My interviewer eyes me up like a package of reduced meat,
the excess blood squishing beneath the plastic wrap.
“Maybe, Jacob, or can I just call you boy? Maybe boy, you’re
just a hypersensitive, groveling little wimp who’s out here to
make mommy happy. You think I don’t see it? Maybe your
precious little ethical dilemmas are there to hide your own
lack of cojones. What we big shots in the corporate world call
a waste of sperm. This is a tricky business, boy, and I sure
as hell don’t need you taking up my time while there’s money
to be made. You think I’d trust you to sell anything of mine?”
Good lord, if there were no such thing as selling, the man’s
vocal cords (and now I realize the testicles as well) would
shrivel up, become vestigial.
I do see what’s happening. He’s testing my limits, finding the
exact point at which I will abandon everything I claim to hold
dear. Hold out. Hold out. “But I maintained a 3.8 grade point
average at (but now instead of sounding romantically bluecollarish
as it always had before, it sounds like a cheap state
school; as I say it, it even sounds second rate to me, more
like a correctional facility than a university) Raritan State.
“Hah!” he laughs as he looks at my resume. “German and
English Literature? That’s practical. Jesus, why do they keep
sending me these people? Boy is too good for you. I’ll call you
faggot.” He knows he has me.
“But maybe I’m like this for a reason. Maybe I can fix
whatever’s wrong if I just follow you around and see
firsthand how you apply your American Business Creed. See
how it works. Maybe I can absorb just enough of your
greatness to effect my cleansing, no better, my rebirth.
Rebirth, get it? Phoenix Office Sys—ah, forget that literary
shit, that’s the old me. The new me says give me some tips
on the swagger. The new me wants to know how I can be just
like–
(more…)