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Interview Day
by Gracjan Kraszewski

I set my alarm for 6:11 A.M. I overslept by eleven minutes. I’m behind schedule on the latest most important day of my life. I’ve gained and lost nine jobs in half a year. All this is becoming too familiar. The thing is I’m not nervous because I don’t want this job. I didn’t want the last nine, either.

Cool water hits my face. Grisly stubble is trimmed. Cracked eggs simmer, sticking to a pan I forgot to grease. It’s 6:33. The bus comes at seven. I can’t be late. I’m a finalist for this job. I’ve been told I’m just the type they’re looking for. And if I get this one maybe I’ll finally have the steady and secure work that guarantees I’ll never have another spontaneous day until I’m dead. Dead? Sorry, I meant retired.

In the back of mind (or is it the forefront?) I know I want to travel to New Zealand. I want to eat grasshoppers. 

I make it to the station on time. 6:44. The familiar vessel comes rumbling around the corner. The bus stops and the driver gets out. His smile disarms me, causing me to relax right at the moment that his burly right hand crashes over my jaw—like a milky and frothy and salty Pacific swell. His punch knocks me to the ground. He gets on the bus and drives away. Thank you, brother.