them tomorrow when I’m kicked out of my place. But today I resolve that it’ll never happen, I’ll stick it out no matter what. I’ll figure out how the bums live. I see them, so they must get by somehow. But maybe not here on the nicer side of town.
I change the direction of my steps. I’ll get on the bus when I’m ready to go home and sleep under a roof for one last night, but right now, I just want to see. Maybe something will come to me out there.
The walk takes a long time, but it’s my new mission for the day. I go for miles. I cross the bridge separating the prosperous side of town from the slums. Not that the difference is so stark, There’s rich and poor places on both sides, but there’s a noticeable change over here. It’s crowded. People are more tired.
I get off the main road because I’m not even paying attention anymore. I get to someplace that has a lot of pawnshops. I’ve already pawned everything but my cheap-ass phone and my shitty laptop. I keep going.
It’s between two of these WE BUY GOLD AND JEWELRY places that I find the little shop. It’s squished in there, no space between the buildings on either side, and it’s got no sign for its name nor advertisements for deals. But the door is open.
Now, I should have noticed something was wrong. The pawnshops on either side look like prisons with iron over every window and glass door, but this place is unprotected. There’s a giant display window with no decals or lettering or anything. I could almost see through the lacy curtain.
I should’ve known something was up. In the nice part of town, sure, I can see a little gift shop like this. But out here? Man, I should’ve known.
But the funny thing is that I didn’t think of it. The sun was setting and I knew it was getting time for me to get on that bus before this place became dangerous. And sitting in the window was a red sign with white letters read, Help Wanted. Underneath were the less-than-normal words in cursive lettering: Will Pay Your Rent.
I should’ve known. But I went right in.
Fox Furry >>
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
© Eileen Glass
Published by Glass Fiction
www.eileenglass.com
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