WHEN I WOKE up, I knew I was late b/f I even looked at the clock. I was going to have to come up w/ some lame excuse as to why I wasn’t at my job interview exactly forty minutes ago. Before I even have Time to think, I’m dancing around the room getting dressed and dialing the numbers.
Miss…yes I’m terribly sorry but—I was in a little car accident this morning on my way to the job interview. I’m terribly sorry about this…yes?...you would?...oh that would be kind of you…thank you ma’am…no I won’t (forced laugh)…I’m on my way.
I drive over to the Clown Shoe Building off of Foster Ave. That’s what we called it when we were kids. The building is painted such silly colors: bright red, yellow and green. It’s a sad looking, big building that catches your eye from far away—unfortunately. The city dump, that we used to play in as kids, is only a quarter mile away.
I was confident that if they wanted to see my vehicle, I could show them all sorts of dings and dents that could prove I had been in several accidents on the way over if they wanted. Duct tape was holding some components of the car together. They say NASA couldn’t operate if it were not for duct tape.
I was hungover.
I’m on my way to a job interview.
I toss in a