No? You don’t know what I’m talking about? I can’t tell if you don’t know what I’m talking about or if you’re just taken aback by my breaking the fourth wall on this page you’re reading. Well damn, hold on a second, maybe I shouldn’t bring up the fact that you’re reading a book. If you realize what you’re literally doing this moment, you won’t actually be living in the world I’m painting for you. It’s kind of like when you catch yourself blinking while reading and then start to focus on your blinking rather than the words your brain is trying to process, you know?
Oh shit, I’ve distracted myself . . . wait, what was I talking about? And why the hell am I writing my internal thoughts on this page? Doesn’t matter, this won’t make the final version of the book anyway. But what the hell was I talking about? Shit . . .
Oh yeah, sorry—the weirdo in front of the supermarket.
As I got closer and closer I tried to avoid him, but he spotted me immediately—kind of like when you catch your own reflection in the tinted windows of the automatic sliding doors. He was definitely a reflection. He seemed to mirror my movements a bit creepily. With every step I took, he took one too, until we met.
“Spare a dollar?” he said.
“Sorry man, I don’t have it on me,” I said, patting my chest and pockets.
“Help a brother out!” he said, extending his hand.
What the hell, I thought. They need to get rid of the beggars and loiterers. I walked past him, bringing my hands to my backpack straps as I entered the store.
I absolutely loved my backpack; it came everywhere with me and became my trademark. It was a gray Herschel pack with a brown leather bottom. It was covered in pins—Rick and Morty, Mac DeMarco, Atari, Pac-Man. An old key chain I’d had since I was a kid dangled from the outside zipper. One of those ones with your name on it that you buy at a gas station. I know, I’m a little old for all that, but my grandma got it for me and it’s become my good-luck charm.
Inside this place looked like your typical grocery store. Tiled floors, jammed-up carts, aisles and aisles of neatly stacked food, buzzing fluorescent lights. It was a little run-down, but clean enough for the families in town. I immediately noticed the volume of beautiful girls who worked at this place. Damn! Definitely college girls trying to make an extra buck during the semester, I thought. Walking through the front checkout area, I made my way to the customer service desk, where I asked a middle-aged black woman for an application. Her name tag said Ronda. She was kind of like the slightly overweight black woman in every movie. Sassy attitude, lowered eyelids, and judgmental aura. But basing a first impression on her physical appearance really wasn’t a fair thing to do. I mean, how can you judge someone simply by—
“You applying for a job dressed in blue jeans and a white shirt, child?”
When she said this, I was actually glad my gut was right, and I wasn’t some prejudiced asshole. Not completely, anyway.
“Well, Ronda, I only came in like this to fill out the application. I didn’t plan on sitting down for an interview the same day.”
She stared at me and let out a single chuckle—one of those I’m annoyed but this is my job chuckles—and said, “You know how often I hear that, baby? How many times I’ve had this conversation? Those pretty brown eyes of yours aren’t going to take you that far.”
Wow, I could only imagine how many idiots came in just like me, dressed like they didn’t care, to apply for a job they didn’t give two shits about. But I needed this job. If I didn’t get this job that would be it—my ex would be right, just as she’d always been. I was destined to be a loser who couldn’t finish anything.
“Hey there, friend!” a man said. I turned around to a grinning man in his early thirties. He extended his hand to be shaken as if he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “I’m Ted Daniels, assistant manager here.” He looked like a corny white dude. Pale skin with a dash of acne held over from his teenage years, buzz-cut flattop, short-sleeved button-down, red tie, and black pleated slacks—the ultimate nerd.
“Hello there,” I said, mimicking his attitude as best I could, trying not to think about how he looked like a Mormon who joined the Los Angeles Bloods after two years of mission work down in South Central, throughout Crenshaw and Compton, and was now sporting a bright red tie to prove just how gangster he really was.
“I’m Flynn,” I added.
“And are we applying for employment today?” he said. His smile never seemed to go away, even when he spoke.
“Uh, yeah, I mean, I saw that you guys were hiring and wanted to fill out an application.”
“Well, golly, aren’t we in luck?!” he said. It really annoyed me how happy he was. His whole vibe bothered me. I have no idea what overcame me, but I snapped and punched him in the face. My fist connected with his nose, and blood spewed from the slit created by the explosive blow.
“Oh lawd Jesus, these white people done did it!” Ronda screamed. Ted hit the floor screaming in agony.
“Why???” he bellowed.
I stood there, frozen. I couldn’t believe what I had done. Something just came over me. How the hell could I have done such a thing?
“Are you listening to me?!” he screamed. “Why?! Why, Flynn?!”
Seconds later, I was sitting in an old wooden chair in Ted’s office. Ted sat behind his desk. His nose was perfectly fine.
“Flynn, are you listening to me?” Ted said.
“I’m sorry, sir . . . what was that last part?”
I had imagined the whole thing, caught in a daydream so vivid I didn’t even remember making my way to his office.
“I said why, Flynn,” he said, annoyed but still smiling bigger than ever.
“I’m sorry, sir, why what now?” I replied.
“Why are you here, Flynn? Do you even know why you’re here? Everyone is family at this establishment. We have a code, a code of ethics, you could say. We want to help everyone under this roof acquire whatever skills their individual needs may be. So what truly brings you, Flynn? What skills do you need?”
A second ago I was surely headed to jail for assault, and now I found myself in the middle of a job interview.
“A job,” I said.
“Well, aren’t we a wise one?” Ted said with a laugh. “You’re in luck. A bunch of the seniors here are graduating and we will need some extra hands come summer. You seem like a nice kid, so I’d love to hire you.”
“Seriously?” I said. I hadn’t done shit to deserve this offer. Maybe it was my pretty face?
“The job is yours,” Ted said as he reached under his desk.
“That is, if you can sell me this bottle of Windex.” I couldn’t see his lips through his smile.
I looked at the bottle of Windex then looked back at Ted.
“So you’re telling me if I sell you this thing I have the job?” I asked.
“Precisely,” Ted said.
Without a moment’s hesitation I grabbed my backpack, which was resting against the leg of my chair. I opened the pouch, grabbed my wallet, and took out a twenty-dollar bill. I then licked Andrew Jackson’s face and slapped the federal note against the bottle, sticking it to its surface.