Interview Number Two
The weekend passed in a blur of Bacardi Breezers, MTV, Chinese takeaway and sexual innuendo. Monday morning arrived. The day was bleak. Dark storm clouds mocked my interview optimism.
I'd decided earlier on my double-breasted blue number with the extensive gold buttons that lent me the semblance of a Russian oil tanker captain. It's a look that I must admit; I was more than just a little partial to. Spying my reflection in the hallway mirror I let my mind wander.
I was a proud man, always had been but times they were a changing. With the election of Gorbachev came Glasnost then Perestroika. The iron curtain was fraying at the seams. For the aging party faithful like myself, the final days of our once proud totalitarian state brought precious little to smile about.
By day I braved the ice-strewn, mountainous seas of the Bering Strait, trawling the depths in search of the slippery and highly elusive cock-fish. The pittance I earned could be tripled in port at Vladivostok or Petropavlovsk with just half a dozen of these sublime creatures of the deep. And by night, well, by night I played chess with Vladimir - a one-eyed salt-dog who stank of shit and stale tobacco. We drank potato-vodka from a tin, shared a battered corn pipe and told tales of far-away women and loose ports. It wasn't until the next day amid the haze of a potato-vodka hangover you could see, that we'd realize we should have been talking about loose women and far-away ports. That potato-vodka is some fucked up shit man!
I slapped myself in the face. Too often recently had I let my mind wander when there were more pressing issues to concentrate on.
I'd read somewhere that red ties subconsciously implied power and strength of character. I only owned two ties. One was blue and had Daffy Duck on the fat bit and one was a kind of sickly, swirly-paisley green. The paisley green number sported a splash of red, perhaps by design, perhaps by ketchup. Whatever, the decision was made. I was job market bait!
'It says here under hobbies you enjoy confusing bouncers Paul' Bill stated, or possibly questioned. I gulped a breath. What a dick! I can't believe I'd written that. How stupid could I be? Obviously their correct title is doormen.
'Apologies Bill that should say doormen.' I replied with reddening cheek. I composed myself. Bill looked confused. I offered him a mint.
'Mint Bill?'
Seconds passed. Bill considered me at length. He shifted uneasily in his chair. After what seemed an eternity, he spoke. 'Well Paul, it looks like you have the skill-set we've been looking for.' Flicking through my CV he continued. 'I'm not sure how handy 'running really quickly' will be, or your 'exceptional balance' for that matter, but you seem like a nice enough sort of bloke. When do you think you'll be able to start?'
'I'll start Friday.'
A woman with enormous nostrils showed me to the stairwell. She'd scared me momentarily but I don't think the fright had shown in my expression. Hopefully she took my, what the fuck comment in her stride. I know I would.
As had been arranged that morning the Kid met me at the Frog. 'So how'd it go Doddo?' he asked, passing me a pint of Strongbow.
'Pretty good thanks mate, start Friday.'
'Nice one! So any chance of getting off early on your first day? The thing is this morning I booked us a couple of tickets on a Lufthansa flight to Munich for Oktoberfest. It departs at a quarter past seven.'
'Well if it ain't, I'll quit!'
'You sure you shouldn't check first?'
'Oh Andrew.'
