Lisa sat down and said, "There was a letter for you on the table."
"A good letter?" I said.
"From Nova."
"Did it look good?" The interview was three weeks ago. How could it be good?
"A4," she said like this confirms everything, but I am stubborn.
"Maybe they ran out of rejection letter-sized envelopes."
"A4 and fat."
"Maybe they wrote 'fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off' over and over on ten sheets of paper to fill me with hope then crush me when I finally opened it."
"Maybe you got the job."
"It's possible."
I am wildly superstitious about interviews and pathologically afraid of them. I start being generous to beggars and avoiding cracks in pavements. I wash spiders down the drain accidentally on purpose all the time, but after interviews I hope being nice to them will swing the karmic scales in my favour. One turned up in the shower a week after the interview, and I took great care not to drown him. Unfortunately Stephano the Suicidal Spider chose to hang out by my shampoo bottle for a week before vanishing in mysterious circumstances and I feared I had failed some cosmic test, dashed away my teaching post in Japan and instead earned ten pages of fuck off.
I open the letter. "We are pleased to offer you a teaching position..."
Now I can resume my spider-drowning ways.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment