Decree: Out of Necessity

Emptying bedpans full of old men's urine. Changing sheets that have been shat upon. Do this; do that; hurry, before they die! No glory in any of it.

What the hell am I doing here? These words raced into my head; a frail reminder of the vibrant dignity in me, that, as a youth, I could retrieve at will; but now has sunk to the pit of my gut, where it has stuck itself, refusing to function.

The personnel office is ten feet wide and twenty-three feet long. I figured that out in the first twenty-three minutes. There are sixteen ceiling tiles; seven of which are either damaged or appear ready to fall about. Through the one that is already half out, I see a pipe. It is green, and there are droplets of water stuck to it. They look cool; cold even. If the pipe bursts, that is the only way I can assure myself of not being hired.

The last trace of vibrant dignity in me longs for that pipe to burst. It wills it to burst. But the force is too meek. And I'm no telepathic.

A tiny man in a white doctor's jacket has just walked out of the door that says "Medical Personnel Only". He bolts across the room, and out. The heavy door closes slowly behind him. Finally, I hear it lock back into place.

Lock. A word I suddenly associate with its synonyms: impound; incarcerate; jail.
There could be worse jobs, right? A ditch-digger. A cotton picker. Bound in shackles, banished to a chain gang?

But the white squalor in here is numbing. There's a tickle at the back of my throat. I try to swallow it down. It stays in place.

A well-dressed young girl, about twenty, with dimples and trust in her eyes comes in and sits down across from me. I watch her confidently push her brown bangs out of her eyes. She pries any remaining sleep out of her eyes. She doesn't look at me. That's good, because I don't want her to contract my cynicism; not if she feels she has anything to gain by being here.

I'm here only for the nine seventy-five an hour advertised in the paper. Just to pay the bills. So it goes. It doesn't have to be pleasant. Or even bearable. But this job has to keep the cable bill paid, so I can relax with a ball game. That's all I need. My ex-wife can have the rest. It's alright. I don't resent the money she gets. It goes to the kids, and I'll do whatever it takes to keep their stomachs full. God knows I don't have the cash to take them any of the places I'd like my kids to see: out west, to the Rockies; and down to the Grand Canyon. And Disneyland. That would be the ultimate.

As I regain consciousness of where I am and what I'm here for, I take note of the tickle in my throat. It's perhaps a lump now.

Lump. In the here and now, it means a dull, heavy, awkward, firm, irregular mass.

The girl has been here just long enough that she's become restless. She walks over to the magazine rack and pulls one out. I don't think I could bear to read. Not about how frantic, bordering on maniacal, things are in the lives of the rich and famous. Nor about how clear my skin ought to be; if only I were young, pretty and stylish enough that it should matter.

I want someone to interview me now, before part of my face breaks into a nervous twitch. I strain to listen for some noise; any noise. If I heard even a pin drop, I'd think it must be the pin falling from the hand of the person about to interview
me; and he or she is coming toward the waiting room, walking slowly and demurely, like hospital staff always walk, as far as I can recall.

But I can't hear anything, except for the shrill murmur of my ever-quickening heartbeat. I hear the girl's breathing, and her gasps of frustration every time she looks at her watch. I look at my own watch. My interviewer is twelve minutes late, and no has bothered to inform me that he or she is even here. Still, I don't feel frustrated.

Frustration, in this context, could only take place if I cared at all about getting this job.

But I don't care, because it's just another job in a long line of jobs.

I ask the girl to please tell the interviewer, should he or she show up, that I'll be right back. I walk down the all white hallway toward the water fountain I saw on my way in. Down an adjacent hallway, I see the bulky backside of an old woman, hobbling slowly, bent on her cane. In a few seconds, as I bend down to take a drink, I realize that I'm disturbed by my lack of reaction to the sight of her. The lump in my throat impedes the progress of water to my throat. I put my mouth closer to the fountain base, urging the water to flood my mouth, hoping for more of it to enter my throat. More water. Please, more water.

It should be easier than this, this drinking, especially with a fountain gushing like this one.