Maria

Maria has one of those haircuts that resemble a small dog. It sits upon her head like a trophy, a tribute to whatever brand of hairspray she chose to use. The gaping hole in our o-zone layer is a small price to pay for Maria’s 4 foot masterpiece and as she sits across from me, reading my CV, I can almost feel eyes peering out at me from underneath all that hair. Maria makes one of those noises that are half sound and half air. A sound that can only be described as ‘hrmph’ and an indicator that she is not impressed. You see, the thing about Maria is that she wants so desperately to be somebody important. The way she only really ever speaks to me with one or two words at a time is her way of trying to make herself out to be some big shot suit worth making a big deal about, when really she’s just another parasite on the back of a large corporate power. ‘The Man’ doesn’t care about her, all he cares about is whether or not she’s getting his coffee to him on time, or bending over just before rush hour so he press himself against her and promise her a promotion and still leave the office in time to beat the traffic. By the looks of things, Maria still hasn’t gotten that promotion and is being reduced to glancing over potential employee’s, seeing if they’ve got what it takes to sit in a cubicle all day producing a forest of bullshit that doesn’t do any tree’s any justice. What a job. 1

Maria looks up from my CV and peers over her glasses at me, her eyes look me up and down, but she’s only pretending to inspect me. You can tell Maria doesn’t know jack shit about body language and she doesn’t know jack shit about fashion, but she pretends to and as much as I hate to do it; I squirm. 2

“It says here you’ve never been employed before…” She approaches the question carefully, but not because she wants to spare my humiliation—rather, it’s the opposite.3

“That’s correct, ma’am,” I say, remembering my manners.4

Maria puts the papers down neatly in front of her, puts her elbows on the table and weaves her fingers into each other, creating an image of absolute critique.5

“Then how do you expect to cope in the workplace?” she asks, trying her best to keep her voice as polite as possible yet still attempting to tear me to pieces.6

I shrug. At this stage I don’t really care. I don’t want this stupid job anyway, I only agreed to do this interview to keep my mother happy. “I was going to wing it,” I finally reply, knowing full well this was not a good thing to say. I know it, and Maria knows it. My answer produces a heavy sigh from Maria and she stands up, motioning for me to do the same. I do so, and we shake hands. Her handshake is weak and limp and my first instinct is to pull away quickly, but I don’t. Instead I squeeze her hand tight and watch her eyes move around the room uncomfortably for a few seconds.7

“I…” Maria tries to pull her hand away from mine, but I hold on. “I don’t think this is going to work out. Good bye.” With that she pulls her hand out from mine sharply and nurses it in her other hand, staring at me as if I’m crazy. I smile at her, but I know it isn’t a friendly smile. It’s one of those smiles that indicate hidden aggression, sort of like a passive threat to the other party.8

“Thank you for the opportunity,” I say, and then I leave the room, and I leave Maria. 9

Maria, that parasite on the back of corporate power, that promotion prostitute, the face of global warming in the form of a hairspray can a day. I’m glad I never have to see the bitch again.10

That must have been about the 1000th job interview I’ve been to over the past three years. It just seems that no matter where I apply, nobody wants a freak with no social skills. Which is just fine by me. After a while I just learnt to accept the fact I wasn’t what anybody was looking for, though it’s a shame my mother won’t do the same. It’s as if she never stops for a minute to do anything other than look for job vacancies for me. It may seem she’s just doing this because she cares, but the truth is that she’s only doing it so she can get me out of the house and she can get her trashy little boy-toys in. Let’s face it, my mother is a common whore. Every night she puts down the newspaper-- leaving the page she was looking at open so I can see the jobs she’s circled for me-- and she goes out and get’s completely wasted. It’s always around 4 in the morning when I hear her come crashing through the door, her skin rubbing against the skin of some guy she’s known for about an hour. I can hear them stumble down the hallway, giggling and trading saliva, and then I hear them make it for the next hour or so. The walls are as thin as paper and I can hear everything. Every scream, every moan, every order for, “more, more, more!” Ever since my father left it’s as if my mother has spread her legs as an offering for the god’s to deliver her salvation—but instead all she gets is the sweat and stench of men wanting a piece of her action to add to their collection of stories to swap with the guys at poker night. Nothing impresses the boys more than a story beginning with “I fucked a MILF.” Fucking disgusting. I hope she’s making regular trips to the VD clinic, because I don’t want a slut with Chlamydia cooking my food every night.11

I guess you could call our relationship less than perfect, but it’s not like we fight with each other-- we’re past that. Instead, we just ignore each other until dinner when my mother slams a plate of half cooked vegetables and too-tough meat in front of me along with a newspaper filled with circled job vacancies. I could complain, but I don’t. The last thing I want to do is make my mother unhappy, because when she’s unhappy she becomes a force to be reckoned with. No, it’s easier just to live with her than to live against her. Though many guys may beg to differ on that one.12

A lot of people don’t understand me, and I’m not just saying that to sound like another one of those angry teens that fill their lives with depressing crap in order to try and make themselves more interesting. I’m saying it because I mean it. People don’t understand that I’m happy just as I am and I don’t need help with any aspect of my life. They always want to know how I cope with a mother who would rather I had never been born, they want to know how I cope with not having a conventional job, but what they mostly want to know is how I can be content selling junkies their addictions in the warehouses behind the local department store. Well, the answer is that I stopped caring about how I lived years ago and just focused on the actual act of living— being that as long as I’m still doing it, I must be doing alright. Plus, anyway, have you seen the money I can get for packaged euphoria? You wouldn’t even believe what junkies are willing to pay just for that rush, that moment when the world spins and brings them back down into a state of relaxation and contentedness. All these addicts want is for everything to be alright, and I can give that to them. So why not do it? If I’m satisfied, and they’re satisfied; I see no reason for why I wouldn’t be happy. Do you?13