Potted Plant
In his suede jacket and faded jeans, the man looked like he could be a writer or interior designer. He stands on the street corner with his bicycle, and as you cross he motions you away, shakes his head, and says "No. No." He's seen you approaching, and thinks your a bum panhandling for change. Maybe he saw you giving a cigarette to the homeless man a minute ago. Do I really look that bad, you ask yourself. Then as he pedals away from you, he's still motioning, but towards the sky, and saying, "No. No. No, no, no."
It's infectious. As you try to maintain your balance as the bus careens around another turn, you glance back and wonder what separates you from them. Not much, you think. Some of them probably even have jobs, which is more than you can claim. Could you become one of them? Are you one of them?
Later, you are standing on the street with the classifieds rolled under your arm, neck craned up, looking the address. You step inside and get an employment application. You've filled out a lot of them lately, and most seem to be produced by some company called Adams. They make two different applications, and you're familiar with both of them. This one is the One-Page Blue Ink Application. It's shorter than the Two-Page Pink and Blue Ink Application, and doesn't ask if you have a criminal history. This is the most important distinction between the two of them, you think.
As you write down your work history, you catch a whiff of conversation from the table next to you: "...was doing photography, but now she's doing computer programming for... " The rest is drowned out by a roar from the oven. The place where you are applying for work is called the Pita Pit, apparently without irony. You glance up towards the other table. The three men seated around it do not seem much older than you. The one near the wall looks like he could still be in college. He looks right at you. You bend back over your application and continue writing.
It's infectious. As you try to maintain your balance as the bus careens around another turn, you glance back and wonder what separates you from them. Not much, you think. Some of them probably even have jobs, which is more than you can claim. Could you become one of them? Are you one of them?
Later, you are standing on the street with the classifieds rolled under your arm, neck craned up, looking the address. You step inside and get an employment application. You've filled out a lot of them lately, and most seem to be produced by some company called Adams. They make two different applications, and you're familiar with both of them. This one is the One-Page Blue Ink Application. It's shorter than the Two-Page Pink and Blue Ink Application, and doesn't ask if you have a criminal history. This is the most important distinction between the two of them, you think.
As you write down your work history, you catch a whiff of conversation from the table next to you: "...was doing photography, but now she's doing computer programming for... " The rest is drowned out by a roar from the oven. The place where you are applying for work is called the Pita Pit, apparently without irony. You glance up towards the other table. The three men seated around it do not seem much older than you. The one near the wall looks like he could still be in college. He looks right at you. You bend back over your application and continue writing.