Shooting Stars (15 page)

I
t’s been eight days
, and I still can’t believe it. Like a right to the jaw from Clubber Lang—how do you recover from that? She said no. Before I could follow up and show her I got this condo right in the building she wanted. Our building. I filled out the loan paperwork all by myself. Before I could convince her and describe how wonderful our life would be together. Our life. I wanted to show her that I was ready to be taken seriously and to settle down, and we could move on to the next chapter of our life like we intended. Seems like I’m the only one who remembered the plans. Which is weird, because when we planned she did the majority of the talking. I haven’t showered at all. Just lay in this condo. Can’t watch TV, because I was too lazy to get up when the cable guy came. Good thing I have my DVDs.

I didn’t hear them walk in, but Jake and Eddie are now standing over me as I lie on my living-room floor in my underwear, listening to a “Feel Better” playlist I made. “Everybody Hurts” by R.E.M. It seems so appropriate. I look up to see how they got in and discover the door is wide-open. Then, I remember I haven’t bothered to close the door since the pizza man left last night. I have lost the capacity to complete normal, frivolous acts, such as closing and locking doors.

“What the fuck is this sad panty-fest?” Jake says.

I try to get up and gather myself. Then, straighten up the area immediately surrounding me. The pizza boxes, pictures from our relationship, cheese-doodle bags, and empty two-liter bottles of Mountain Dew are scattered all over the place. Some are half full, but that’s urine. I’ve also lost the will to get up and walk to the bathroom to take a piss. I hope Eddie doesn’t take off a bottle cap.

“Are you okay, sir?” Eddie says, as he tries to help me clean up.

Before I can reply, Jake says, “Of course he’s not. Look at this motherfucker. And what is the music you’re listening to? It’s making me grow a vagina.”

“R.E.M. Because everybody does hurt,” I reply. “Sometimes they hurt on the inside. Sometimes it’s the outside. Sometimes it’s both—”

Eddie turns off the music that’s playing on my computer.

“Thank you. First good thing you’ve done since I’ve known you,” Jake tells him. Eddie grins at the backhanded recognition.

“Sorry I couldn’t help you move,” Jake says. “I was . . . well, I just didn’t want to.”

“Appreciate the honesty,” I say.

“Where’s all of your furniture?” Eddie asks.

“She took it.”

“You let her have the new furniture you specifically bought for your dream home?” Jake says.

“She made such a compelling argument about her being the one who picked it out and how she needed it more than me. I don’t know. It was one big whirlwind.”

“Goddammit, man. Have some fucking backbone for once,” Jake says.

“It wouldn’t have been the same anyway. She did pick everything out. It would’ve reminded me of her too much.”

“I don’t give a fuck if she chopped down the oak tree and whittled that shit down to form a living-room set. You paid for some of it. It should be yours,” Jake says.

“Well, I paid for all of it, actually.”

“Now, you have no furniture?” Eddie says.

“Can’t afford to get new furniture either. I can’t even afford to pay this mortgage.”

“Jackass,” Jake says. I sadly look at both of them.

“Can you get out of the mortgage?” Eddie says. I shake my head.

“Surprising her with this apartment and ring was stupid. Probably the most stupid thing you’ve ever done,” Jake says. “And you’ve done some stupid-ass shit. See what happens when you don’t consult me before making a major life decision like that? They’re gonna kick you the fuck out of this place. What are you gonna do then?”

I scratch my head and come up with “Roommate?” as I look at Jake.

Which sets him off. “Get the fuck outta here,” he says as he shakes his head vehemently. “Bullshit. You know I can’t do that. I need to do me. And I can’t do me living with nobody, especially you. I’m a grown-ass man. What I look like with a roommate? You sitting around in this filthy place in your tighty-whities like you are now while I’m bringing a legion of badass bitches back home. That would creep bitches out. Shit, that’d creep me out. Come home and you making scrambled eggs at two in the morning on a Saturday, wearing a fedora or whatever strange shit that you do.”

“That only happened once,” I reply. A simple
no
would’ve sufficed. I turn to Eddie. “What about you?”

He didn’t think I’d ask him, I bet. He sees my request as a sign of our friendship and will jump at the opportunity.

“I’m moving in with Katie when we get married.” He begins to reach for his locket, but Jake stops that move by punching him in the arm.

“Ouch,” Eddie says. He senses we don’t want him around. “You know what, I’m gonna go and check out the rest of your new place. Looks pretty nice.”

“Be my guest,” I say. “I would give you the tour, but I’m too sad.”

Eddie wanders off into the bedroom.

“Since both of you are gonna leave me high and dry, I’m a need a surge of income quickly. My entire savings was emptied for the ring and the down payment for this place.”

“You didn’t have much of a savings,” Jake says.

“Well, what I had in my savings and I took out a loan on my 401(k).”

“All of it?” Jake asks.

I say nothing for a moment. Then, “I have so many bills. She even left me with her brother’s rehab bill.”

“What?” Jake says. “Stop paying that immediately.”

“But what if he relapses?”

Jake shakes his head at me. “What were you thinking?” he says. I don’t have a response. “This is exactly like the thing with Felicia. You didn’t think shit through. You got all caught up and in love. She had you watching foreign movies, reading books, eating organic foods, watching the BBC news, and feeling all worldly and shit. That wasn’t you. But you tried to force it.”

“I didn’t force anything.”

“You were about to move with her to New Mexico to work for some community organization that was setting up Internet cafes in low-income neighborhoods along the border,” he says.

“So?”

“You’ve never given a fuck about the community . . . any community. You closed me out, and didn’t even bring it up to me. Because you knew what I was going to say.”

He’s right. I knew exactly what he was going to say. And maybe I knew it was the truth that I was making a huge mistake. But I caught myself. And right when we were loading our U-Haul, I backed out. She never forgave me for that. Not sure if I ever forgave myself. That’s why I didn’t want Jake to know about my proposal to Alexis. Didn’t want him to stop me from reaching my happiness. I think he believes I’m just like him, but I’m not.

Eddie slinks back into the room. “Nice place. Could use a little more decoration, but it’s—”

Jake steps in front of Eddie before he can say something else. “I know you need to get out of this pathetic, sad bitch-fest you got going on here. Put on some clothes, preferably some loose sweatpants, we’re going to the titty bar. I know a place, Brazilian hos. They’ll show you a great time. Then, a massage parlor. I know a great place in Chinatown. That’ll take us to South America and Asia. Bust a few random nuts today and your mind will be clear. Believe me. You’ll forget all about this,” Jake says.

I shake my head. “Nah.”

“‘Nah’? It’s my treat.”

“I don’t think a strip club is the answer. We should rent movies and talk. Maybe order some Chinese food. Be here for support,” Eddie says.

“I’m talking Chinese rubs and tugs, and you want wontons? He’s called out of work for the last week, apparently to eat Cheetos and watch
Facts of Life
reruns on a mini-TV,” Jake says.

“Mrs. Garrett always had all the answers,” I say.

“He needs to heal on his own time,” Eddie says.

“You’re the one stuck doing his work,” Jake tells him.

“I like doing extra work. It’s not a problem at all,” Eddie says. Sad part is, I believe him.

“I hate you. I seriously hate you,” Jake screams at him.

“How rude of me,” I say. I pull up two milk crates and motion them to sit down.

“No thanks. New pants. Prada. They’re not for milk crates,” Jake says.

I lie back down on my air mattress.

“You should hook up with Veronica,” Jake says.

“Who?”

“From the help desk. The computer tech.” I have no idea whom he’s talking about. “She had the picture of her daughter on her desk. Single mom,” Jake continues. Now I remember. “She has a kid. So you know she’s fucking, first of all. Second, you know she’s letting dudes bust up in her raw diggy. I would use a condom, though, for the same reason.”

“Uh . . . I don’t know,” I say.

“Here’s what you do. Take her and her kid to Great Adventure. Spend the weekend with them. She thinks you’re sensitive. You win the kid some fucking giant stuffed Tweety Bird or some shit. I guarantee you’ll be fucking by Wednesday. Then, after you’re done beating it up or hit a few times—it’s up to you, really—but once she gets too clingy, tell her you hate her and were in it only for the sex. Then, you grab all the stuffed animals you won for the kid. That’s real dickhead-ish. So now you’ve offended her and the kid. And she definitely won’t call you again.”

“What’s wrong with you? You’re a flipping sociopath,” Eddie says.

“Why’d she leave me?” My question brings down the tone of the room.

Jake looks at me and says, “Her loss. Forget about that bitch-whore. You should focus on that manager promotion. Get back on your game before you get evicted.”

“You said yourself, I’m not qualified.”

“Yeah, he’s not qualified when compared to Chloe,” Eddie says. “She’s been helping me out this last week, and she’s taught me a lot more than he ever has.”

The phone rings. I want to continue my practice of the last ten days and not pick it up. Jake and Eddie keep waiting for me to answer it.

“If you don’t, I will,” Jake says.

I mope over to the phone. And before I can pick it up, the answering machine gets it. “Hey, son, what is this I heard about Bobby Brown taking your woman? Call me when you get a chance,” my dad says.

“You messed up the only good thing you had going. You’re such a fuckup,” I hear my upset mom scream in the background.

“Shut up, Georgia,” my dad says.

We all share an awkward look. I get a little glummer. And before I can walk away from the phone, it rings again. They look at me as if they don’t think it’ll be good for me to pick it up now, but I throw caution to the wind and grab the phone.

“Hello.” My voice changes from my woe-is-me tone to my professional stern voice. “This is he. . . . Yes, I am still available. I am very interested. . . . I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” I hang up.

“Professional voice?” Jake says.

“I have a job interview tomorrow,” I say. I think my face has actually made a grin.

“I told you. Things are already turning around,” Eddie says, as he raises his hand for an unrequited high-five.

“Where at?” Jake says.

“Becker Financial.”

“You’re not coming into work tomorrow?” Jake says.

“I think I’ll take a half day. Come in for the second half. I’m gonna clean myself up and prepare. I gotta good feeling about this one. You wanna stick around and help me with some mock interview questions?”

“Fuck and no,” Jake replies.

They both leave.

W
ith all of
my various experiences, I’ve developed a very advanced theory on the whole job-interview process. In a nutshell, it’s nothing but a straight-up
hustle
. The employer is trying to hustle me and sell me on their opening. In return, I’m trying to hustle them on giving me the gig. They tell me how great it is to work there, when even they don’t enjoy working there themselves, but the company is their best option right now. They might even be amazed that I want to work there, and try to imagine how shitty my current situation might be. They want to pay me the least amount possible, and I want to earn as much as they’re capable of giving me. It’s a tug of war. They tell me about all the benefits they have and the advantages they provide over their competitors. I embellish a bit on my diligence. How I’ll run through walls for them. “Boy, do I love working late.” If I really want the job, they could ask me to French-kiss a goat and I’d contemplate reaching for my ChapStick. I sell them that I’m into their cause and re-read their mission statement to them. I do any trick possible to prostitute myself. Recently, when in an interview room, I’d accidentally have my iPod go off and play opera to seem cultured. Everything is a lie. I might as well be wearing a mask with my monkey suit and tap-dance all around their office if they want, all with the hope that I will convince them to choose me. When I have to snail-mail a resume out to a job instead of e-mailing, I sometimes stop off at a cathedral and sprinkle a little holy water onto the envelope. And I’m not even Catholic. But I’ve included God and put my afterlife in jeopardy for the quest for a higher-paying job.

This interview is no different. I show up fifteen minutes early. I’m never early for anything, but that’s what I have to do. Sell them on a false reality that I am the perfect employee, because they know nothing about me. All they have is what I tell them and what’s on this sheet of paper, my resume. I can be whomever I want. All I have to do is type it. I can type
President of the United States
. It’s their job to call me on it. I can bluff and say I was making $90,000 a year. It’s their responsibility to check. Whoever flinches first. It’s a career version of chicken. Check my references. Will they check out? It’s for them to tell me.

Sitting in the waiting room, I recite my whole act over and over again in my head. What are my strengths, weaknesses, biggest accomplishments, and so on. Each interview asks basically the same thing. It’s all a matter of getting in a great rhythm, like a musician, and giving them all the answers they want. I’ve learned to eat only a little bit in the morning, for two reasons. First, I don’t want to get nauseated, because sometimes I get nervous. And a full stomach doesn’t help. Like the time I heard the lady fart. If it was a nice gentle one, which it wasn’t, I still would’ve heard it. I can’t have my stomach grumbling, though. Interviews require me to have a nice appetite middle ground.

I continue to go over my practice interview questions in my head with my interview voice. It’s a voice that’s happy and non-confrontational, like a black spokesman from the seventies. Think O.J. Simpson pre–double homicide. Maybe more like LeVar Burton on
Reading Rainbow
.

Mrs. Dasher, white, in her forties and conservatively dressed like a female senator with glasses, wearing a gray pantsuit, walks out into the waiting room. “Kevin, good morning. Nice to meet you.”

She sticks out her hand. I give her a nice firm handshake and follow her to her office.

“Did you have any trouble finding the office?”

“No, I didn’t, actually. I always make sure I leave for any destination with a full hour to spare and with alternate routes planned in case something unexpectedly comes up.”

She looks back at me and nods. I can tell she’s very impressed.

“There is one thing I have to mention, and I apologize deeply. I had to double book this interview time slot. Do you mind sharing your interview with another applicant? If not, I can make the other person reschedule.”

Is this a trick? Is she trying to see how I will react to this scenario? Well, I’m at the complete mercy of her every whim, so there’s nothing else left for me to say but “Of course I don’t mind. The more the merrier, in fact. I’m a team player. Business is about adjusting.” I hope I didn’t daze her with my array of clichés.

“Fantastic, you don’t know how much I appreciate this. Let me get the other applicant.” She exits the room.

What have I done? What if this new person is just whom she’s looking for? And what if the real them is light-years better than the fake me? I think I fucked myself. Should I walk out? I have to stay. I can’t bail out now. Plus, I don’t really remember my way back to the lobby. The office’s layout is pretty confusing. I’ll probably get lost navigating through a maze of cubicles. It’s not really good to be wandering around the place you’re trying to escape. Someone will eventually ask me what I’m doing. Then, I have to say I’m looking for the bathroom. I’m not letting that happen again. This is the new me. When life throws me a curve ball, not only do I try to hit it but I go for the homer. I think that’s how it goes. I really don’t remember my dad’s baseball sayings too well. I’ll tough it out, because this might be a perfect opportunity for me.

A few moments after my temporary nervous breakdown ends, Mrs. Dasher walks back into the room holding a box of donuts. She looks back into the hallway. “Very thoughtful of you to bring breakfast for us, Mr. Belvedere. I’m glad you could come on short notice. But once I saw your credentials, I had to see you as soon as possible.”

She didn’t tell me she
had
to see me.

In comes Dontrelle trailing her, dressed up in a suit. I’ve never seen Dontrelle in a suit, even when he went to Fat Freddy’s funeral. Then, he wore black jean shorts, a purple tank top, and Bruce Lee slippers. He pretends not to notice as I look him up and down in disbelief.

“I apologize for being late. But I had to help an old, decrepit white lady cross the street with her groceries. Then, I walked the groceries up to her apartment steps for her. You know, they walk very slowly. But I couldn’t resist. Those are the types of things I do. Helping out in the community,” he says. He’s never sorry, and I‘ve never heard this tone in his voice. Where’s his normal abrasive volume? He sits down right next to me.

“Kevin, this is Jean-Claude Belvedere,” she says.

“Good morning,” I say while looking into his eyes waiting for him to flinch.

“Let’s get started,” she says.

“Fantastic,” I say.

“Let’s get it on!” Dontrelle shouts in a louder and more enthusiastic tone than mine, as he starts doing the cabbage-patch dance like Arsenio Hall, while sitting in his chair.

“Boy, are you pumped,” she says to him. She shuffles through her papers and says to me, “Why would you like to work for Becker Financial?”

“That’s a great question. If you ask a young baseball player which team he wants to play for, he’ll probably say the Yankees, right? Because if you want to be the best, you want to play with the best. And in my honest opinion, and that of many others, it’s been well documented that Becker Financial is the best.”

“Great, but I’m not much of a baseball fan. Are the Yankees supposed to be good or something?” she asks.

“Don’t ask me. I don’t care for sports either. I’m into art,” Dontrelle says. She smiles at him. “Yep, lots of art.”

“That’s fine as well. But much like that young baseball player, I want to plant my roots here. And grow. Then bloom. I want this corporation to reap my fruits. And benefit from my harvest. I feel Becker Financial is the place for me,” I say. I have alternative answers if the interviewer is a woman and doesn’t know shit about baseball. I’m super-prepared.

Mrs. Dasher looks at Dontrelle, and he’s still looking at me because of the answer I gave. “And you, Mr. Belvedere, same question,” she says.

“Money, I’m not gonna bullshit you like this stuffy clown. Sounding all faggy and shit. I’m trying to get this paper.” She writes something down on her pad. I knew he couldn’t resist showing his true colors and turning her off. This is going to be easy.

“Straight to the point. I like that.” She looks down at her paper for the next question. “Do you work well with others?” she says to me.

I pretend to give the question serious thought, even though it’s one of my many practice questions and I already have a rehearsed answer to give her. “I tend to liken myself to a gymnast. I like to succeed in my individual events. But I find that I am filled with the most joy when I’m part of the total team victory. And I relish the opportunity for the difference between winning and losing to be placed on my shoulders. And I guarantee, I’ll always stick the landing.” Most of the time I’m being interviewed by men, and they can relate to the sports metaphors that I’ve looked up on the Internet. But when it’s a woman, I tweak it to a woman-friendly activity, such as gymnastics.

“Gymnastics, really?” she says. “I had a brother who did gymnastics growing up.”

“Really, that’s fantastic.” I say.

“When he was twelve years old, during practice he missed one of the parallel bars and fell on his head. Broke his spine in three places. He’s been a wheelchair-bound quadriplegic ever since. The bills saddled my family into debt. And my father left us. You could say gymnastics ruined my family.”

Did not expect that. “Sorry to hear that. So sorry.”

“How do you come up with this bullshit?” Dontrelle says to me. Then he turns to Mrs. Dasher. “I only work for teams when I’m the leader. You see this?” he says as he points to his neck tattoo.

“Yes,” she says.

“This means HNIC in Chinese,” he says. Mrs. Dasher looks confused. “Head Nigga in Charge.”

“Oh,” she says.

“Like you,” he continues. “You a Head Nigga in Charge.”

“Well . . . I wouldn’t say that,” she says.

“Believe me. You are. Real recognizes real. And if everyone recognizes that I’m HNIC, then we’re straighter than a dick in a dick-sucking contest. Ya dig? I’m the boss. Always.”

She jots down more notes. “Well, we are looking for take-charge individuals”—she smiles at Dontrelle—“and not followers.” She shakes her head at me. “And you do have a way of explaining things with your colorful language.”

I can’t believe he’s besting me. Why is he even here?

“I have to come clean,” he says. “I actually know Mr. Taylor. I know this is awkward, but I felt wrong deceiving you.”

The truth, finally. I don’t know what game he’s playing, but I’m glad he’s fessing up.

“You know him how?” she says.

“We work together. He works under me. That’s how I can vouch for his experience at taking orders, because he takes them from me very well. Except when he messes up, which is very often. Then, he blames that on other people.”

This has to be some sort of practical joke.

He continues, “And I’ve caught him in his lies many times. And that’s why he’s on probation with the company right now. That’s probably the sole reason he’s here now looking for a new job, because he knows the jig is up at our job.” He leans over the desk and whispers to her, but still loud enough for me to hear. “I also think he steals.” They both shake their heads.

I’m fed up now. I have to say something. “What? That’s a fucking lie. His name isn’t Jean-Claude Belvedere. It’s Dontrelle Jenkins.”

“There he goes with his lies again,” he says calmly. “Keep an eye on your pocketbook. Plus, I saw you left him in here alone when you came to get me. You might want to have the security guard wand him down real quick before he leaves.”

I get up from my seat. Mrs. Dasher clutches her purse. “Shut the fuck up D,” I say.

Dontrelle stands up. He picks up his chair and swings it at me. I duck. He loses his grip on the chair and it goes flying against the wall. I charge him, and we both start grappling. I get the upper hand, and we end up wrestling on top of her desk. Mrs. Dasher, all ruffled up and scared for her life, runs out of the room, yelling, “Help! Security! Blacks are fighting.”

M
y nose is bloodied
. Lip a little swollen. And the back of my interview jacket torn. Now, I have to get a new one for the next interview. But there might not be many interviews in the near future. Most of these human-resources recruiters operate in the same circles. They all have these professional organizations and mixers. It’s pretty inevitable the story of the interview during which a fight broke out between the two applicants will make its rounds from company to company.

Doug, the HR manager at STD, got drunk once and told a crowd of people at our Christmas party a story he heard from his friend who works HR at Varney Corp. For months at Varney Corp there were numerous complaints of vandalism going on in the office. The men’s bathroom was constantly getting terrorized. It started with someone not flushing the toilet. Now, one would think a grown man would flush the toilet, but sometimes it happens by accident. And stranger things have happened in offices—just remember our current boogers-on-the-wall issue. But then he said it gradually became worse. Next, it turned into the stall having urine all over the seat and piss on the toilet paper. That’s some dastardly shit right there. Because if you see pee on a seat, you might decide to wipe it off, then you go and reach for soggy piss-soaked toilet paper. Nasty, I know. Then he said someone started shitting on top of the seat. Right on the rim. That’s fucking mind-blowing. At that point I wanted Doug to stop with the story, but I was drunk too. So I wanted to hear more as well. Then, they started finding office supplies stuck in the toilet. First, it was Post-its. Then, it was a calculator. A big notepad. A three-hole punch. On top of that, they were smearing toilet paper on the walls of the stall.

Now, the cleaning staff was fed up. They began secretly keeping an eye on whoever walked in and out of the bathroom. And they narrowed it down to some guy who no one had complained about before. The cleaning staff would come to clean the bathroom right after he left, and it was all fucked. However, the days when he did not come to work, there were no issues reported. I asked Doug if we could apply the same strategy to the Booger Bandit, but he said it wasn’t a severe enough offense. Go figure. Anyway, his friend scheduled a meeting with the guy to discuss the offenses and see if he would admit to them. When he brought up the complaints, the guy knocked papers off Doug’s friend’s desk, bolted out of the door, and ran down the steps of the office building. Ran all the way to his car and was never heard from again. He didn’t come back to get his shit from his desk. Left pictures, his personalized calendar, a flowerpot, all of that. How bizarre is that? And I bet my interview story is now going to join that story in HR-manager folklore.