Ode to PBR

There’s a place for shitty beer in everyone’s fridge.

If you’re getting drunk off Stella Artois, you’re kidding yourself and wasting your money. Shitty beer (yeah, the stuff that tastes like water) is easier to drink, and delicious beer isn’t noticeably delicious anyway after the first few.

Save the Blue Moon with the wedge of fresh orange for a delicious meal, or on the golf course with your in-laws.  It’s Saturday night. Tear open a twelver of your shitty and get a little drunk. You’ll tear through it quick with a buddy. Don’t worry though; each one’s under a buck.

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An Amish Sunday Night

The Sunday Sing would have ended hours before, and still Hans was not home. His parents sat in the night on the porch of their wooden home.

“This is the fourth week in sequence,” said his mother.

“Our boy has found the rumspringa, as all boys will,” replied his father.

“Surely we have taught him better.”

“No teaching can keep a young man from the rumspringa. When I was young, it seized me too.”

She peered at him. “But you courted me.”

“How little you know.” He looked far into the night. “You were not the first woman I held.”

Untitled, by guest author Marcus

I sit and I wonder why

cabs keep passing me by

I stick out a thumb to flag a ride

but they all have people inside

every time I see one coming around

he stops for the guy one block down

how will I reach my destination

guess I’ll go down to the station

wait for a bus or the subway

or just run down Broadway

what if I don’t make it in time

or end up on a street that’s not mine

fuck it I’m cutting the line

this next cab is mine

no way I’m getting left behind

Brian

Brian waited at the bus stop at the corner. He came here every day to wait for the big yellow bus to take him to school. Today he had a bagel.

An ugly stray dog walked over. It started sniffing Brian’s backpack and then it smelled the bagel and got closer to Brian, who was stiff and terrified. Brian put down the bagel. The dog ate it quickly and left. Brian was still hungry but he was happy he was safe.

The bus came and he didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t tell his parents that evening. He never told anyone.

Seconds Decay

As you grow older, each new second of your life is a smaller proportion of your life so far. One second to a 20 year old seems twice as long as it does to a 40 year old. The 20 year old has half as many seconds in his life that have contributed to everything he is: his personality, intellect, opinions, and tastes. The early-in-life seconds hit you hard, like a wrecking ball. As you age, wrecking balls become sledge hammers become rocks become pebbles become dust. This second, right now, is bigger than any second you’ll ever live again.

The Stoplight (V)

It spoke in a voice as wide and circular as Saturn’s rings. Sheila’s head felt as if it wanted to float up above the intersection, where it could listen and watch from the sky.

But again, the light changed, the stoplight-tomato-face vanished, and masses of commuters streamed around her again. What was happening to her? Did no one else notice?

The decrepit trees planted in the sidewalks threw the falling sunlight across the world in puzzles. Purses and elbows jostled her. Someone bumped her hard, from behind. Her hand flew automatically to her bag, but her wallet was already gone.

Dedicated to Michael (This is a true story)

It was a sunny, breezy day in San Francisco, and so far the day’s activities had been just as perfect as the weather. Good food, good fun, great biking time along the streets of the great city. Michael was currently sitting in the backseat of the car as it rolled along the road, sunglasses on, foot out the window. That’s the life. Unless…is that a bee?
“Oh my god, it is. It’s a bee! It’s on my sock! What do I do?”
He did the only thing that seemed right. The sock had to come off and out the window.

The Stoplight (IV)

As the last few pedestrians scrambled across the crosswalk, once again Sheila was hit with that longing – was it just an empty stomach? – to understand how everything in the world interacted like the musicians in a symphony.

There was the red light again, sagging again. The face grew so full that she was sure it would burst. Its deep, round mouth formed slow shapes.

Finally, she was able to hear it speaking. “…glimpsed the stone benches where monks rest while fasting. We asked ourselves, is this knowledge? Facts are not knowledge. The feeling, the experience. I first felt snow when…”

A Serious Conversation

Why’d it get so quiet all of a sudden?

I saw a picture of you, with a girl, who was wearing my shirt.

No, but why the silence?

You cheated on me.

Please, no, we can talk about that in a minute. It isn’t what you think. Why’d it get so quiet?

Are you serious?

Yeah.

We’re talking about cheating, and you want to talk about…

Yeah.

Well, umm, normally your heart kind of stops during these serious conversations. You forget about the things around you.

But the whole coffee shop? Silent?

Where do you get these…Wait. What? You’re right.

Un Ami / A friend

Mais non, Maman…
Bien, tu veux de la glace, n’est-ce pas? Lequel?
Tu comprends pas — c’est pas pour moi maintenant…euhh t’inquiètes…
Explique-le à moi, Chouchou.
Ah bon… C’est pour marco… Plus tard.
Marco, il ne vas jamais revenir, t’y sais, petit.

Le vent était froid et fort.

Chocolate chocolate chip please! Oh, and a strawberry, too!
Son, I think one cone is quite enough.
He looked at his mother impatiently.
“Ah,” she said, “for Marco? Son, I think it’s time you made real–well, friends at school,  maybe?”

He just licked his cone. It was cool and sweet.

Bunny vs. Dog

“My bunny can eat a carrot in ten seconds!” spat Maria.
“Oh yeah? Well my dog can shed enough hair to make a carpet!” retorted Paul.
“Oh yeah? Well my bunny can hop so high he can touch the top of his cage!”
“My dog can run around our house so fast, mom doesn’t even notice he left!”
“My bunny is cuter than your dog!”
“Nuh uh! My dog’s breath is like vanilla marshmallows.”
“Yeah, well my bunny poops rainbows!”
“Well, my dog barks, magical fairies appear!”
“Yeah right. I don’t believe you. But my bunny can fly. Ha!”
“Hmph.”

My New Language

Rifle – What happens when you eat a whole lot of dark bread

Chortle – A tariff imposed by mothers on their laboring children

Flabbergast – Fat that is in shock or awe

Particle – An average score in golf that makes you giggle

Boredom – Plank, umm, beam, umm, 2×4, umm

Pollinate – A child who knows the Epistles by heart

Planetary – How to make sure your new house isn’t stuffy

Bourbon – A sesame roll straight from the freezer

Carcass – An angry rant directed at a vehicle that won’t start

Scrappy – The act of relieving oneself on a junk heap

Spoonerism – And m is spooner

Flea Circus Squabble

A flea with a red bandana tied around it’s middle section took his hoop and slammed it on the ground.
“Dad, this costume sucks and I don’t even have hips to hoola hoop!”
Mama Flea, jumped a little at the volume of her son’s tiny flea voice.
Papa Flea looked up from his newspaper, “Horace, What’s the matter this time?”
Horace took his bandana off and spat on it.
“Son, we all have our places and responsibilities. It’s time you grow up!”
He looked at her and grumbled, but nonetheless donned his red bandana and picked up his hoola hoop.

NPT

You’re listening to National Public Techno – techno by the people for the people. Thanks to your continued support, we’re able to bring pulse pounding beats to your home every day of the week, from Minimal Mondays to Ghettotech Fridays. We’re supported by listeners like you, who demand only the finest club bangers to bump in the ride, at the club, or while making spaghetti on a Tuesday. Take a trip to the future on the beats of the past as our DJ’s from the present spin it all the time right on time. Please enjoy your time with NPT.

Volcano Trash

[Scene: A dumpster on the slope of a dormant volcano. How did it get there?]

A plastic fork with one tine missing appears on the rim of the dumpster.

Fork: Amazing! Beautiful! Everyone come look!

The fork is joined by a medley of trash.

Q-tip: It’s astounding…

Wrench: What is it?

Fork: It’s mine. I discovered it; it’s mine!

A rumble within the dumpster. Is that a…? Yes, a toilet bowl appears.

Toilet: My friends, we sit on the remains of a massive explosion. It cannot belong to any of us. Yet here we are. Shall we disembark and explore?

Squiggles, a Recurring theme

Sometimes I just feel like squiggling, I said.

What’s squiggling, she said.

It’s deep from the soul, I said, it’s a raw expression of joy and jubilance, a jumpy loopiness that manifests itself in your body with gently writhing. I said, it turns you into an octopus.

I don’t get it, she said. You’ll have to show me.

But there wasn’t much to squiggle about right then. Neither of us had eaten in fifteen hours and we were no closer to help than before. It was getting grim.

Then she smiled, with her eyes.

And I squiggled, with my soul.

Hypem.com

It’s like gold dust.

Those sounds abound in the air
in your ear
there and here, everywhere

floating
creating and making new philosophies
Criss-crossing me
grip rocking the
roots of inner tribulations triumphs and victories
memories of lake fallen leaf berating me
She waking he,
he  taking she,
they flaking free,
the Anthology.

Slapped back by the rhythm
and the beat’s still thick
slippery quick
sliding down a hill on an oil-ice slick
in an eighteen wheeler lodged way up shift
creek

But it keeps rolling, this barely breathing
seething mass of bricks
like tetris
sexy music
seducing your hearing.

The Stoplight (III)

Sheila shook her head and squeezed her eyelids. She felt some jostling up there, and when she looked back up, the stoplight-tomato had also become a face. It blinked once, slowly, its ponderous eyes a little too big, a little too round.

Green light. Things were normal again. People flowed into the crosswalk like the water released from a dam. Sheila just stood there, a perplexed log jammed in the chute. The green light seemed just as full of bright green dots as normal. She tried to pinpoint in her memory the moment the phantom stoplight-tomato-face had vanished, but couldn’t.

Cast For A Movie; Or, The Exterminators

Ali: An Arab gentleman with a salt-and-pepper mustache who methodically explains things four or five times.

Pest Company Guy: Tall, sloping man with a mustache and greasy, receding hair in a ponytail.

Dog Owner 1: An established man with a suit jacket and white hair that matches his shirt.

Dog Owner 2: On par in terms of dress with his counterpart, though a bit younger.

Dog Owners’ Attaché: Same age as Dog Owner 2, though ganglier.

Ricardo: Just your friendly neighborhood exterminator. Explains things once more, rapidly, in case you didn’t get it from Ali.

Petey and Curly: Everyone’s favorites.

Ice cream toes

Sydney shifted closer, putting her tiny feet under under her her mother’s thighs. Her mother jolted.
“What’s wrong,” Sydney asked, her eyebrow furrowed.
“Oh nothing, dear. Your feet are just a bit cold.”
Her mother cuddled Sydney close again.
“As cold as ice cream?”
Her mother chuckled.
“Exactly, as cold as ice cream. Do you want some socks?”
Sydney pouted.
“No! Then the ice cream will melt!”
“Ah,” said her mother with a puzzled expression on her face. “What do we do about that?”
Sydney smiled and put her tiny feet between her mother’s.
“There,” she said. “Ice cream sandwich.”

So much promise

One day, Dear,  you’ll tower over the sidewalk. Your roots will burst through your pot and dig into the earth, and your vast canopy will provide shade for those walking beneath you. You will have a thick truck, perfectly round and straight. The bottom fifth of your trunk will be speckled brown-orange, and the rest of your trunk a will be bright, pristine white. Once a year your branches will shed their own thin, white-and-orange leaves, little copies of your own elegant form (just a more manageable size), which I will collect, pack, and smoke. You are my malboro tree.

The Call

The solo hit its climax; three notes tore out of the sax in dizzying patterns; the rest of the band ceased to play. The smoky people in the house lived in the space between their heartbeats and the cries of the instrument’s reed. As he inhaled to hit the highest note, the soloist suddenly wilted. The sax fell to his side on its strap. He panted for a moment, then lifted his tinted glasses and looked at each person in the crowd.

“I got to go,” he said.
“I been here too long now,
this town has worn me down.”

floating on air and rubber

He was in the clouds, and it was night. The deep sky framed his form, and the moonlight white mixed with the eerie orange from the factory across the water like a blurry creamsicle. He pedaled furiously. But he wasn’t furious. He was free. He pedaled freely, fast, fantastically. The clouds danced around him. They were low clouds, to be sure, some might even more appropriately call them fog, but that was beside the point — he was blowing through the cool night, sipping on sea air and breathing in life.

Far overhead, a gliding bird peered down at him jealously.

The Stoplight (II)

When Sheila reached the final intersection before her block, she began to taste something in the air around her. It was minty, or maybe earthy. Maybe the smell of pine forests. It had cavernous undertones and made her head feel like it was ready to disconnect.

The stoplight across the crosswalk was still red. She wanted to cross so she could start cooking – maybe that’s why she felt strange all of a sudden, she was hungry. Just needed some food.

Still red. And then redder, it began glowing, widening. It sagged like a tomato, with round cheeks and ridge eyebrows.

Another Attempt To Be Anyone, Though I’ve Never Been To Asia

Deep in the Himalayas, a village sits on a wind-bitten plain. Some summers the snow melts enough to allow sheens of dust to escape into the air and brush up against the flanks of the mountains.

On one such day, the oldest man in the village summoned a young boy with toenails stained by soil.

The worn old man uncovered and showed the boy three bits of ivory buried in his candle-lit tent. Never once speaking, thinking of elephants, he then led the boy to the edge of the village.

Somehow, the boy understood he was meant to keep walking.

In the Spill Command Center

“Quick, Tomathy, grab your tie! They’re getting a photographer in here! ”

“Oh, shoot! I left my tie at home today. Maybe I can just cut one out of printer paper and tape it to my shirt?”

“No you idiot, that’s the kind of dumbass work ethic that got us into this mess to begin with!”

“I’m not a dumbass, I’m creative! Oh, darn, I got highlighter on my shirt”

“What!? How’d you do that?”

“When trying to color in my paper tie. Oh well”

“The camera guy’s outside! Clean yourself!”

“Nah, I’ll wait for the ink to fade naturally… Sigh”

The Stoplight (I)

Whew. Sheila got off work and headed outside to walk the twenty blocks home. Every day as she walked, free from her stultifying cubicle, she hoped to start living the life she remembered from her childhood. She wanted to be fascinated, to be heartbroken, to move her body, to figure things out. But it rarely came over her as she imagined it could.

The sun shone off each vibrant facet of the windowpanes and sunglasses around her. The afternoon still held such exuberance, if only she wasn’t so drained…

Her thoughts were gray and rhythmic, of spreadsheets and weekend activities.

Wake up

He’s got potential, man. I mean, he has ideas, he dreams, he’s young at spirit. We should all be so lucky. And yet it feels weird saying he’s got potential, like he’s a bright 8 year old with a whole life ahead of him. He’s halfway through his life and you couldn’t point to a single accomplishment of his, just half a bucket left of potential. He’ll keep you up all night telling stories but won’t ever write a novel. You want to shake him into doing something, but even more than that you want him to fucking shake himself.

Haters

Want proof that everyone’s a hater?

Let me tell you about Achilles, the man with the famous heel. He was the lead role of the greatest warrior epic of all time, the Illiad, and he kicked serious ass. He was known for being beautiful, the perfect image of a buff Greek warrior. And he was 99% invincible.

And you know what people talk about today? Not his triumphs, not his 6-pack, not his unshakable confidence. We talk about his heel, the other 1%. His heel, literally the one part of him that was not completely perfect.

Haters, man. Fuck ‘em.

The Intellectual’s Flaw

What makes a person smart is his ability to see both sides of an issue. This special understanding is a fundamental attribute of a person who prepares for counterarguments, wants to make the best choice among a murky field of potential decisions, etc. Doing this tests and reaffirms his confidence in the decision he has made.

It is this very voice that becomes the fatal quality of an intellectual. For every strong conviction he has, he can understand the rationale and persuasive aspects of the complete opposite. Doubt is cast upon every idea and every plan.

Then again, maybe not.

New Carburetor

“Order me one of them carburetors.”

“Will do.”

Acretzle pounded his fat fist on the mechanic’s desk, grinned, and walked out onto Main. It was a scorcher outdoors, and the fact that the street was fresh-paved didn’t help out.

Acretzle gazed at his car for a minute, but there wasn’t nothing he could do about it. Home he went, walking the whole way.

The mechanic lit up out back. Another rotten dull day, but only a few hours before his shift was up.

Soon he’d head home too, only a few doors up from Acretzle, though neither had any idea.

One Must Do Dishes To Have A Clean House

Fold the sponge around the knife,
Two quick sweeps,
Rinse,
And into the drying rack.
The cups will go into the dishwasher
Once it’s unloaded.
Is this a man’s work?
Am I becoming a man?
The rent, the vacuuming, the packed lunches –
“A man needs a maid.”
Maybe Neil Young was right.
My knife is covered in dishwater
That glistens like tears.
Hold your head up, eyes straight ahead.
Who is crying?
My hands should be calloused,
Not wrinkling in the water.
Where will my strength come from,
Days like these?
My unknown maid?
Or will I seize it someday?

Time For Bed

Now my feet are sleepy from being shut up in socks all day. They have sweaty patterns marked into them that won’t come out for another hour or so. Now my eyes are stretched and scratched with a day’s worth of pollen and curiosity. The bright sun entered me all day, leaving me drained. Now the yin and the yang of the world blur into exhausted lines and give up on understanding. We walk to and fro because that’s the place to go. Every night another chance to descend into the fuzzy realities of words shaped daily into our minds.

I’ll have a latte, please…

Hi! My name is Sydney but you can just write “Sid” on the cup if that’s easier. I’d like a cappuccino please. Half-fat, low-fat, organic if you have it, half-caf, half-decaf, a little bit of whip, a sprinkle of cinnamon, half a sprinkle of nutmeg, and if it’s not too much trouble, could you make the foam with whole milk? Great. Also, can I get a muffin. Blueberry please. But I only want the top. Can you cut that in half? Yeah and butter the bottom? And then stick it in a toaster for like 20 seconds? Yes, Perfect. How much?

In a creepy voice

The wheels on the bike go Round and Round. Round and round. Round and Round. The wheels on the bike go Round and Round. All. The way. To school.

Tony dismounted and peered up. The wrought-iron fence loomed over him, and a cold wind blew scattered dead leaves around his ankles. Inside the gates the school was deserted. The sky was steel lint.

The gate creaked as he pushed his bike through it. Was this a mistake?

…Round and Round…

His feet crunched on the gravel. Where was the fixie he was trading for? The Craigslist ad had been vague.

Let’s Go Hiking!

It’s time for the noblest venture known to modern man. Time to leave behind the things we know to seek the things we once knew. To go hiking! Lace up your tennis shoes and mix a bag of gorp, because we are headed out of this life of ours and into the wilderness. Hiking! We’ll walk through postcards and doze among roots covered in bark. America spreads itself before us as it once spread itself before our mountainous forbears – there is solitude and dizzy height and quiet chirping. Leave behind the windshield and close the car door, let’s go hiking!

Dahlias

Mom’s mother – Grandma Helen – passed on so fast none of the family had time to get out to Nebraska and save the estate. It was a paperwork mix-up, they said later. Everything moved out and sold two days after her death.

Mom went later and all she could sneak away were Helen’s famous dahlia bulbs. Those dahlias have grown in our garden three years now.

This afternoon, Dad ran them over with a roto-tiller. It’s something that just happened, definitely not on-purpose. He told Mom. She didn’t cry, but she didn’t fix dinner and won’t say more than four words.

Lyrics

If I was like you
You wouldn’t like me
But I still like you
Cuz you’re not like me

If our cars make love
It wouldn’t make sense
They’re different makes, love
It would just make dents

We’re better together because we’re so different
All bettors would bet that we’d fall apart
Like magnets or circles, we’re right together
All of the moments we’re not far apart

Too cutesy too putsey too shootsy to bootsy
That’s not the sleeze we wanna see
We wanna be real be cheel be sweel
Cuz you aren’t me but we are we
Yessirree weeeeeeeee

Patrick Hill

Patrick Hill lived on Potrero Hill, so people started calling both him and his place “P. Hill.” P.Hill became Phil which became Phil’s. Patrick had many friends, and one afternoon they contemplated going to Phil’s to hang out and maybe watch some TV. Patrick thought that perhaps it would be fitting to be a dealer since his name was so catchy and he did live on Pot Hill, and so his friends became his clients as well.
“Hey Phil.”
“Hey, you guys wanna try this coffee place on Valencia and 15th?”
“Nah, c’mon Phil, let’s just do the usual.”
“Alright.”

Guest Author: Hannah Kohrman

“Wanderings”

I lay awake at night worrying about not getting enough sleep. Wondering how so much can grow on a city block without a single earthworm. Wondering what makes for a flaky pie crust, what it means that happiness is just chemicals, and why I had that last beer. Wondering when was the last time I washed my hair, and when the sun might fizz out. Wondering where is my favorite ring, my long-lost bike, my dignity? Wanderings as I lay, listening to the faint purr of the muni passing, dreaming about cumin kale chips and loves that could have been.

At The New People Factory

Over at the new people factory, Mr. Hairpin was waiting in an endless line. Who knows why there are long backups at the new people factory. (How long does it take to turn those things out anyway?)

He knew Mrs. Hairpin was vacuuming the house again for their new person and probably worried, as she was a lot since they made the decision.

The room was ready. He had made sure of that. But why the wait? Waiting for the decision and waiting for the permits and now waiting in line? He just wanted to get the damn thing already.

Lessons Learned From My First Jobs

• Taking phone-in orders at a restaurant: People can hear whether or not you are smiling when you answer a phone call.
• Waiting tables: People care about the How so much more than the What. And always be nice to elderly women.
• Concierge at a vacation resort: People will pay you an unbelievable amount of money to make up their minds for them.
• College internship 1 – big tech company: Your career is a beautifully crafted and important piece of art that no one else really cares about except for you.
• College internship 2 – small tech company: A good leader creates simplicity.

Homage To Bluegrass

Bluegrass is the music for me
None of that music that crescendos
None of those sounds coming from computers
None of that jazz too sexy
If the instruments aren’t full of dust
From roads traveled for lifetimes
If the voices don’t have whiskers on the inside
I don’t want to hear
On the blue grasses we dance
Stomp and clap and sing together
After a day working outside
Under the West’s endlessness
In bluegrass the words are simple
Because we are simple
And we don’t have good voices
And we can’t remember a hundred melodies
So we sing that bluegrass

Again, We Are Lucky And Unlucky

My dreams are of bedbugs
And they keep me just beneath
The point of falling asleep.
Maybe I can hear them emerge,
Tiny like the cigarette butts
That seep into every sodden corner
Of the parks I daily clean.
Weeks through thick glasses;
I wonder which is which.
This city hurts me;
It inspires and deserts me.
My aspirations the blowing fog
Or the men that built these streets.
Without the nights
Waiting for bedbug bites,
My love for the city would string
Into an elevator’s arc
Beyond the happy parks
To somewhere fantastic,
Where energies paint the Golden Gate.

I want a fixie

I want a fixie. A real hipster looking one. One with red rims, white handle bars, and a black frame. Super stylish and clean. I want to feel the mechanism every inch I move, the pressure pushing my feet to go faster and faster. I want to screech to a halt and skid along the way, while grasping the handle bars tight. I want to feel like I’m actually riding a bike and not just sitting on a vehicle (‘cuz that’s what cars are for, right?) while it does the moving. I wanna do the moving. I want a fixie.

Addicted Workforce

Caffeine. A miracle poison that sits you straight up and puts you to work. The cubicles of America would be slovenly without it. The grand workforce of America – some would say the most dynamic asset of our nation – would loll off into a stupor without it – especially today, for the addicted men and women who fill our skyscrapers are function-less when they haven’t had their daily dose. Without it, their thoughts are liable to go off in any unproductive tangential direction. They might begin questioning.

Without my cup of earl grey halfway through the morning, I wouldn’t have written this.

Guest Author: David Rurik

“Sensing The Farm”

Sound-

Near silence settles, never sitting, merely floating. Adrift with wafts of eerie owls, boisterous birds and clucking chickens. Sound moves and plays.

Sight-

Vibrance abounds, pattern and values, every color of the rainbow. Rowdy red raspberries, big blue blueberries, and colorful cadmium corn, bathe a farm in talkative brushstrokes.

Smell-

Every color creates its own drifting smell. Onions pack powerful punch, basil delicate flavor, and hay a sweet sunny fragrance.

Taste-

Fresh organic flavors enrich the wafting smells. Finely chopped cilantro, succulent round tomatoes, and scrumptious ruby beets tantalize.

Touch-

Careful textures abound where fingers and toes touch.

My dog is getting old

My dog is getting old. His belly grazes the ground a little when he walks, and his abnormally large (at least that’s what other people say) head is not only covered with golden hair, but also bits of white. He still steps on my feet so I can’t walk away while he rubs up against my leg. And he wags his tail just as often. He is still excited by the sound of my feet coming up the stairs. But he no longer runs to meet me in the driveway, and he falls asleep just about anywhere in any position.

Protocol

“Do we really have to do this?” Mark said to Treat.
“C’mon, man. Of course we do! I’m tired of trying to meet people in bars.”
“I like bars. I know what to do in bars. Everyone is anonymous and fair game. House parties, everyone inside already knows each other. What do we even do to get in? Do we knock?”
“I guess.”
Treat was about to knock but someone opened the door before his knuckle had a chance to rap.
“Hi! You guys here for the party? I was just stepping out to get more ice! Come on in!”

Interview

I don’t really like people that much.

Then why are you applying for this job?

Because you have to hate people to do this job.

Do explain.

I used to be a doctor.

Well, in that case, I think you’re a bit over qualified for—

You can’t get attached to patients. You have to detach. I think this is a pretty good rule for most professionals.

Yes, sir, but I think being a server at our establishement—

Doctors can wait tables, ma’am.I’m sure you can, but I think you should reconsider—

Thank you for your time, I’ll apply elsewhere.