"I got the golden ticket!"

Last year I interviewed for a job and did not get it (obviously). The HR person I interviewed with was one of the worst examples of HR ignorance and arrogance I have ever encountered. The HR person was young and very self-important. It was obvious the "I have a job and you don't, and I am in the position of making or breaking your opportunities for employment" aspect of the HR - candidate dynamic had gone straight to the ego. But I sucked up and played the game and got through to the second and third round of interviews, which went well.

The hiring manager (in an executive level position) was very nice, she even actually phoned me to explain the only reason they didn't select me for the position was because the other top candidate had the exact client experience in the industry of their top client. She wanted me to know that I was perfectly qualified and a great candidate and a nice person, perfect for her team, but the other candidate had very specific client experience so it made more project sense to hire the other candidate. I understood, and I thanked her for personally following up with me. She told me she'd send me any other openings that might open up and encouraged me to keep applying at her company.

Good to her word, about six months ago she sent me a job posting and I applied, and received a standard rejection email from HR. Then, last week she sent me another email with a newly posted job and suggested I apply. I thanked her profusely and spent three hours carving out a thorough application. I mentioned the hiring manager who sent me the job postingUnder the "How did you hear about this position" section.

Today I received this email from the ignorant, arrogant HR person:

We received your application for [ABC job] at [XYZ, Inc.].

After reviewing your candidate file we discovered you were not selected for two previous positions at [XYZ, Inc.]. You will not be considered for the [ABC job]. This is your third strike. We have removed your candidate profile from our database. All future applications you submit to [XYZ, Inc.] will be similarly deleted. [XYZ, Inc.] feels you are not an appropriate fit for our company culture.

True, this wasn't a form rejection email, which is refreshing. When you spend significant time and thought on a job application it's nice to have a personal response. And I always appreciate candor and constructive advice. And I like that he didn't hide behind a generic signature, he took full responsibility for the rejection email by signing his name and three, count 'em three, lines of a job title. (Ever notice the correlation between age and job titles? The younger, more junior level the person, the longer and fluffier the job title.)

It's certainly the most blunt rejection letter I've received, so kudos there, too.  Message received, loud and clear. I'm not an [XYZ, Inc.] kind of person. If I were basing my opinion of [XYZ, Inc.] solely on the HR person, I would wholeheartedly agree that I am not an appropriate fit for their company culture.

However.

There is the matter of the woman who suggested I apply to the position. She is the polar opposite of the HR person. So I'm confused as to what [XYZ, Inc.]'s culture is. Is it the snide HR nitwit, or the pleasant, professional executive? Is she a lone wolf, a renegade who doesn't fit in at [XYZ, Inc.], or is the HR person an jerk wielding what little power he has over lowly job candidates who are no threat to him?

The executive is far senior to the HR guy.  If I were an angry, spiteful, sore loser I would forward the rejection email to her. But I'm not angry or spiteful. I'm the kind of person who routinely earned good sportsmanship awards and got extra civics points.

I could query her with my actual sentiment: Confusion. "Thank you for suggesting the [ABC position], I applied and was summarily rejected. Perhaps I was not the right fit for the position, and it seems HR feels that I am not the right fit for [XYZ, Inc.], either. I very much appreciate your efforts in suggesting job postings to me, but I am now confused as to whether or not I should proceed with any future openings."

Apart from the HR nitwit, I would very much like to work at this company so I don't want to burn any bridges or come off in any way unprofessional. Going over the head of an HR person with an overinflated sense of importance is never a good idea. I learned that lesson a long time ago. And the rejection email is very clear. There is no gray area nor room for interpretation.

Some will say, "Trill, you have nothing to lose. Forward the email to the nice executive who suggested you apply to the position. If take this HR ninny down in the process, so bet it. You're doing a lot of people at [XYZ, Inc.] a huge favor."

And I would agree with that point of view, but...coming off as a snarky backstabber is not the optimal image to cultivate when one is in desperate need of a job.

So. Another day, another job hunting farce. 


“Would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?”

Another day, another seven, count 'em seven job rejections.

I'll have to refer to my spreadsheet and run the numbers, but I believe that's a one-day record.

Six of them used the same three sentences all HR departments send to rejected candidates. I know them by heart.

We wanted to follow up with you on the status of your application for the position of [whatever].  While we were impressed with your qualifications, we have decided to pursue other candidates who are a  closer match for the position.

Please feel free to apply for other open positions that you are interested in.

Apparently there are a lot of candidates with professional backgrounds that are a closer match than I am to the position of working a 4 AM shift of donning a hair net and and plastic gloves and putting pre-made frozen bagels and bread into ovens and removing them when the timer beeps.

Apparently there are a lot of people who are a closer match than I am to the position of opening boxes, counting items, placing an "x" in the received column and placing them on a shelf.

Apparently there are a lot of people who are a closer match than I am to an after hours position of cleaning and sanitizing a day care.

Apparently there are a lot of people who are a closer match than I am to managing the exact same type of clients I managed in my last job. (actually, that's probably true - there are a lot of us and most of us are unemployed)

The seventh, and most recent (hey, the day's not over, there could be another rejection headed my way!) offered insight as to why I didn't get the job.

Regarding your application for the position of creative services manager.  While we were impressed with your high level of qualifications, we have decided to pursue a more creative candidate

Okay, in my field that's a common rejection reason. Employers are often looking for a very specific "look" or creative methodology in a candidate's book of previous projects.

But get this: The company that rejected me today because I wasn't creative enough is a company that distributes industrial construction supplies - lag bolts, concrete saw blades,  bull pins, that sort of thing. Mind you, they do not manufacture, design or have anything to do with the items other than distributing them. Further, during the three interviews I had with them, it was stressed that the position is primarily updating existing materials (which consist primarily of product listings and price sheets). They don't want to reinvent their marketing plan because the existing "plan" works and since they have a good relationship with the state and federal construction purchasers. They supply materials to government construction projects, so the job requires handling two sets of pricing structures, government and non-government. The "government, and non-government" factor was repeated and emphasized several times during the interview process.

The irony is that during the interview process I kept thinking, "They don't really need a creative services or marketing person because they're happy with what they have and they don't want to change anything other than pricing."

I went in there brimming with ideas, but when I asked questions like, "Have you tried something like XYZ?" Or, "Do you target 123 audience?" They cut me off with, "We don't do that. We're very content with our current pieces. We really just need someone to manage the updates and make sure the sales team has current price lists."

And yet they rejected me because they are pursuing a more creative candidate.

Us job seekers are supposed to use rejections as valuable insight. We're supposed to glean wisdom and take rejections as advice on where we need to improve ourselves and our skill sets.

Okay, I'm not creative enough. I'm not creative enough to update price sheets, maintain two sets of price sheets (government and non-government) and make sure the sales team has current information.

It isn't even worth wasting one of my WTF free passes on this.

If they were an agency with clients spending $$$ and expecting trendy or sophisticated design and innovation, I would completely understand. Those types of jobs require someone with very distinct project and client background and a very particular vision and dynamic strategy. But these people don't even swutting manufacture anything. They order construction materials from manufacturers, put them in boxes and re-sell them to construction purchasing agents. Further, they don't want to change anything, by their own admission, they're "very content with our current pieces." And, they "really just need someone to manage the updates and make sure the sales team has current price lists." I could understand if they said, "We're pursuing a more boring candidate." Or, "We're pursuing a far less experienced candidate." Or, "We pursuing a candidate with government contract experience." But they didn't say that. They said they are pursuing a more creative candidate.

I can't let this stuff get to me, and I rarely do, but every now and then the rejections are so nonsensical that I think it must be me, it must be something I really do not understand, maybe there's a language barrier or maybe I just smell funny. But I need to learn what it is that I don't understand. Because I really, really, really need a job. 

Geeze, seven rejections in one day? Good grief. Anyone read anything about suicide rates among the unemployed lately? I stopped looking at that data because it was too upsetting to me. But if you're wondering why or how someone could kill themselves over a job rejection, now you know. It's frustrating, confusing and nonsensical.

I dunno. I really do not know what to do. Obviously I'm doing something very, very wrong in the job hunt and I would love (love) helpful personal insight and advice as to what I'm doing wrong, what skills I need to acquire, what personality traits I need to develop...anything.  

I've had a lot of interviews. I've experienced situations that are never discussed in the job interview tips articles. I could write a book on real interview situations, some of the crazy (and illegal) stuff that goes down on the job hunt. Forget the ideal interview situations discussed in interview tips articles, if you are honest and experience enough to perform all the tasks required for the job, and you aren't creepy or flaky, and you've practiced answers to the questions most often asked at interviews, you are basically prepped for an "ideal" interview. And if you're lucky, you'll only have to endure "ideal" interviews. But for the rest of us who are in competitive fields where there have been tremendous downsizings over the past few years, well, most job interviews are less than ideal. I have a lot of experience to draw from in the ideal and not-so-ideal job interview realm, so apart from the, you know, "my entire existence is riding on this interview" anxiety, I go into interviews reasonably confident.

Apparently over confident.

Because I had a new experience that brought me down to earth. Literally.

I had an interview at a suburban outpost of a multinational corporation. You know the kind of place, sprawling generic faintly Bauhaus-istic post-modern architecture. Freakishly uniformly green and uniformly trimmed shrubbery, perfectly blossoming ground cover. Several pristine flags perfectly aligned and waving in a gentle breeze. Freshly tarred visitor's parking lot. Sidewalks all leading to one main entrance. Puffy clouds dotting a perfectly azure sky. I  thought, "You know, maybe working in the suburbs wouldn't be so awful. This seems like a nice place."

One second I was walking from the parking lot to the main entrance, thinking, "What a gorgeous day! What a great job opportunity! I studied the company info, I memorized the job description and have examples to illustrate how I'm qualified to do this job. I'm going to ace this interview and start working next week!" The next second I was splayed out on the sidewalk, my ankle, knee, hip, back, shoulder and head all vying for attention.

My existing foot and ankle issues have been getting progressively worse. I do balance exercises, but it's clear my foot and ankle issues are growing increasingly worse. If I'm walking for any distance or on uneven terrain I generally use a cane. I've had too many falls in the last couple years to let pride or vanity keep me from using a cane on longer distance jaunts. I still hate it, but, after suffering the aftermath of a couple bad falls with no health insurance, practicality wins over pride. Turns out, pride really does goeth before a fall, but it really goeths after a few falls.

But.

I never, ever use a cane when I go to job interviews. And I dose up on topical pain meds just prior to the interview in an effort to mask any sign of abnormal gait.

In the aftermath of my fall I  discerned that unfortunately, a badly protruding section of sidewalk combined with my inability to fully raise and flex my foot resulted in me catching my toe on the heaved edge of the sidewalk which resulting in me falling and landing splayed out across the sidewalk, over the curb and into the parking lot.

Because I was splayed over the curb, the upper half of my body was about 6" lower than the lower half. I was in pain from head to foot. I was like a turtle on its back. The bucolic splendor of the pristine office building now seemed like a sinister ruse, that everything good about this place was a cover for something evil.

Confirming that (albeit paranoid) concern was a maintenance guy trimming the shrubs. I know he saw me fall, or, at least saw me splayed out on the sidewalk, because while I was on the ground trying to stand up from where I landed when I fell, I saw him pause and look at me for a prolonged period of time, as if he was deciding if I was worth his effort. In the end he decided to make no attempt to help me and went back to work, ignoring me as I tried to rock and twist myself upright over the curb and onto the sidewalk.

I try really hard to force away thoughts like the ones that occurred to me, but sometimes, for a flicker of a moment, I allow myself a self-pitying moment. If I were 24, petite, blonde and hot, that guy would have been falling over himself to help me. It's a useless, stupid thought, and truly, I don't go around thinking thoughts like that. But. I've seen it played out too many times to pretend it's not true. I recently saw a middle-aged heavier-set woman slip and fall at Costco. The place was packed with Sunday afternoon shoppers. Many of them were young, able-bodied men, standing around bored, nothing better to do than help a fallen middle-aged heavier-set woman. When she fell, they all looked up from their smartphones, and took a look at her on the cement floor, but didn't make a move to help. The younger women didn't help her, either. An elderly couple and I were the only three people in the crowd who helped her. Meanwhile, about a month ago, a young, inebriated, petite blonde girl with what I believe were fake boobs, stumbled, slightly, at an outdoor patio restaurant, but caught herself on the Tiki bar. Men, young, old, and everything in-between, sprang up from their tables to help the poor, helpless drunk girl who almost fell. There were at least 10 men falling over themselves to help the poor girl who almost fell. I know it's just life, and of course it's not fair, and of course it speaks to a lot of social and anthropology issues, but it sucks. Young and/or pretty = help worthy, must save the shining specimen for future use in the gene pool. Not young and/or pretty = you're on your own, lie there writhing in pain until you die for all anyone cares.

Eventually I managed to get on my feet.

I was going into an interview so my main concern was if I looked presentable. I assessed the visual damage: Right palm scraped and bleeding. Right elbow of suit noticeably scraped/frayed. Shoes scuffed. My knee took the initial impact, and the worst looking damage: Knee of suit pants torn open, revealing bleeding knee.

My interview was scheduled to take place in 12 minutes. I had 12 minutes to figure out how to reassemble myself. I could probably strategically hide the scraped elbow of my suit, and maybe no one would notice my scuffed shoes, but there was no hiding my torn pants, bloody knee and palm.

And I'm not even going into the pain issues. Mind over matter. Interview on my mind, taking precedent over the matter of pain.

This is a first for me. Suffering physical injury at a job interview. 

Just when I thought I'd endured every possible scenario at a job interview, this happens.

And in all the articles and books I've read about job interviews, in all the video prep courses and discussions I've had, the subject of falling and ripping your clothes and sustaining bloody injuries while walking into a job interview has, strangely, never been broached.

So I had nothing to draw upon, no resource to tap. I was on my own and flying blind. And I had 12 minutes to figure out what to do.

1) Slink away. Call the person I'm interviewing with and apologize, say I've had an accident on the way to the interview and try to reschedule.

2) Go into the lobby, find a bathroom, try to clean myself up and explain to the interviewer what happened.

3) Call, cancel the interview, lie, say I've accepted another job, lick my wounds (literal wounds), and forget this ever happened.

Option 1 made the most sense to me. I scenarios of me extending a bloodied hand for an introduction handshake, me sitting in a conference room in a torn suit and oozing wounds, and me attempting to smile and conduct an interview as if nothing was wrong played out in my head. Option 2 is definitely a no-go.

As I gathered my purse and portfolio a woman leaned out the main entry door.

"Are you okay? I saw you fall from my window," she yelled, gesturing to the general area of the front of the building.

Oh crap. Someone saw me. Of course someone saw me. The building has windows for walls. Probably everyone sitting on that side of the building saw me. Well then. So much for slinking away unnoticed.

"Yeah, I think I'll be okay," I yelled, trying to convince myself as much as her.

A man appeared behind her in the entry door. He didn't say anything but started to make his way toward me. I thought he just happened to be walking to the parking lot.

I was wrong. He stopped about a yard in front of me, sizing up my torn suit and bloodied flesh wounds. He didn't say anything. I still thought he just happened to be walking to the parking lot.

The woman was still leaning out of the entry door, looking at us.

The man said, "You trip?"

No, I just walk around in a torn suit with exposed, bleeding wounds. Doesn't everyone?

Instead I did that polite thing most of us do when we've sustained an injury in an accident, affected an "oh silly me" tone and affably chuckled, "Yes, I guess I did! It happened so fast...I must have caught my toe or heel of my shoe on the sidewalk," gesturing toward the heaved concrete. 

He knelt down to have a look at the sidewalk. That's the first time I noticed he had some papers in his hand.

He surveyed the sidewalk closely, looked at me, and said, "We have some forms for you to sign."

I kid you not. Forms for me to sign.

The thought of, "Lawsuit!! Negligence!!" hadn't entered my mind. But now it did. Not that I would sue over something like this. And even, if I remotely thought about it, my pre-existing foot issues would lay at least half the blame on me, anyway. I was negligent by not using my cane to assist me due to my foot and ankle injuries and resulting balance issues.

But.

I didn't like how quick on the trigger this company was to dispense an accident investigation team, armed with some sort of papers for me to sign, most likely to waive rights to legal action against them.

Or maybe I was wrong, maybe he was from HR and figured I was there for the interview and he just happened to be carrying application forms when he heard the news about a woman falling in front of the building. I admonished myself for jumping to the worst conclusion.

"Forms?" I said, questioning politely.

"Standard waivers, releases."

So much for admonishing myself. Go ahead, think the worst. Because apparently this company, or this guy assumes the worst of me.

The interview remained omnipresent in my mind. I decided to ignore him - and his forms.

"I'm here for an interview, I need to call Jane Stevens and let her know I'm going to be late, or reschedule my appointment. Excuse me."

With my non-bleeding hand I fished my phone and the number of the interviewer out of my purse as a sign of dismissal to the guy with the release forms.

The form guy stood there watching me. The woman was still leaning out the main entry door. It was probably paranoia, but, I "felt" like lots of eyes were watching me through the window walls of the building.

I got the interviewer's voice mail. I left a message saying I had a little accident on the way to the interview, that I was running late or maybe we could reschedule. 

As I ended the call and slipped my phone back into my purse, I noticed another woman at the entry door. The guy with the forms said, "There's Jane."

Oh great. No slinking away to lick my wounds in solitude.

The form guy started toward the door. I didn't know what to do. I made a couple cautious steps and pain shot from my ankle up through my bleeding knee to my stinging hip and to my throbbing shoulder. It was probably 75 feet to the door but it seemed like 75 miles. On shards of glass.

The newly appeared woman, Jane, who I presumed was my interviewer, was now walking toward either the form guy or me. She stopped to talk to the form guy, and the had a brief exchange. Her gaze never left me.

So I thought, "What the heck, I'm obviously the topic of conversation, I might as well just limp on over there instead of standing here looking pathetic and paralyzed."

As soon as I started walking toward Jane and the form guy, Jane resumed a hasty pace toward me.

"Hi, I'm Jane Stevens." She smiled and offered me her hand to shake. I didn't want to offer her a bloody palm so I gave an apologetic glance at my hand, introduced myself, apologized for my appearance.

"I heard you fell. I'm sorry that happened. Come on in, you can use our ladies room to clean up. We can reschedule your interview, or, if you'd like we can talk in a few minutes."

I raced through the options and thought it would be weird to conduct a job interview under these circumstances. And there was a bigger issue nagging at me. The job I was there to interview for was a client-facing role and I knew they were appraising me not just for my qualifications, but also for my fitness to interact with clients. Behavior at the interview, a first meeting, is often seen as a mirror as to how a candidate will behave when meeting clients.

My mind was racing to figure out what the "right" thing to do would be if this were a client situation. If I'd been on my way to meet with a client, fell and injured myself in their parking lot 15 minutes before the meeting. I realized I haven't explored this topic before, either. And didn't recall reading or hearing about this sort of thing in relation to client meetings, either.

Note to self: I can't be the first person to ever fall in the parking lot on the way into a job interview or client meeting. Google this and figure out what the best "solution" is for this so I can have it in my artillery for the next time I trip and fall on the way to a job interview or client meeting.

But in the there and then I couldn't come up with the "best" solution. If I went along with the interview it would show selfless enthusiasm, can-do spirit, and focus in the face of disaster...but tarnishes the polish of the image. If I rescheduled, it would show concern for image, but disregard for others involved.

I did some quick reputation math and opted to go inside, clean up and go through with the interview.

The form guy and the original woman leaning out the main entry door were gone. It was just me and Jane. She led me, at a fast clip, into the lobby and key-carded me through a glass door and down a hall adjacent to a sprawling cube farm. My ankle and knee were throbbing and I could feel blood dripping down my leg from my wounded knee. I was struggling to keep up with her. She said she was taking me to a private bathroom, but any bathroom would have been okay, the closer the better.

We eventually made our way to what must have been the executive offices. She slid her key card through a reader on an inlaid wood door and, it was like arriving in Valhalla. Or a very swanky ladies lounge at a very swanky hotel. She held the door open long enough for me to enter and said she'd be right back with Band-aids and first aid cream. She reappeared shockingly fast, I'd barely made my way to the sink to wash my hands and assess the damage to the rest of me. She came over to the vanity and set down an industrial sized box of Band-Aids and a huge tube of antiseptic ointment, a small perfunctory first aid kit and a couple safety pins, then motioned to a reception desk and told me to talk to Joyce when I was ready. Then she left me alone to tend to my wounds.

My shoulder and hip weren't aching as badly. That was the one positive aspect. My wrist was swelling, my knee looked like something from a flesh eating zombie movie, and my ankle was swollen twice its normal size. I briefly pondered the difficulty of getting my shoe off that foot after the interview and forced the thought away. My leg and arm were already turning blue with welts and bruises, so many that it was difficult to find non-bruised areas. Great.

I checked out the first aid kit. Basic supplies, including iodine. Hmmmm. Iodine. I could end this all right here, right now. Open wounds. Severe iodine allergy. Bottle of iodine. One quick swipe of the iodine across my knee or palm and I could end this all, right here, right now, in this swanky ladies lounge in the suburbs. I thought about Jane finding me convulsing on the floor and decided I didn't need to do that to her. So I cleaned my knee and hand with hand soap, put the antiseptic cream on them, and began laying a patchwork of Band-Aids over the 3" diameter wound on my knee. I had Tylenol with me, but nothing to wash it down. I comforted myself with, "Later you can take the entire bottle and wash it down with vodka and end this misery once and for all." I stepped into a huge toilet stall, took off my pants, folded the torn edges and safety pinned the tear as tightly as I could with three safety pins on the inside so they wouldn't show. I returned to the swanky lounge and combed my hair, reapplied some lipstick, took several deep breaths, summoned all my reserves to pretend everything was normal. "You can deal with your injuries later, just pretend everything's normal for the duration of the interview. Rise above, Trill. Mind over matter."

Joyce and a couple other women huddled around the reception desk stopped their hushed conversation as soon as I appeared in the doorway. Great. I haven't even had the interview, yet, and I'm already the topic of office gossip.

The approach to the reception desk was paved with shiny, slippery tile. With my good ankle now swollen and screaming and pain, and my bad foot/ankle its usual unstable self, I had no solid footing and the inability to gain any traction on the slippery floor was only adding to the obstacle course this interview had become. I decided to manage this interview one task at a time, not think too far ahead. Right now, the task getting my full concentration was not falling on the slippery tile approach to the reception desk...while trying to look like I was walking normally. Mind over matter. Fine! Everything's fine! It's a beautiful day and I am feeling great! Enthusiastic! Friendly! Mind. Over. Swutting. Matter.

Other than the receptionist, the women evaporate. Joyce has one of those heavily spackled make-up jobs that hide all emotion. She smiles but the rest of her face doesn't move. Might be more than just make-up preventing her face from moving or showing any sign of emotion. She greets me with a hello, as if I had entered like anyone else, without bloodied and swollen limbs. Professional. This woman is a pro at this. Good for her. I like that in a receptionist. She can gossip all she wants, but when she greets people, which is her job, she should be void of any emotion other than delight at greeting whomever stands at her desk. In spite of the gossiping, I decide I like Joyce. Old school receptionisting is a dying art. I respect her obviously well-honed skills.

I return her smile and tell her I'm here to see Jane Stevens, she calls Jane and asks me to have a seat. I ponder this. If I sit down I may not be able to get back up again. I back away from the reception desk, getting out of Joyce's "space" and clearing the way for any other arrivals she may need to greet. As I ponder whether or not I can manage sitting down and getting back up again, Jane appears.

Okay, here we go! It's showtime!

"All cleaned up, I see?" Jane asks.

"Yes, thank you very much for the supplies."

"None to worse for wear, I hope?"

"Not too bad," I lie through what I hope is a sincere smile.

Jane walks along at a fast clip, leading me to a conference room. There are three people already seated and waiting for me. This I am prepared for. Never, ever assume that just because they don't tell you you'll be facing a group of people for an interview that it will be a one-on-one interview. I am not thrown by the extra people or the huge conference room environment. I am no stranger to conference rooms. I am comfortable in them. Even steaming hot conference rooms like this one. Oh Jane. Jane, Jane, Jane. That's one of the oldest tricks in the book. Turn up the thermostat in the room where the interview will take place. Child's play.

Jane makes the excuses for me to the assembled team.

"Trillian had a bit of a tumble on the way in today. She wants to continue with the interview as scheduled so we've got her cleaned up." Jane smiles somewhat ingratiatingly as she says this. It may be paranoia, again, but I get the distinct impression Jane would have preferred me to have left instead of soldiering on with the interview.

She has no idea who she's dealing with. She has zero clue that I have been mugged, assaulted, shoved down train station stairs, worked for a moronic bully, worked with a team of sycophantic numbskulls incapable or original thought, diplomatically handled last minute bizarre requests from all manner of clients and have suffered more weirdness and insults from men in the dating realm than most groups of 20 women have suffered collectively. She has no idea what I've endured in 2 and a half years of job interviews for every type of job I'm remotely qualified to perform, or that I've lost everything, my possessions, my home, everything to the crappy economy, the crappy job market, the crappy housing marketing and that since the age of 10 the Universe has been mocking me with weird obstacles and horrible timing. So. Bring it on, Jane. Bring. It. On.

I take a seat next to Jane and we're off!

The interview proceeds as if I didn't look like I just came off a battle field. The team, who are in varying degrees of noticeable perspiration,  rapid fire questions at me. I respond by citing quantified examples of similar situations I encountered in the past and how I managed them. I volley by asking questions about their company, their clients and their goals and strategy to obtain them and what someone in the open position will bring to help them reach those goals and manage the strategy. They try, oh how they try to throw me off course by tossing in what they think are off the wall questions, but they're not off the wall to me. I've been asked much weirder, much more illegal questions in interviews. What team sports did I play in school? What's my birth order? What's my favorite color? Come on guys, you gotta do better than that to jar my confidence.

One by one the openly sweating team leaves the room and finally it's just me and Jane. Her perfectly applied makeup has gone from dewy to all out sweat, she tried to affect an overly jovial tone, "Well, thank you! That was certainly an informative session."

"Thank you, Jane! It was a pleasure to meet the team and learn about your company and your future plans for the department."

And then she found a way to throw me off course. From out of her notepad she produced the release forms the form guy wanted me to sign on the sidewalk.

"There's just a small matter of the release forms from your, uh, 'fall' out front."

I want this job. I do not want to sue them. The fall was as much my fault as it was theirs.

If I sign the forms I might have a real shot at this job. If I don't sign them, there's no way I'll ever hear from them again.

There's not an option. I briefly read the forms and signed them. Which seemed to please Jane. The ingratiating smile reappeared.

And I asked for copies.

Which seemed to annoy Jane. The fake smile was replaced by a terse pursing of her lips. "Yes, of course," she said very formally, "I'll be right back."

The second I was alone in the conference room every wounded part of my body screamed for attention. It was as if my body knew it had to leave me alone during the interview, but now it could make demands of me. I'm not sure if it was nerves or the pain or the extremely hot conference room, but, now I was also feeling sick to my stomach.

I started fantasizing about a huge bottle of Tylenol and shoulder to foot ice packs.

Making copies of three forms seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time.

Jane finally reappeared with the form guy from the parking lot.

She introduced me to him as "Bob," said she'd be in touch and left the room. "Bob" gave me a forced smile and asked me how I was feeling.

"Okay, considering."

"Considering...?"

You were there, "Bob," you saw me out there, torn suit, bleeding, shaken from falling. "Considering I fell on the sidewalk," I said, trying to hide all traces of sarcasm. I don't know what "Bob's" role in this company is, but, better to not get on his bad side.

"Oh yes, right," Right. As if you forgot all about that, "Bob." "Jane told me you signed the release forms. Did you have a chance to read them before you signed them?"

I was fairly certain "Bob" is the company's legal adviser.

"Not as thoroughly as I would have liked, but they seem like standard release waivers."

"Yes, yes that's what they are. We are concerned about your well being, of course, but we want to be clear that we agree that we are not negligent in any way."

It's a little discouraging that the they're so aware and concerned about negligence and litigation that they have a legal adviser and release waivers ready and waiting to pounce on any situation that could be construed as negligence. Sure, Jane gave me Band-Aids and a first aid kit. They offered to let me reschedule the appointment. They did some due diligence. But, it was clear from the moment "Bob" came rushing out to the sidewalk, release waivers in hand, that their first and primary concern was that I would sue them. I'm sure there are people out there who would do that. I'm sure there are people out there who would orchestrate the situation for the sole purpose of suing. But. I am not one of those people and I resent being treated like one. I know, I know, "Bob" and Jane don't know me and don't know what my motivations are. But still, c'mon, after the interview I gave? I was clearly there for and focused on the job interview. Do they really think an eager candidate like me is going to ruin her chances at the job by suing them?

I'm unemployed. I'm basically homeless. I can barely pay my cell phone bill. I don't have money to even make a phone call to a lawyer, let alone hire one to take on a negligence law suit where I was equally negligent.

No, "Bob" and Jane don't know any of that. Looking at it from their perspective, I could be months of litigation in the making. Or at least that's what they seem to think of me.

I finally said, "I tripped and fell. It was an accident. And I want to get home and get some ice on my knee and ankle."

"Of course, of course," "Bob" said through a clenched teeth smile. I noticed beads of perspiration on his forehead. The conference room was so hot it's impossible to say if he was worried or just really hot.

He wordlessly stood up and walked to the door, made a sweeping gesture to me and said, "After you."

He escorted me past Joyce, through the cube farm and to the main lobby. He made a move to shake my hand, so I gave him a feeble bandaged handshake.

"Nice meeting you. Jane will be in touch. Have a nice day!"

Have a nice day? Really? Really "Bob?" Have a nice day? Play the game, Trill, just play the game.

"Thanks! You, too!"

When I got home and did a full body assessment the damage was, indeed, shoulder to toe. I'm reasonably certain my ankle is sprained. Pretty much the entire right side of my body was blue with bruises. I contemplated filling the tub with ice and laying in it, but I was afraid that once I got into the tub I wouldn't be able to get out. So. I made a bed of ice packs and laid on them all afternoon. My knee stopped bleeding the next day and a week later, the bruises have turned from blue, to purple and now yellowish/brownish. My hand still hurts, but the scrape is healing. I'm on the mend.

The suit was irreparable. The elbow wasn't just worn and frayed, upon closer inspection it, too, was torn. Fortunately I have a couple interview appropriate suits, but that was my favorite one. Straight to the trash. Nothing to salvage.

I sent a thank you note to Jane and the team members, but haven't heard a word from them.

I'll give a follow up call this week but history has taught me that if the interviewer doesn't contact me within a few days of the first interview, they're focusing on other candidates. I thoroughly expect a form rejection email by the end of the week.

And that's okay. I'm used to rejection. Just another drop in the bucket. But. This one's different because of the whole "tripped on their sidewalk" and "release waivers" thing. Are they not hiring me because I stayed to interview while I was bleeding through a torn suit? Are they not hiring me because I tripped and fell on their sidewalk? These are not questions I usually have after an interview. And there's very little info about this sort of thing. I read a few synopsis where people have been injured during job interviews and attempted to sue. So. It does happen. But interesting that it never comes up in discussions and interview prep drills.

A few of my friends admonished me for signing the forms. "You waived your rights! That was stupid! You know better than to sign anything in that kind of situation!" "They are negligent! They failed to properly maintain their property!" "My brother knows a really good personal injury lawyer!"

I was kind of surprised at their reactions. I didn't realize my friends were so litigious.

My only response was, "I wanted that job. I need that job."

My friends don't understand that. They counter with, "Exactly! You have no health insurance! You have no money! That's exactly why you should sue them!"

All I can offer is a meek, "I don't want to threaten them. I need that job." It sounds really pathetic when I hear myself say it. Especially in my swollen, bruised and scabbed state.

And that's when it occurred to me: Maybe I've finally hit bottom. I doubt there's much more I can endure in the name of securing employment. I'm pretty sure I've now experienced every worst case job interview scenario.

Nowhere to go but up, right?

Here's hoping.

There are mostly downsides to unemployment. Not a lot of upsides. So far I've been able come up with exactly one upside: I no longer have to deal with my incompetent, mind-blowingly moronic former manager. And, true, that's no small thing. It's actually a really good thing. Being away from her is good for me in a lot of ways.

But.

That doesn't keep me warm at night. Or feed me. Or put a roof over my head.

Unemployment, and the phases you go through during unemployment, are confusing, demoralizing, humiliating and soul crushing. Pride? Dignity? Oh please, those were gone the third month of unemployment.

I've experienced and endured so much that I've reached a state of emotional entropy. Nothing phases me. With notable few (and extreme) exceptions, there's nothing anyone can say or do to make me feel any worse than I already do. I'm pretty sure I've experienced every emotion there is to experience, so there's not really anything left to feel.

I'm an emotional zombie.

And yes, I kinda already was emotionally dead. I worked hard to get to a place of emotional ambivalence after the breakup with HWNMNBS and it worked. So in a perverse (and clinically disturbing) sense, I could be grateful for the breakup because it forced me to strive for emotional ambivalence, which I then achieved, and so, now, when dealt with another life-altering blow I had emotional tools to cope. Gives cred to the concept that everything happens for a reason. Good and bad.

All in all, it's just another brick in the wall and I'm emotionally comfortably numb. You know it's bad when Pink Floyd summarizes your life outlook.

So I'm in this emotional zombieland, thinking emotional stasis is the best I can hope for, and taking solace and comfort in knowing I'm able to maintain an emotional ambivalence plateau.

And then blam!

Something happens to disrupt my altered sense of well-being.

I took my mother's car to the gas station. And not just the local gas station that's been in my hometown forever. She was riding on fumes so I pulled into the crappy, dirty, scary, gas station/party store in the unchartered scrub area on the outskirts of the wrong side of town. (Okay, to be fair, my hometown doesn't really have a wrong side of town, but you know what I mean. Almost every town has an adjacent area that's a little sketchy.)

My mother gave me money to fill up the car so I was paying cash. So I had to pay first. And I had zero clue what the final dollar amount would be because I was filling up.

I walked in and the guy working there was reading a boobs magazine. I didn't catch the title, but by the looks of the back cover advertising and low quality paper and printing it was something even crappier than Juggs. The floor was filthy (sticky and dirt tracked) and there was a putrid smell I forced myself to attribute to the jerky of various animals in a repurposed oversize pickle jar. A handwritten label taped to the jar said, "Jerkey  deer rabit beef wild turky" I desperately wanted the smell to be deer or "rabit" "jerkey." But something, intuition, I suppose, told me the source of the putrid smell was even more sinister than dried animal meat. This went beyond the stale cheap cigar or sour milk smell one often smells in a craptastic party store on the outskirts of the wrong side of town. I could feel the stench penetrating the fibers of my clothes and knew I'd have to a) ride home with the windows open; b) burn my clothes; c) bathe in bleach for a week; and d) shave my head. It was that bad.

As I stood there momentarily musing as to why they chose to write beef instead of cow, like the other dried animal meat (deer rabit wild turky) the clerk looked up from his boob magazine and said, "Help you?" He was missing a front tooth and had badly inked tattoos around his neck and on his hands and arms. He was really hairy so the tattoos on his arms and hands were indecipherable. The ones around his neck seemed to be botched attempts at tribal and Celtic art.  

Sidebar: Why is it that people who can't afford to go to a dentist can find money for tattoos? Even crappy, badly inked tattoos are expensive. I realize it's a matter of priorities, but why does ink win out over dental work? By definition, anyone who gets a tattoo wants or at least expects attention drawn to them by their ink, so, one can presume they are okay with calling attention to their missing and/or rotting teeth? There's an interesting psychology there. I wonder if anyone's studying it. Note to self: Get grant to study link between tattoos and lack of dentistry. Also, if a guy is really hairy, why bother getting tattoos and not keep the hair shaved? I know it's a lot of upkeep, but if you're not going to commit to the maintenance why bother committing to the permanent ink?

I said to the guy, "I need to fill up," and handed him 4 $20s.

"How much you want?"

"I am filling up, $80 should cover it."

"I need a dollar amount."

"I don't know the final amount, I'm filling up. Based on $4.12 per gallon you're charging, I'm guessing it'll be about $62."

"You want $62?"

"I don't know. I want to fully fill the tank. I'm giving you $80. Once I fill it and know the final amount you can give me the change. Is that not how these transactions usually go down?"

"Usually people know exactly how much money they want to spend." He seemed to be baiting or mocking me.

I was not going to get into an argument over the "usual" exchange of money for petroleum with this guy.

"Okay, I want $73.31 worth of gas on pump 2."

He rang in $73.31 on the cash register.

"You got a penny?" Yes. He asked me if I had the penny. And I'm reasonably certain he wasn't being funny or ironic or sarcastic or even baiting me.

"No. I have four $20 bills."

He held each bill up to the florescent light to make sure it wasn't counterfeit and gave me my change. 

Which, unfortunately, came to $6.69. Yes. I should have thought through the dollar amount before I threw out the arbitrary dollar amount, but when I threw out the arbitrary dollar amount I was being sarcastic and didn't dwell on the outcome. Lesson learned. And the Universe once again evens the score by mocking me.

The number $6.69 appeared on the huge circa 1983 cash register digital display.

This cracked up the hairy toothless tattooed boob magazine guy.

"Wooooeeeee! 69! That's my favorite number!"

No surprise there.

"You know what that means! Lucky number 69!"

Sidebar: Why do creepy guys only know one Kama Sutra position and why is it always 69? And more to my point, why do they always feel a need to proclaim, "My favorite number!" I presume it's because it's the one sexual position they heard about when they were 12 and at the time they felt it was some advanced wisdom they wanted to brag about... and they never advanced past this. But is there something more to it?In my travels around the world it's been a unifying theme among creepy, immature, pervy men. And the occasional skanky woman. "Ooooo, my favorite number!" Even if it is your favorite number why the need to proclaim it, especially with a creepy laugh?

He stood there expectantly grinning at me, his gaze stopping at my boobs, drool forming between the gap where a tooth used to be.

I prayed.

"Are you there God? It's me, Trillian. I know I'm not your favorite lamb and I know we've had our differences over the past, erm, years, but if you let me survive this without being raped and/or killed and/or held prisoner in the back room of this dirty stinky place I promise I will be more open to you. I realize I'm not a good Christian but I am a good person and in the final assessment we both know I don't deserve this."

I didn't acknowledge his "joke" about 69. I just held out my hand for the change.

He handed me change and said, "Here's your 69!" and let out a Beavis and Butthead giggle. Then he handed me the bills, but as I reached to take them he grabbed them away from me.

"C'mon, tell me your favorite number!"

"Six," I deadpanned, thinking of the $6 he had in his hand.

"Six what? Six plus nine?"

"15?" I said, because for a second I truly didn't grasp where he was going with this.

"No! 6 and 9! 69!"  he yelled at me, tinged with hostility. Oh great. I angered it. I'm dead. Or a prisoner.

"Ha. Whatever. May I please have my $6?"

"Ha. Whatever, here," he said mockingly and handed over $6 and went back to his boob magazine.

I decided no matter what the final amount of gas was I was not going back in there for my change. Couldn't be more than $5. And with luck my mother's gas tank would accommodate $73.31 worth of gas and I wouldn't have to worry about losing money.

Unfortunately my calculations were way off. The tank must not have been as empty as I thought because I could only stuff $61.77 into the tank. And believe me, I tried to put more than that into it but it started spilling onto the pavement. I overpaid by $11.54.

$11.54.

It wouldn't be right for me to not return the change to my mother. And that's no small amount of money for me. I've been living on $10 - $15/week for groceries. Pride and fear, schmide and schmear, $11.54 is a lot of money for me.

So I gritted my teeth and returned into the dirty, stinky store.

He had the boob magazine on the counter in front of him, and he was leaning over it, leaning on one hairy tattooed hand. The other hand was under the counter. He was either jerking off or had his hand on the knife he used to kill and skin the deer, "rabits," beefs and wild "turkys" for his "jerkey."

Without looking up he said, "I knew you'd be back."

Oh yes, he did. He said, "I knew you'd be back." I think he was trying to affect a "cute" creepiness. But he was just frighteningly creepy. This guy was now officially my top contender for creepiest guy of the year. And that's saying a lot because even though it's only April I've encountered some really creepy people this year.

I carefully thought out my words, knowing whatever I said next could be the difference between freedom and imprisonment strapped to a wood chair with a ball gag in the smelly back room of this place, eventually being taxidermed and skinned for "jerkey."

When I was 13 I read a Roald Dahl short story titled, The Landlady. That story, more than any other I've ever read or seen portrayed on the Twilight Zone or Night Gallery, haunts me. The theme is creepy (a little old lady takes in lodgers and taxiderms them - it's no Matilda) but it's Dahl's artful storytelling that keeps it omnipresent in my conscience. It's never fully repressed and is my go-to nightmare. And there I was, smack in the middle of a situation that resembled The Landlady.

"Yeah, erm, you owe me $11.54. I miscalculated the amount of gas I needed. By $11.54." 

And then it happened.

"Your name's Trillian. Trill McMillian." He didn't look up from the boob magazine, and uttered this as a statement of fact and accusingly at the same time.

This caught me so off guard and scared me so much that nearly wet myself. I hadn't used a credit or debit card. Unless he somehow stole my wallet there was no way he could know my name.

I didn't say anything.

One of his hands was still out of sight under the counter.

He finally looked up (hand still out of sight) and said, "I'm Jeff Carlisle," as if that explained everything.

My mind was racing. Jeff Carlisle. Jeff Carlisle. Jeff Carlisle...I couldn't come up with anything. Nothing. This guy looked several years older than me so it couldn't be anyone from school, not that I had a lot of friends there anyway, especially boys, no one who would remember or recognize me by name. Not anyone from my parents' church. A neighbor?

Apparently he construed my inability to place his name in my memory banks as an attempt to evade the fact that he knew my name.

"I recognized you before but didn't say anything. Now that fate brought you back..."

Oh crap. "Fate brought me back?" This has just turned from run of the mill creepy gas station attendant creepy to stalker creepy.

"I saw that your dad died."

Oh crap. Stalker. Definitely stalker creepy. Who is this guy? Jeff Carlisle. Jeff Carlisle. Crap. Crap!! Think girl, think!!!

"Your mother still in the same house?"

Okay, that's it. You mess with my mother you're gonna get a piece of me.

"I'm sorry, I can't place you. What did you say your name is?" trying my best to feign casual indifference.

"Jeff. Carlisle. We had government together. 2nd period. Mr. Peterson."

Not a clue. Jeff Carlisle. Jeff Carlisle. Nothing. Nadda. And yes, I had Mr. Peterson for government class, but so did half the school. We only had two government teachers. And I'm pretty sure I had it in the afternoon, 6th period. But if I say that, then I'm admitting that I was at school with him, or at least had Mr. Peterson for government.

"Sorry, not ringing any bells."

"I look a lot different, now" he offered.

"Well, don't we all," I said, forcing jocularity. "I'm kind of in a hurry so...my change?"

"You don't look much different. I knew it was you almost right away. You can change your hair but you can't change your height or your eyes. I wasn't sure for a minute, though because wow, you really, uh, blossomed."  He threw his head and gave a knowing glance at my chest then proffered another grin with drool through missing tooth space.

So much for God and answered prayers. More proof He does not exist.

This guy looked a lot older than me, but then, people always think that, don't they? No one ever thinks they look their age while everyone else looks older. Most of my classmates were two years older than me, but still, this guy looked many years older than me. Or maybe not. Maybe this Jeff Carlisle was a classmate and maybe he's a mirror of reality for me. Maybe I look as old as he does.

But there was still a disturbing angle to this. No one ever thinks the creepy perv working at a seedy gas station or Kwik E Mart or porno video store is a former classmate, either. Oh sure, we have our suspicions about some of our classmates, certain kids seem destined for certain futures. I remember a couple girls who seemed destined for the stripper pole, and, I long ago heard that's exactly where they both ended up. One of them reportedly did some "modeling" for the kind of magazines like the one my erstwhile classmate was looking at in the gas station. But I never thought about where creepy pervs come from. I mean, I knew they had to come from somewhere, but surely I didn't go to school with anyone who would grow into a sleazy gas station attendant missing a tooth with badly inked tattoos who looks at cheap boob magazines at work. These guys just appear, fully grown, adult creepy perv men, right? They don't have parents or childhoods or go to school or hang out with other kids. I didn't go to school with anyone who would become one of them. Or, maybe I did.

I was not popular in school. In fact I was a social pariah. I had friends, but they were the other dorks and geeks. We spent our school days with our heads down and noses in our books hoping to be ignored in the halls and at lunch. I am 100% certain there was not one boy harboring any sort of "feelings" for me. Certainly not well enough to notice, care about or remember my eyes. I knew a few boys, we were friends, and they were not interested in me "that" way. I know this because they used to ask me advice on how best to woo the other nerd girls.

So I am absolutely certain this Jeff Carlisle, if that is his real name, did not have a crush on me back then. And playing Devil's advocate, let's just say he did have a crush on me. He's been harboring it all these years, waiting for the day I'd walk into the gas station during his shift? It's a very small town, and those who don't make it out get trapped for life, but still...it's all completely implausible.

I instinctively hugged my arms close to my body, trying to cover my boobs.

"You were super smart. What are you doing now? Brain surgeon? Lawyer? Oh wait, no, biology, right?"

Oh crap.

This encounter has just gone from creepy to super creepy to demoralizing. 

I lied. Okay? I lied. I was not going to admit to the creepy hairy gas station attendant with a missing tooth and badly inked tattoos reading a boobs magazine that I'm unemployed and no one will hire me and I have to move in with my mother because I couldn't pay my mortgage and lost everything. To admit that would also mean admitting that the creepy hairy gas station attendant with a missing tooth and badly inked tattoos reading a boobs magazine is doing better in life than I am. He has a job. I do not. So I lied.

I've never lied about being unemployed. I don't love admitting it, but I'm not ashamed of it, either. And there's no point in lying about it, anyway. Until now.

I've been in some low places. Really low places. And that emotional ambivalence has pulled me through them. But this...this knocked me out of my emotional zombieland and into a deeper place of self-loathing and despair. Maybe if he wasn't so creepy. Maybe if he wasn't looking at a boob magazine. Maybe if he didn't gawk at my boobs. Maybe if he hadn't mentioned my parents. Maybe if he had both hands where I could see them. 

I just gave a noncommittal, "Yeah." I could be agreeing with him about the smart part, or the blossoming part, not the career part. 

"I saw in your dad's obituary you aren't married. Or you kept your name...," he said, in a leading tone. He was looking at my hands, clearly looking to see if there was a ring of any kind.

Great, this guy was not messing around. He might as well cut me up with a dull hunting knife because he was already cutting me right down to metaphorical size by jabbing at me about my career and lack of marriage. And seriously, he read the obituary and memorized it? My dad's been dead three years. He read the obituary and remembered it three years later? Who is this guy? Jeff Carlisle. Jeff Carlisle. Carlisle. Carlisle. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"I'm not one for convention," I said flatly with a hint of "mind your own business or I'll get my 6'7" Green Beret boyfriend nicknamed Killer to come and beat you up." "I'm not one for convention" could mean that my 6'7" boyfriend and I eschew traditional societal commitments in favor of deep symbiotic emotional bonds that transcend names and rings. Right? It could mean that.

The gas station guy said, "Ha! That's a good answer! I'm gonna remember that! I been down the aisle three times, after my last divorce I said never again. 'I'm not one for convention!' Gotta remember that!"

Great. The creepy hairy gas station attendant with a missing tooth and badly inked tattoos reading a boobs magazine has convinced three women to marry him and I haven't even had a date in...well...it's been a while. 

I tried to smile politely and said, "I really am kind of in a hurry, so...my change?"

He said, "Hold on, hold on, I'm coming, I'll get you, just catching up with an old friend," as if he were addressing an impatient customer behind me. Except there was no one there but me. I was the only customer inside and outside. That I knew of, anyway. Who knows who might be tied up and ball gagged in the back room?

He handed me the coins, and as I reached for the bills he used the teasing gesture of pulling away the bills again.

"C'mon, Trill, c'mon, what's your favorite number? C'mon, we're not kids anymore, tell me what you like." He was staring at my chest again, more drool forming where his tooth used to be.

But at least I could now see both his hands. "I like to arrive at my appointments on time, so please give me my change so I can be on my way."

"Awright, awright, here you go. Sheesh, you didn't used to be so uptight."

Yeah, well, even though I don't remember you, I'm guessing you didn't used to be so creepy and hairy and gross and I presume you had all your teeth.

He handed me the bills and continued, "Sheesh, girl grows some tits and suddenly she's better than everyone."

Wanted to say: Sheesh, guy loses a tooth and suddenly he's a creepy perv with badly inked tattoos working at a gas station looking at boob magazines.

Instead, I shot him a, "You and I both know that's not true, you and I both know you're way over the line" look.

He seemed to get it because he said, "Aww, just having a little fun. Don't go away mad, girl!"

I turned and walked out to the car. The fresh air was instant relief, I got out of there alive. Freedom. Fresh air. Ahhhhh. Maybe there is a God. Sorry, God. We'll talk later.

But my relief was short-lived. I could feel his eyes on me through the window the entire walk. As I got into my mother's car I heard the overhead speaker cackle. "Wooooeeee, you always did have a nice ass, nothing's changed there! You on Facebook? Look me..." I slammed the car door before he finished the sentence. Yeah, right. I'll look you up, all right. On the most wanted bulletin board at the post office.

I have zero clue who Jeff Carlisle is. Zero. By asking my mother and siblings a few questions I've eliminated church and the neighborhood. Doesn't really matter how he knows me. But. He got to me. He knocked me from the safety of my emotional ambivalence. I didn't think I could fall any farther, didn't think there was any lower rung on the spiral of failure and despair, but apparently I haven't reached bottom. There are lower places to fall and I'm clearly still falling.

Jeff Carlisle, whomever he is, is just someone I passed on my way down. Three failed marriages, a missing front tooth, badly inked tattoos, looking at cheap boob magazines and working at a dirty, crappy gas station/party store and he's doing better than I am: At least he has a job.