Showing posts with label Flash Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Flash Fiction. Show all posts

Saturday, June 18, 2011

The Skinterview: Fiction

“I want to circle back to something we discussed in the beginning of the interview, because I feel like there were some ‘gaps’ that need addressing.”

“I understand that there are a number of gaps in my employment history, but with this economy... within those gaps I was actively looking for work… y’know, this economy…”

“No, I’m not talking about gaps in your employment history. I mean, look, this is a professional office, we do business here, and there are certain standards, minimum standards. There’s a dress code for instance.”

“I have no problem with that.”

“Monday through Thursday, you can wear business casual, slacks, a collared shirt, loafers or a Top-Sider. Friday, jeans, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds pretty standard. I wore a suit for this interview to make a good impression, because I’m excited about the opportunity.”

“And it’s a nice suit. Did you pay full price?”

“Yes.”

“You see what I’m getting at don’t you?”

“Getting at?”

“You’re not wearing any pants.”

“That’s right, you got me there. You nailed it.”

“Do you think that it’s acceptable to show up at an interview without a stitch of trouser?”

“Of course not. But in my defense, I technically did ‘show up’ for the interview with pants. And they were nice pants too. Charcoal gray. Pressed. They matched the suit of course. The suit was Hugo Boss.”

“And it’s a nice suit. At least the jacket and tie look nice. But, it’s the missing pants that concerns me.”

“You're having a hard time getting past this, I see.”

“No, I’m past the initial shock of you walking into my office without any pants on. What I can’t get past is what you mean by saying that you ‘technically showed up for the interview with pants’?”

“I was very excited about this interview. I had my suit pressed and dry-cleaned. I went over and over this interview in my head. I imagined myself sitting in this chair, talking to you about my strengths and weaknesses, answering your questions et cetera."

“In all the times you went over this interview in your head, were you wearing pants?”

“I always had pants on. Each time.”

“So your pre-visualization routine was on point. It’s just your execution."

“Exactly. But, I wore the suit on my drive here.”

“The suit with pants?”

“Yes, of course. So I drove here and actually walked into the office with a full business suit on. I was ready to knock this interview out of the park.”

“I want to shine a spotlight on… I mean I want to put a laser focus on the sequence of events here. You say drove here with pants on?”

“Yes.”

“You walked into the building with pants on?”

“Yep.”

“You were greeted by my secretary with pants on?”

“That’s dead on.”

“She gave you the forms to fill out. You sat down and waited in the lobby area until she notified you that I was ready to see you and all this time you were wearing pants?”

“Absolutely.”

“You didn’t go to the bathroom or anything?”

“No.”

“So then what happened?”

“I got nervous. And when I get nervous I sweat heavily.”

“You look dry as a bone.”

“No, the sweating all happened down below. Have you heard of the term ‘swamp ass’?”

“Of course. So basically you had a vicious attack of flop sweat of the ass?”

“Yes.”

“And you took your pants off to remedy the situation.”

“That wasn’t my initial plan. I tried dabbing with my resume.”

“The resume I’m holding in my hand right now?”

“I only brought one copy. “

“…”

“But the swamp ass could not be contained. So I was left with no choice but to remove the infected area.”

“The pants.”

“I would have removed more, but that seemed unprofessional.”

“Thanks for that. But to be honest, what drove you to remove your pants and walk into my office doesn’t interest me as much. I mean there is something unknowable about that. I probably will go to my grave not understanding you and your actions.”

“Can I say again, that I really wish I was wearing pants right now.”

“Forget that, what I want to know. What I need to know is WHERE are the pants?”

“Pardon?”

“What did you do with them?”

“The pants?”

“Yes! Yes! You were wearing pants when you walked into the office, and my secretary just IM’d me to confirm that you still had them on when you walked past her desk to enter my office. That’s only a gap of about three feet between her desk and my office door.”

“Right, well, like I said, I quickly took them off before I walked in when her back was turned. It was a split second decision. A decision I now regret, as I’ve repeatedly stated.”

“But what did you do with the pants?

“I took them off, they’re gone.”

“No, I know you took them off, but where are they now? I can see you don’t have them with you. I’ve got my entire sales team searching the office high and low for those pants right now. Did you stash them in the ceiling tiles? Under the carpet? Did they just vaporize?  Where did they go? Where did you hide them?

“Maybe we can talk about my relevant work experience?”

“No, forget that. The job is strictly clerical work, but it’s not like your getting it anyway. Your only assignment is you telling me what you did with those pants.”

“Then maybe I’ll just go.”

“No! No! You are not leaving this office until I find out how you made a pair of pants disappear into thin air. If I have to go all Jack Bauer and torture the information out of you I will.”

“I’ll go.”

“Look. I’m going to put all my cards on the table here. I will not be able to sleep at night until I find out where those pants are, and you are not going anywhere until I do. I’ll call security, well we don’t have security in this office, but I’ll hire some rent-a-cops to secure the perimeter.  WHERE ARE THE PANTS! TELL ME NOW!”

“Do you mind if I show you something?”

“Oh please, don’t.”

“No, just let me demonstrate.”

“…”

“…”

“Wow, I’ve never seen anything like that before?”

“I’ve never shown anybody that before.”

 “Is that in, uh, numerical order?”

“And alphabetized.”

“And you can do that again?”

“As many times as the job requires.”

“When can you start?”

“I’ve already started.”

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Mr. Swiss Goes to City Hall: Fiction

Growing up Appenzell Innerhoden, the smallest canton in Switzerland, Juergen Zurbriggen dreamt of Chicago.

He dreamt of Michael Jordan taking flight from the free throw line with his tongue out while vanquishing lesser American Dominique Wilkins in the 1988 All-Star Slam Dunk Contest. He dreamt of the Monsters of the Midway, the ivy on the walls of Wrigley, and Disco Demolition Night at Comiskey. He dreamt of Mrs. O’Leary’s cow, Al Capone, Elliot Ness, dead as Dillinger, “Hizzoner” Mayor Dick Daly, Mike Royko’s columns, and David Mamet’s staccato fucks. He dreamt of the riding the L, walking along Lake Michigan, and throwing pennies off the top of the Sears Tower. If he closed his eyes, he could almost taste the deep-dish pizza, the Italian beef sandwiches and the polish sausages.

As a boy, Juergen Zurbriggen rode his bicycle into town, wearing his bright red nylon Bulls Starter jacket, and extorted local bakeries and chocolatiers by offering a protection fee against broken show windows and petty theft. The local shopkeepers paid Juergen in the form of Swiss rolls and hot chocolate, dazzled as they were by the young man’s racketeering scheme.

After his graduation from the University of Zurich, he returned home to rig the Landsgemeinde, the local election to the General Assembly, by arranging half the cemetery vote for him and his newly formed Billy Goat Party. The introduction of Chicago machine-style politics to the virgin snow of the Appenzell Innerhoden local government proved to be an uneasy marriage, and he was tossed out of the General Assembly a mere two weeks into his term for his decision to over salt the roads and sidewalks, melting the snow, and angering the influential cross-country skier’s union.

Chastised but undeterred, Juergen Zurbriggen bought a one-way plane ticket to O’Hare, packed his bags with all the Toblerone chocolate he could pass through customs, and flew to the Chicago of his dreams.

He soon used his bland Swiss charm to secure a government position as an assistant in the Landmark’s Division of the Chicago Department Planning in Development, which staffed for the Commission on Chicago Landmarks. It was in his tiny, cramped office on 33 N. LaSalle Street that his Chicago dream finally came true when two thick-neck Polish toughs walked in holding  suitcases choked with bribe money.

He had lived in Chicago for over a year, but today Juergen Zurbriggen finally felt that he had arrived.