Selling it...

I awoke this morning at the beautiful hour of 9:30 am without qualm or worry for a day of duty to the man. Thursday, my Friday, I arranged my absence for a top-secret job interview downtown with the City of Oakland. In evading the boss-man's know of my being still on the market, I told him of an appointment but said no more. Luckily he didn't ask for details and so I didn't lie.

I shaved and got my face real close to the mirror to inspect for cleanliness and made looks of sincerity and honesty in preparation for my interview. A three-person panel would do the questioning again... just like last time, three months ago. I showered and then combed my hair with my fingers and put on the only shirt I find semi-respectable and hurried out the door.

I left the car a few blocks away and found my building heading up to the third floor. At the proper desk I announced my arrival and took a seat. After a few minutes a woman named Joyce informed me that my interview had been canceled and that a message had been left for me. Back in her office we checked the telephone history on her computer (which was pretty hi-tech, I felt, considering the junk-show I was experiencing in HR). On the way out I found myself in the elevator with a young spruced up businessman; we headed down to street level together in deafening silence. With the ding and the doors open we both hesitated offering first departure, psyching each other out a few times, Two polite people... we'll never make it in this world! he shouted after me.

Out on the street I felt a little better. It's funny when you catch yourself thinking of the money you could be making in your free time. That's what I was imagining... the two-hundred bucks I could've made today, instead of wasting my time in dressshoes downtown. Time is money. I always disliked that saying. How do people find so many opportunities to use it? I tried to think of something smarter.

Down half a block I waited for the walk sign and the loud chirp that now signifies it. A leather clad motorcyclist pulled next to the curb wearing a keffiyeh about his neck. He put his gloves on the seat and helmet on the handle, knelt to the rock and tar of 12th street and bowed toward the Pacific Ocean. The electronic bird began chirping in my ear and I headed across the street. I looked back from the adjacent corner and found him still praying, his head only feet away from the wheels of traffic.