The Job Interview

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I find myself distracted by the sizeable wart on the interviewer’s right hand. The one he used to shake my own unblemished appendage. The one he now uses to hold my resume. In his left, he twiddles a pen, yet I can’t look away. It calls to me. No, really. The wart is actually talking to me, telling me things I don’t want to know, like its name, for example.

“Hello, my name is Charlie. Your cheek looks so smooth and creamy. I’d love to rest upon it, even for just an hour would be nice.”

And it wants to do things. Although I don’t know how a wart can do anything other than be a wart.

“Would you like me better if I spoke with a British accent?” it said with a British accent.

“No! Absolutely not.”

“You don’t want to sit down?” The man attached to Charlie asks me. Already I’d forgotten his name, the one conducting the interview that is.

“Oh…sorry. I misunderstood the question.” 

“We must stop him,” the wart says. “His hands are always so…busy, and he has terrible plans. He wants me gone. I know it!” My mouth hangs open as I try to comprehend what I am hearing. This only seems to encourage him.

“So, what’s your favorite color? Mine’s orange. Did you know Dr. Seuss wasn’t really a doctor? He just played one on TV. Isn’t it fun to say marshmallow? Try it. Marshmallow, marshmallow, marshmallow. I like to sing Eye of the Tiger when I’m in the shower. Rising up, back on the street…”

“Stop!” I can’t take it anymore.

The man slowly lowers my resume and eyes me warily. “Pardon?”

“My apologies,” I say, trying to recover. “Please go on. What were you saying?”

The man hesitates.

Charlie smiles.

Oh dear. 

I stand up, nearly knocking over the chair in my haste to escape. But I’m not running from Charlie, not really.

“I’m sorry,” I say and leave it at that. -End-