Knock, Knock

"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."