Thoughts bounce around my head like pinballs in an arcade machine.
I often get lost in time.
At a glance, it’s 9 a.m. Then, it’s 9:20.
Where did the time go?
Don’t know. But I really could have used those twenty-minutes.
I’m back in real time or stationary chair-butt time, sitting in a fancy reception area waiting for an appointment with a headhunter.
Will I leave with my head or will it end up shrunken, hanging from a chain of teeth? I’m glad I recently had them cleaned.
What’s that? My thoughts burn rubber, as they screech to a stop and idle on idle conversation to my right where a couple spews random chunks of words.
The receptionist makes a cameo appearance.
“You don’t have two forms of ID. You need to come back.”
Employment agencies now require two forms of ID or a passport. They need to be sure that you are not masquerading as an illegal alien version of yourself with a space pod and ray gun.
I was not. I just forgot to bring my passport, the holy grail of citizenship.
Forgetting things makes me late. I was late for the headhunter, which is why I feared for my head. My dog recuperating from knee surgery and a blocked road, like my dog’s bowels, set me back this time.
The warning. A cop sitting in a car with swirling Lindsay Lohan lights, not directed at me but at the blocked road, provide a clue that I had to stop. I did.
Pulling up next to him, I attempted to open the passenger side window. I fumbled with the window lock, which was also four-door locked on the driver’s side, the heart of window central control.
The cop stepped from his car.
Oh, God. Is he going to give me a ticket for being a retard, or is he going to pat me down on suspicion of incompetent behavior? I should be so lucky.
He does neither. He feels sorry for me, pitying my car window dysfunction. I open the door instead.
“The road will be opening soon,” he said.
“How will I know?”
Will there be fireworks or vuvuzela horns?
“I’m going to radio ahead. Pull up behind me —”
“With or without the car?”
“— In the car, when I move, you’ll know the road block has been Metamucilized.”
I made that up.
I follow Mr. Cop to a stop and wait for the signal to move up his rear.
Seconds later, Mr. Cop edges forward. I gun the gas, head down the ramp, and take a right hairpin turn onto corporate park road, eventually ending up in waiting room purgatory.
In a blitzkrieg attempt to prevent my ass from falling asleep, I blindside the receptionist at the glass window. The window is shut, the receptionist MIA.
I return to my seat and stare at the other glass appointment in the room, the door. Although it doesn’t have an appointment and doesn’t need to fill out forms, a pile thick deep, that require a signature on the bottom sheet. A one-sentence disclaimer follows at the top of the next page.
Disclaimer: If directionally impaired and chronically late due to impairment, you must surrender your first your paycheck and first-born son.
Two questions befuddle me: The date and time. Who the hell knows? I’m still stuck in a retro thought jag from 2009, while skipping down the tangentially-inclined yellow brick road that leads back to unemployment Oz.