The Job Interview

As I settle into the chair, she interrupts my decent…

“It says on your resume that you have an MPA. Is it some sort of medical degree? Are you one of those foot guys? A reflexologist? If so then you are also a charlatan, hence unhireable. Unless of course you happen to belong to the band Charlatan UKs, because then you would immediately get the job.”

Seated directly across from a tall, severe woman from whom I hoped to gain employment, I considered my options: Cautious smile. No sudden movements. No sudden noises. Was eye contact good or bad?

“I like them!” I offer.

Seizing upon my words in an instant she is suddenly too close (I mean WAY to close) to my face. A blur, a strong vice-like hold and a stinging, sharp pain where she was grinding her chin into the space between my neck and shoulder, along my collar bone. The discomfort was startling.

She spoke quickly, hissing, “Name a single Charlatan UK song and you can have the job now; otherwise, I’ll bite a hole in your throat.”

Tense silence. Did she have an erection? I began slapping wildly at her head and face screaming hysterically. Somewhere deep within my brain the fight response had won out over the flight response. Although, my spastic twisting did appear akin to an attempt to go somewhere…anywhere, preferably far from this hideous lair.

She bit my neck hard and latched onto my upper torso in frenzied spurts. Together we writhed as one: a babblephonic cacophony of gurgled shrieks, moans and yells, combined with horrible slapping and writhing sounds.

The assault suddenly ends. Springing from each other like releasing coils of too tightly wound slinky wire.

“Look, I’m not going to hire you. I do not like you at all. How much money do you have? Give me your wallet now.”

“Uh, uhhhh, whaaa?”

“Give me your wallet now or I will hurt you bad!” she glared.
Shaking my head, I backed up with my hand pressed hard over my still bleeding neck.

She grabbed a knitting needle from her desk and stabbed me in the head. The needle sticks in about an inch in the soft tissue of my scalp and points straight up. I begin screaming, afraid to touch it, afraid not to, I am in bad shape. She smugly approaches me, grabs my wallet and swiftly removes the knitting needle from my head. I slink to the floor grasping the wounds, crying.

“Okay, look. You can have the job if you will do me a favor. What kind of car do you drive?”

The Job Interview


Anchorage, United States

  • Artist

Artist's Description

The sign above her office door : “Abandon all hope ye who enter” should have raised a red flag but I needed a job.

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