For the past 2 3 years, I've been playing a twisted little game with myself by refusing to shop for more than one meal at a time, thereby forcing myself to visit the place I hate most in the world multiple times a week. The grocery store.
Every outing was the same; I'd carry my store issue blue basket through my personal gauntlet of disgust, passing the obese filling their carts with empty calories so they can take up even more space in the world being useless, the elderly placing single grapes into bags meant for bunches, women in sweat pants yelling at their no chance kids, 40 year old bachelors picking out pre packaged sushi displayed under heat lamps next to the fried chicken and french fries, and of course the retarded bag boy who greets them all with a smile that says "I just took a huge dump in my pants".
Then one day I saw him. The ringleader of this sideshow for the past 23 years, and it all fell into place. An odd sereness washed over me along with an overwhelming desire to meet the tinted aviator sporting, mustachioed Man, hanging on the wall in front of me. His name: Robert Nash.
I did the first logical thing I could think of and turned to Darryl the bag boy to ask where I might find an application. While Darryl stared through me like a drugged up Tijuana whore in her first donkey show, popped collar working the cash regiser pointed me to the cigarette/lottery ticket counter. I filled out my application, gave the portrait of Robert Nash a look and a nod and went home to wait.
Two days later I got the call. It was Robert Nash. He wanted to meet with me to talk about the application I submitted. I could tell immediately he was firm but fair. We set up a time for me to come in the following day.
The following day
Me: (Knocking on the mirrored window to his booth) Mr. Nash?
Robert Nash: Mr. Nash is my father, call me sir.
Me: Yes, sir. I'm Billy Reamer, I'm here for my interview.
RN: Have a seat.
Me: Thank you. I like your glasses.
RN: (tossing clipboard on desk) Well, I guess I can call it a career, you like my glasses. Is there anything about this face that gives you the impression I give a shit about your thoughts on anything?
Me: No, sir. I just
RN: So, this a business not a goddamn fashion show. If you want to talk apparel and accessories, Darryl gets off at 5:00; maybe you can take a shot at explaining to him why his new blue mittens smell like they're red.
Me: Understood. Won't happen again.
RN: What do you bench?
Me: Um, I'm not sure, why do you ask?
RN: Well, you know that big hunk of meat daddy puts on the table for holidays and special occaions?
RN: What's so funny?
Me: Nothing, sorry.
RN: That meat is called ham, or turkey. And before it magically appears on little Billy's dinner table, it's purchased from a grocery store, and before they can be purchased, they need to be placed in freezers where the customer can access them. Now, who do you think is going to unload and place those turkeys and hams? Melted face Darryl? Mikaela over there? She just had a kid on Tuesday.
Me: This past Tuesday? Today's Friday.
RN: Stay with me son. Are you physically able to keep up with the rigors of this job?
RN: Good, now what's your favorite vegetable?
RN: Dammit, who's conducting this interview, me or you? Answer the question.
Me: I like tomatoes.
RN: (mimicking me in an unflattering voice) "I like tomatoes". Good lord. A tomato has seeds, therefore it is not a vegetable, it is a fruit. Try again.
Me: Celery, definitely Celery.
RN: I knew it. How many cocks have you sucked in your life?
Me: None, what?
RN: This isn't going to work out. We appreciate you coming in and wish you the best of luck.
RN: And Son
RN: On your way out, stop by the produce section and introduce to a potato. Pussy.