The Interview - Part 1
I really should have bladed my forehead to simulate a stabbing BEFORE I got into the human resources office but AFTER I got out of the subway. I forgot to take into account the tens of thousands of tourists and hobos I would have to walk by who would stare or say something nasty under their breath. It hurt me so much when I heard a wide eyed child inquire, “Why is that man’s face all bloody?” The mother grabbed the boy and whispered, “Shush!! That’s not polite.” I could feel a tear welling up in my eye. I wiped it away, sniffled, then tried to wipe the blood on my face onto my tux. These people don’t know what it’s like. I sobbed inwardly. This is why I don’t like going out. I sound like a fattie, don’t I?
The best response to my Ric Flair-worthy crimson mask was the typical New Yorker response in which the people on the train pretended the blood vessels in my forehead aren’t rupturing all over. Many just sat there reading the Post or the Daily News acting too cool for school. They don’t have time for my gushing brow.
I was beginning to feel somewhat dizzy from the blood loss by the time I got out of the subway. The sun was shining really bright and the crisp autumn air nipped at my crusty face. The Burning Bridges office is located downtown across from the old World Trade Center site. I walked into the building lobby and a massive bronze markup of the Burning Bridges logo stood square in front of me. Saddling the logo were two sculptures of a man in a business suit posed in a rather flamboyant and dramatic contraposto conscious manner. These muscular characters had bountiful Roman hair and large rippling muscles. They looked similar in form and style to Michaelangelo’s unfinished late works.
Trying my best to dab the big dollups of scarlet up with my satin jacket, I put on a little facial moisturizer, messed up my hair a bit, then got in the elevator. “To the 30th floor, please. I have an appointment with Bobo Bridges,” I announced to the elevator operator. “Oops, I didn’t see your Little Caesar’s uniform. I’ll get the button.” The little man just glared at me. “Don’t eyeball me, fucker,” I said to myself.
I thought of the many hip things I should be doing in a NYC elevator such as this, but then I figured it’d be best to just play it straight.
Then the door opened.
A man with the same facial structure but significantly less hair than those sculptures downstairs stood right in front of me with a wide snaggletoothed smile. His frame was perhaps barely a fraction of the size of those statues. He was also sporting the combover from hell. He reached out his hand and I met his with mine.
“Mmmmyeeessss! I am Bobo!”
To Be Continued!