I can't believe it! I nailed the interview. The guy had no more questions for me after only 15 minutes. I made him laugh. I made him agree with me. My resumé, he said, was "sterling." And there was only one other candidate in the waiting room with me when I was called in. Slim pickings. How hard was it to beat out only one other guy? And look at him! He looked like a homeless guy. Smelled of alcohol. Tertiary smoke exposure stinking up the whole room. Shiny clothes that could stand up by themselves.

When I left my interview, exchanging with the other guy, I didn't leave. I re-sat. I wanted to see how long it'd take before the guy was thrown out on his ass. I wanted to hear the yelling that was certainly forthcoming.

Ten minutes went by. Twenty. An hour. I heard the man--the deciding man--laughing uproariously. Could this be happening? Was this guy his son or another relative?

I heard chairs shuffling and then the door opened. The "man," the deciding man, had one hand on the doorknob of the door he was opening and the other in a firm handshake with they guy.

"Then, Monday?" the man, the goddamn deciding man, asked, to confirm.

"I'm looking forward to it," the disheveled, stinky, dirty miscreant said through what few teeth he still had in his head.

The man, the fucking deciding man, returned to his office, closing the door behind him. Mr. Homeless walked over to me and held out both his palms, an announcement of expectations realized. Like, what'd you expect?

"Congratulations," I offered tersely and got the hell out of there.

At the bus stop, I melted into the bench, sorting out my loser life. Would I ever get a decent job. I gave up the one I had because I knew I could do better. Could I? Ever?

That's when he--the same guy--plopped down on the bench with me.

"Sorry for your loss," he offered.

"Who died?" I asked sarcastically.

"You, a little bit, don't you think?"

"Great. I have a philosopher here. Harvard?"

"No. Y'know, school of hard knocks."

"I know that school," I scoffed. "I plan to pledge a fraternity there."

"Need something to lighten the mood?" he asked.

"Not unless you're declining that job. I'd be happy to take your place as next in line."

"No chance. But here's a little joke..."

Murder was still illegal, so I just said, "I'm listening."

He pulled out a cracked mirror from his soiled coat's pocket and held in front of my face.

"That's me," I said, waving away his mirror.

"That's the joke. You're the joke. But it's a joke you'll never get." He paused, then said, "You can start laughing any time."

So, I did. Why? Why did I laugh? It was funny, that's why. Very funny. I was a big joke. I just had never gotten to the punchline yet.

"Thanks for the giggle," I said, but I had tears in my eyes.

"Know what? I'm gonna by you a drink. You could use one." He rose and offered his hand to help me up.

"Sure can," I said. "Why not," I said in resignation.

We both stood up and began to walk across the street toward the bar on the corner there.

A homeless guy and an imposter walk into a bar...

"God be damned," I said under my breath, prayers shot.

"...didn't get the manager job at Alamy, eh?" he said, hoisting his linen trousers at the knees stiffly, as he sat himself down on the hard cold unforgiving park seat next to me. The guy was tall, voice projecting from the arches of his feet, a baritone that could pull down to bass. If need be. Serious.

He looked like he'd been unemployed four score and seven years ago... that founding father look, the anachronistic ill-fitting thrift store vintage threads... He didn't smell foreign, though.

And his skin had this sort of translucent sheen. Not an aura, you know? but delicate constitution, or something.

My guess was he was homeless. And had been. For a while.

He tapped my upper arm with the back of his hand, pleasantly, tap, tap, as we now sat too close on odd ends of this narrow concrete seat. Casually, like we already knew each other. He rubbed his rabbi beard for a think. Then, added, for comfort:

"I didn't get the job either," making light.

There was no way in hell he had applied here. I humored him with respectful silence.

"Shoulda been a shoe in, too," he carried on with a faint smile. I noticed he wasn't wearing any.

"What position?" I hazarded trying to establish context and draw myself out of my own descent.

"Top Gun."

Huh. I remembered how much I don't like Tom Cruise.

"Sure," I said, like one might say to the infirm. Gently, with a kind sincerity.

"No-- I'm God."

I tried hard not to look taken aback and checked my laugh to the inside.

"Well, isn't that a done deal?" I recovered as he looked on ahead with interest.

"Would you believe? No. I gotta reapply every fucking time. In the Trust."

"--what?!"

"Yeah. Like one-on-one... with every member of the Co-op... " he said looking at me deadpan:

"So, what'll it be?"

"You're shitting me, right?"

"No. I'm not."

The grating sound of my teeth makes it's treacherous way to my ears as I storm out of the corporate building and onto the bright street.

I wish I could say pathetic fallacy because I feel pretty pathetic right now but I can't because if this was a pathetic fallacy then it would be raining or something.

How could they do this to me! The moronic boss man-- no sorry, IDIOT didn't take my interview into consideration as soon as I delivered it, like a perfect performance at a concert, he was all like, "No, this dumb corporation has a better idea! We're going to hire an idiot because we need to present a united front. Sorry!"

I kick a small Pepsi can as I walk to the bus stop. Then I realize that my reaction wasn't big enough so I take off my coat and trample it because why would I need it now? If they can't recognize my obvious genius then who would?! Now I need to go live in the suburbs and become a cashier at a Walmart! I ruffle up my short brown hair and decide that a proper reaction would be to walk it off like an adult. But I guess only proper people can work at big companies so I scream into my elbow.

Some teenagers across the street are filming me so I give them the finger.

"Hey!" I look up and see a homeless man beckoning to me from the bus stop.

I roll my eyes, "I don't have any money, hipster."

The man grins amusedly, "I wasn't asking for money, bougie." He points to my coat, "Can you pick that up and bring it to me?"

I take a step back with shock, "No! That's my coat!"

The man's smile turns wry, "It didn't look like it."

I pick up my coat, make a show of putting it on and walk over the bus stop and set myself down right next to him, "My coat."

The man shrugs, "You seem pretty down. Tell you what. If I can make you smile, will you give me your coat?"

I turn to him, a huge frown on my face, "You can try.

"I have a knock-knock joke but you have to start it."

I roll my eyes again, "Knock-knock."

"Who's there?" he asks, sounding genuinely confused.

We stare at each other in completely bewilderment for a beat.

When I get on the bus I am without a coat.

I'd like to start with two statements of fact: 1) I fucking nailed that shit, and 2) I'm an asshole.

Should've been hired. Should've been fine dining with my newly raised salary by now, but no. Why? You ask. I'll tell you why. Because of fucking Derek! Derek, for lack of a better term, is a fucking cunt. Pardon me. I'm sorry. I'm not, but I am, if you know what I mean. Because he is actually a bitch with a capital C. For context, here's is my (very apt-and not biased at all) description of Derek: tall muscley guy who wears shirts three sizes too small, always stands with his hands in his pockets, rocks back and forth on his heels so as to subtly thrust his junk in the direction of anyone who's unlucky enough to be trapped in unwanted conversations about his latest investment pursuits or protein shakes, and smells like cabbage farts. I'm not wrong, ask Lenny (my completely unbiased friend who just so happens to not work in the office and has never met Derek). I'm a reliable narrator. You'll just have to trust me on that.

Anywho, Derek got the promotion...Why? Couldn't fucking tell you, but do you wanna know who can? Stanley. Stanley can. Who's Stanley, you ask? Well, if you'd calm the fuck down for a second, I'll tell you. Stanley is the homeless man I vented to whilst not drunk at all waiting for the blue line to arrive. For the record, I'd like to say, that I'm handling this whole thing very well. Anyway, do you wanna know what Stanley pointed out to me when I relayed my woes? Stanley said, "Wanna know what I think?" I don't recall giving my consent for the continuation, but continue he did, saying, "I think you'd be pretty pissed off if I showed up at your house unannounced and dropped all my emotional baggage in your lap, and that's why Derek got the promotion." And then he motioned for me to get off his bench.

"New York is ugly and lousy anyway."

Marx would have thought so too- just too much traffic, cologne and suits I couldn't afford to buy for mum's funeral. Lol.

I trip. The soda can mocks me too.

I sit at the bus stop. At least, that one doesn't discriminate. Looking left, I see frowns, obviously fake smiles on these faces, and I return to glance at my left.

This can't be what bad breath smells like. This is foul.

"Oh!" I say aloud by mistake as I look at the homeless guy who asks to sit next to me.

"I'm supposed to look like New York, but you don't look like Paris either. Bad day?" He asked.

"Yeah, ugly day."

"Think you'll take two cents from this homeless man?" He asked with a lean smile.

I laughed. Couldn't resist the urge.

"You know what 'ugly' spelt backwards is?" He asks.

"Uhmmm, no" I reply as I try to make sense of it.

"Surprised you took me seriously enough to think about it. You see, ugly is not pretty, but it doesn't mean it's devoid of meaning."

"Whoa." He was impressive.

"I'm supposed to be the man," the narrow minded thought can't help but emerge. I mean - I did say that, once or twice? As a joke. Regardless, the thought persists. The smile on my face grows. It's so funny.

I snap my sports bra to remind myself it's there and real. So, how did I fail?

Outdone?

Outdone?

OUTDONE?

OUTDONE WITH NO QUESTION!?

Oh, how refreshing. The reality settling in tethers me to reality, as a gentle warm breeze says hi to my face. I smile hi right back at it, begrudgingly. Hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Just on the resume, man.

All to be outdone. Flawless social skills, pleasantries, perfect resume appearance, outdone for a less qualified, 'better team fit'.

The humor in the fact I over-qualified myself for 'entry-level' but 'under-qualified' without 'entry-level', supposedly...? Appears to me as plainly as the stench of the mass amount of rotting apples around me hits my nostrils. Yup. I always forget how the trees grossly overproduce, the excess fruits dying off en masse, those highest apples spoiled, naturally, as a part of their individual life cycle. The proof is in the proverbial pudding, as well as the sad attempt my feet have of avoiding street-style applesauce.

"Maybe life is more like a cartoon,"

If I'm ugly or something... I guess, would someone tell me?

"Would I be an ugly cartoon? Oh, some sort of offensive caricature, of sorts?"

As I near the end of the mystical, mythical orchard, I see the white and blue top of the bus stop sign in the distance.

"And this morning, in the mirror, I saw an offensive stereotypical caricature staring back at me," Oh, what an insidious mind, inside what is apparently sometimes a lady killer body. As I stroll past the equally rotting field, placed perfectly along a growing zone and city limit, isn't that an offensive stereotypical caricature? The forgotten corn field parallels an equally forgotten soybean field.

"All that food, gone to waste - I would've eaten it if I had known I was allowed to," The sweet release of an innocent thought reminds me to again, ground myself in my own reality.

Ahh... unemployment. More like, "Isn't this supposed to be funemployment, amirite, ladies!?"

I force my hands into my pockets to feel my empty wallet. Oops. That is not fun or funny.

...But really, to some, it is. As the blue and white top transforms to a full sign, and joins the grey steel pole to the ground, I see him. Oh, joyous day!

It's the homeless man who calls himself God but is the nicest sweetest guy ever - like to the point you kinda... he... excuse me, He. Let's all respect my view of God in this poetic... probably... I mean. If God says He takes many forms - anyways, how lovely the sight of H-him is!

Looking at the flaking, cracking leaves of the decaying yet standing stalks, the deep yellow ochre shades, the black mold shades, the baby yellow hues, the big orange patches scattered throughout... how grounding and mentally stimulating.

"Hey, God!" I call out to Him. [Thou shalt bear no false idols, in sincerity.]

"Ah, my Child!" He calls right back as He rears up from what I had assumed a sitting position, reaching his natural seven foot tall height.

"God, your Earth is surely, naturally, Created - Glorious and beautiful!" I need a really good windup for this one.

"Child of Mine, you are Blessed with the Gift of Plain Sight," Throwing His arms out to welcome me into the final stretches of reaching the city limits bus stop, He booms His support of me.

"Yes; But Father, mine cup runneth dry."

"Surely - You Jest, Child!"

"Father, I solemnly swear this is no jest - I was out-butched in a job interview. I don't even know if you know what that is? But you call me She, I assume you can see how that may not be the easiest thing in a man's world."

"...Surely. You Jest, Child."

"Father, I really need the regular ribbing right now, no jest, I am still unemployed."

"Child."

"Yes, Father?"

"Surely, I Solemnly Swear, Ye Was Out-Butched Two Times Today - In Quick Succession, As Well. Your Father is Your Mother."