Applying to CVS like I want to sit on the lap of God.
The application is endless. I fill out my previous work experience about 15 times, only for it to ask me to fill out my previous work experience. I added a resume, but apparently the great entities of the omniscienct drugstore care little that I worked at Wal-Mart, Meijer, a party store.
They just want to see if I can suffer through a 55-minute application process. This is the test of infinity, of madness, to see if I can stand pulling out the endless receipts while I stare into the eyes of a customer who just wants his $1.09 can of beer. No, sir, you have to look me in the face as we perform this nasty, shameful act of interaction.
It has been years since the events, and while some things change, I remain. Friendo has Friend-left, Idnas tipped two fingers and went out the door. Roommate went to Nevada, after his girlfriend went missing.
And yet I remain.
The memories come back in bunches, flaring up like heartburn. Ink, tentacles, CVS managers and a sense of foreboding despair. There was a video store, too, that I vomited in. I remember that. Vomiting. Often.
This may be the sequel but in a way it never ended. It went into the deep slumber of the celestial gods, and has awoken because of a grievous, impending threat that threatens to destroy all that has been built:
I need to pay rent. Also, pay for Netflix.
I sit, tip-tapping at an application, thinking of receipts bound into the infinity symbol, of friendly co-workers and the bottle machine, of squids loved and lost. I answer questions about myself to see if CVS qualifies for a tax credit for hiring a twisted goblin such as myself.
I’m not familiar with Goblin law, but there may be a Goblin Employment Program.
The application is finished and something is not quite right.
I lick my lips and realize that there is black ink in mouth, where saliva had once been.