I don’t usually like to indulge in the act of chronicling episodes of my own existence, but yesterday I experienced two interesting occurrences that, in my limited opinion, merit some form of coverage. Let me preface this post with two facts that will later prove significant.
Number one, I do not drive a car. Avid readers (if they exist) and people who know me personally can testify to this. I have another post in which I employ witticisms to counter and distract people from this terrible, unforgivable flaw in my life, but for now let us concentrate on the matter at hand.
Number two, I am unemployed, or as I prefer to word it, a ‘man of leisure’. I quit my job three months ago in order to get some washing done. I was running out of clothes but really, if nudity isn’t allowed, then don’t call it ‘Casual Friday’, okay?
Okay, so unemployed non-driver. That makes me sound like a loser, but don’t worry, I drink my whiskey neat and I’m quite good at poker, so it balances out. I also had sex with a female girl one time. My performance wasn’t great, but I wasn’t going all out because I didn’t want to wake her. Man, it’s nine in the morning and I’m already making rape jokes. That’s a bad way to start a Sunday. What would The Man Upstairs think? Well, he knocked up Mary without her knowing so he can hardly judge, the dirty old bugger.
But I digress.
I mentioned earlier that two things of interest happened yesterday. I’ve sort of been thinking and I’ve decided that one of them wasn’t actually that interesting at all, but it captivated my attention for a good thirty seconds. You know those promotional smiling effigies that have air pumped up through them so they look like they’re flailing their arms in the air like a heavy metal fan jacked up on ecstasy? Car yards usually have them, because apparently that’s the sort of thing that should influence major financial decisions such as buying a $20,000 vehicle.
I watched one of those things die yesterday and it was very disturbing. Something must have happened to the airflow and, while it was still pumping, it wasn’t enough to maintain the flailing guy’s upright stance. He slowly and steadily collapsed, convulsing and flailing like a man having a seizure and hyperventilating at the same time. Eventually he fell backwards onto a car, still twitching post mortem whilst a few disinterested bystanders completely ignored the horror occurring behind them and tried to haggle with salespeople over the price of one of a hundred identical second-hand Toyota Yaris hatchbacks.
The salespeople should have known better, their faces should have recoiled in terror at the sight of the collapse, well aware of the fact that the only thing keeping customers trickling through the doors in these difficult financial times, was the eight foot, neon-pink, inflatable, promotional, smiling effigy in front of the car yard. Perhaps they felt reassured by the presence of the two other eight foot, neon-pink, inflatable, promotional, smiling effigies standing adjacent to the first, but still, they were running at 66% capacity and that could make all the difference if the bloke across the road was still operating with a full roster of three neon-pink, inflatable, promotional, smiling effigies.
It was horrifying. I was on the bus while this happened so I couldn’t help administer first aid like I’d instinctively desired to. I watched it die.
So the morning was off to a good start. Moments after witnessing the slow anguished death of a large fabric man, I hopped off the bus to attend a job interview. Well, it wasn’t an interview as such, I’d already done one of those the week before. I just had to complete a competency test that was insultingly easy, but kind of explained why so many insufferable idiots work in offices. I got all questions par one correct, by the way, and that one blemish was because I spelt Connecticut wrong. I mean really, the fuck is that second C doing in there?
I had sat down in the employment agency’s reception area and waiting along side me was a very pretty girl, clearly dressed for an interview. In my head, I instantly decided that I would like to have sex her. Being an adult male, this is the first decision I make upon meeting any living creature (and the occasional object) for the first time. I made conversation.
“You have an interview?”
An opening line that simple oozes wit and charm. The girl replied politely, confirming that she was indeed awaiting an interview. We talked for a little bit and I discovered she had applied for the same job as I, there were three available positions.
I eventually told her about the fabric man dying earlier. I’m not sure why, I brought it up but I panicked, okay. There was an awkward pause in the conversation that I plugged with “I saw a man die on the way here”. She laughed out of courtesy and didn’t seem interested in my story, but she did ask why I had taken the bus.
It would have been so easy to have just said “because I don’t drive” and be done with it but for some reason I felt compelled to lie. I’ve received enough criticism from my very learned friends to know that girls are not even remotely attracted to men who cannot navigate from A to B in a timely, private fashion and this girl was exceptionally pretty. From what I’ve heard, not having a car is pretty much the same as not having a penis. So I lied.
“I lost my license. Driving under the influence.”
For some reason, my head thinks road crime is cooler than not having a licence. I told the girl ‘how I lost my license’ by borrowing a friend’s story. My friend got caught stopping off at a pie shop when she was three times over the limit. So I told the girl I got caught drink driving whilst stopping for a pie. I told her what pie shop. I even told her what pie I bought. I used creative license to fancy the story up and you know what, it kind of worked. She seemed far more interested in my sexy criminal record than I presume she would have done regarding my pathetic shortcomings as a man. I felt like John Dilliger. Maybe Johnny Depp would one day play me in a movie, as a cool, gun-toting, pie-eating highway maverick.
Shortly afterwards, she was called into her meeting and I was left wondering what in Gods name I’d been thinking.
Why had I lied? What if her and I both got the positions and I had to spend the rest of my life living this lie? Obviously, I wouldn’t be able to do that and she’d find out I was a liar and she’d hate me and she’d then refuse to have sex with me. I mean fucking hell, why has my lack of car become such an insecurity that I now prefer admitting to fantasy felonies rather than the truth? Where will that worrying new trend take me? If she asks me if I’m single, will I suddenly blurt out that it’s because I murdered my last girlfriend in an effort to seem cooler?
There’s only one thing to do if she and I both get the job. I’ll pretend I’ve never met her and make up an identical twin brother. I’ll lie my way out of it.