Interview With A Quagmire
by PATRICK MICHALAK
“Hello, Mr. Cross. My name is Patrick Michalak.”
“Good afternoon, sir. I’m Patrick Michalak.”
“Listen up, old man. You’re going to give me this job or I’m going to beat you severely about the head with my shoe, so as to not injure my hand.”
I straightened my tie and extended my hand as I continued to greet the reflection in my bathroom mirror. I checked my watch: My ETA at Cross Consulting was approximately one hour. I’d aced the first two interviews, and it was time to meet the big boss, Michael Cross, in what would be my final interview. I was confident I was the right man for the job, but didn’t stop the butterflies from dancing around in my tummy. Cross has a reputation for being a really tough interview. I knew I had to get in there and take control; show him that I wasn’t just another pretty face; show him that behind the ruggedly handsome exterior and the boyish good looks, there was an intelligent human being; that there was more to me than just a pair of bright eyes and a killer smile; that he was not looking at some model or a movie star, but rather the newest member of the prestigious Cross Consulting team.
I looked myself over in the mirror one last time.
“Hello, my name is Patrick Michalak.”
The elderly woman behind the receptionist’s desk continued her downward gaze, using her index fingers and the hunt-and-peck method to slowly type on her keyboard.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry young man. Why, my hearing isn’t what it used to be. I hope you can forgive me, I wasn’t trying to be rude.”
“No problem at all. My name is Patrick Michalak. I’m here to see Mr. Cross.”
“Oh, yes. We’ve been expecting you, Patrick. How are you today?”
“Well, I’m a little nervous, to tell you the truth. Nervous but very excited. And yourself?”
“I’m doing horrible! Look at me, I’m so old! I’ve got one foot in the grave! The kids in my neighbor hood, they’re afraid to step on my property. They call me “Bony Grandma” because I look like a damn skeleton. Which is what I’m going to be in just a few months. A dirty, dirty skeleton.”
“Well…you look young to me. Besides, I always say you’re only as old as you feel.”
“Bullshit! I’ll probably be dead by lunch.”
“Yikes”, I muttered under my breath.
“’Yikes’ is right! And do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a man, Patrick? I’ve actually got spider webs in my…”
“Grace!” The voice called loudly from the intercom speaker sitting on top of the desk.
“Excuse me, Patrick. Yes, sir?”
“Is the boy there yet?”
“Yes sir. He’s right here.”
“Send ‘im in!” The voice was loud and angry, almost belligerent sounding.
“Ok, Patrick, he’s all set for you. Hopefully I’ll still be around when you get out.”
“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”
I found my way to the door that said “Michael Cross”, and stopped. There was no handle. I pushed in on the door, but it didn’t budge. It quickly dawned on me that this was probably a test. I mean, if I couldn’t even make it in to the office, how could I be expected to actually work in it. I put my ear up to the door, and ran my hands over its surface, looking for some sort of answer to this riddle.
“Pssst!”
A-ha! I froze, contemplating the positioning of my hands, and wondering what exactly I had done to trigger the noise.
“Pssst!!! The door is remote controlled. You have to knock.”
I straightened my tie, thanked Grace for her help, and knocked loudly, confidently on the door. I heard a click, then the quiet sound of a motor as the door slowly opened. I strutted into the room. I had passed the first test, and was eager for the next.
My strut was stopped cold as I stood frozen for a moment, caught off guard by Cross’ appearance. He appeared to be a small man. I couldn’t quite tell if it was his great rosewood desk, or his oversized leather chair, or if he was just a small man: A small, small man. He was holding something up to his mouth that looked like a beige water balloon.
“Are you comin’ in or not? Christ, ain’t ya ever seen a midget suckling on a synthetic breast full of scotch before?!?”
“No, not at 9:30 in the morning,” I thought. I decided to keep this thought to myself.
“Yes sir. Sorry sir. My name is Patrick Michalak…”
“Yeah, yeah. I know your name. Come on, have a seat here.”
I walked over to his desk and held out my hand.
“I’m pleased to finally meet you, sir.”
“Why don’t you do me a favor, and stick that hand a little closer to my face, ok?”
I shot a confused glance down to my hand, which was nowhere near his face, and pulled it back.
“No, I’m serious. I’m in a damn wheel chair here.” I noted the large, chrome –rimmed wheels on the bottom of his chair. “I can’t exactly get up. Whatta ya gonna ask me to do next, run a mile? Let’s go find a mile long track, and you can stand there at the end, with your hand out like an idiot, and I can only shake your hand if I make it to the end, running! Or how about I skip through the forest? Would you like that? Do you want me to skip through the forest? Because I can’t skip through the forest, you son of a bitch! I can’t!”
I watched in horror as Cross buried his normal size head in his tiny hands and began to wail. After a couple seconds of crying, his short little arm shot out toward the synthetic breast, and he calmed himself with a long suckle.
“Now then, where were we? As yes, interviewing Mr. Stupid. Ok, Mr. Stupid, knock knock.”
I figured it in my best interest not to correct him on my last name, which is actually “Michalak” and not “Stupid”, and to play along with his little game.
“Umm, ok, who’s there?”
His eyes squinted into little slits and he slowly nodded his head.
“Asking who it is rather than just opening the door. Very good, very good. I can tell from that answer alone that you are a very smart, cautious individual. I was trying to trick you. The man at the door was actually a crazy, ill-tempered drifter posing as a mild mannered, sane drifter. You do NOT want to know what he was going to do if you had opened the door, after he fought his way in. He would’ve done thing…Bad, bad things. Trust me. But you didn’t open the door. That was very good.”
“Well…thank you, sir.”
“Listen, Pooptrick. Can I call you ‘Pooptrick’?”
“Actually…”
“Great. Pooptrick, I’m gonna give it to you straight, I think you’re just the guy we’re looking for. You’re got a good resume, you’re smart, and best of all, you’ve got a really red tie on. However, the voices in my head are telling me you’re a rat bastard. So, in conclusion, you’re not getting the job. Now, please get the hell out of my office.”
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Yes, it was nice meeting you too. Now get the hell out of my office.”
“Excuse me? Can I…”
“Great then. It was nice meeting you too. I wish you much success in getting the hell out of my office.”
“With all due respect, I’d like to know why I’m not getting this job.”
“Why?”
“Well, because you have to have a valid reason for not hiring someone. You can’t just…”
“Why?!?”
“Because it is illegal to not hire someone based on the fact that…”
“Why?!?”
“Why is it against the law? I’m not sure...”
“Why?!?”
“Why don’t I know? What…I don’t even know what you’re asking”
“Why?!?”
“I don’t know what you’re asking because you just keep saying ‘Why? Why? Why?’” I had to consciously quell my urge to dump Cross out of his fancy schmancy, custom made wheel chair climb up onto his desk, and deliver unto him a series of Randy “The Macho Man” Savage style flying elbow drops.
I took a deep breath to calm myself.
“Why?!?”
“Why do you keep asking me ‘Why’? I don’t know.”
“Why?!?”
“Why don’t I know? How should I know what you’re thinking?!? I don’t have psychic powers!”
I grabbed his phone without dialing and began to yell into it.
“Hello?!? Psychic Hotline? Is this Miss Cleo? Yes, if it isn’t too much trouble, could you use your psychic powers to get inside Michael Cross’ f*cking head, and tell me what the hell he’s thinking? What a psycho he is? No, sorry, that’s what I’m thinking. Thanks for nothing!”
I threw the phone back onto his desk.
“Why?!?”
“How can you even ask why to that, you little bastard! ARRRRGH!”
“Dammit, Michalak! Will you just say ‘Why ask why? Try Bud Dry’ so I can get on with the rest of my day!”
I tried to stop my clenched fists from shaking as I barely squeezed out the words.
“Why…ask…why…Try…Bud…Dry?”
“Exactly! Exactly! You’re hired, you son of a bitch! You’re hired!” He clicked on the intercom. “Grace! Now!”
Grace burst through the door and stormed into the room with the speed and intensity of a SWAT team set on super slow motion.
I waited in confused anticipation as she moved toward a large cardboard box in the corner of the room. I continued to wait. I looked to Cross, who had the same look of excitement in his eyes as his incredibly slow-moving receptionist. When I looked back at her, was still making her way through the doorway toward the box. She had moved about three feet. I got up up, grabbed the box, and set it down in front of her.
Grace slowly dragged the box over to us. I continued continuing to wait. The anticipation began to slowly drain out of me like molasses draining out of whatever molasses would slowly drain out of. She was like a robot set on “Slow as Hell”.
She finally made her way over to us, reached into the box, and pulled out three party hats. Her shaky hand extended one of the hats out to me, and set it on my head. The two were as giddy as school children as they each donned their own party hats. Grace next stuffed a party blower into my mouth, tossed one onto Cross’ desk, and kept one for herself.. She finally strained to pick up the box, and dumped its contents, hundreds of tiny colorful squares of confetti, onto my head. The room came alive with the sound of cheers, and party blowers.
I sat in utter disbelief as Cross happily cheered, blew his party blower, and suckled scotch.
I was further shaken as Grace who, rather than blowing the party blower, opted to slide it in and out of her mouth, and lick it, as she winked at me. On second thought, I guess you could say she was blowing the party blower.
Regardless, it was all too much for me to take.
“Cross, you son of a bitch!”
The two were taken aback as I jumped up out of my chair.
“Are you gonna hog that synthetic breast full of scotch all day, or are you going to get this party started right?!?”
The two cheered as I chugged the scotch, and, squeezing the fake breast, sprayed delicious alcohol all over them and the office.
And the rest, pardon the pun, is history.