Flash Fiction – Bojingle’s Java Bean Trading Company (Second Interview).
I wanted to submit this story to James Roy Daley’s Books of the Dead Press Flash Fiction Review, but it’s too long for that venue. I’ll link this back to him anyway. Here’s my aborted submission due to lack of brevity, but you all might like it. Warning: It’s Bizarro and not typical of my prose and not YA.
Bojingle’s Java Bean Trading Company (Second Interview)
Wild eyebrows. The regional manager tapping away across the desk from me had some really wild eyebrows. Like, there was something special about this guy. He probably had a distinct blood type that makes one a regional manager from birth. I wished at that moment that I had hemo-vision and I could see his awesome blood trucking through miles of veins and arteries behind his skin. There was true gold in there and I felt a pang of terror and I hated myself for a split second.
It was one of those offices constructed only for him; only for use on certain occasions like interviews. I knew that if I got hired here that I’d never see this man again unless there was a mass shooting or a horrible embezzlement. Closing my eyes, I imagined some crazy kid shooting the shit out of the coffee shop while I am on my shift. Like that insane guy in that Uwe Boll movie.
I like Uwe Boll. Nobody likes him, but he hates Michael Bay and I hate Michael Bay because he can’t make a burly movie. Watching one of Michael Bay’s films is like going on a date with a really hot girl and not having a hope for getting any. I feel a connection with that. An Uwe-connection! I want to join a tribe where Uwe Boll is the chief. He and I could go on a vision quest to Hollywood to slay Michael Bay and then I would become a man. A real one.
The regional manager stops being busy on his terminal and turns to me. He turns to me in grand style with his golden blood. Motherfucker. This guy is a real man – I can feel it!
RM: “Okay, Mr. [NAME REDACTED], it looks like the store’s manager was really impressed with your first go-around with us. I see that you have all the educational requirements and personal interests we are looking for. Nice…
Yes, I agreed in my mind. That is nice. His voice is nice (of course). Really mellow and stuff. Mine can’t match it, I’m sad to say.
RM: “So, let’s hear what you have to tell us. What’s up with you, buddy?”
I’m a buddy. FUCK YES! I’m a buddy and this is good.
ME: “I’m… You know, looking for work in this sector and stuff…”
That was good. That was tight. It would suffice and I think he’d follow me on Twitter and shit. I’m a buddy!
RM: “Yep. We like to see that. That’s good.”
YES! I think. This is good. I knew it. I kind of hate him; I want to kill him, but I knew this already. Coffee-pumping!
ME: “Good to know.” (I mean that with sincerity).
RM: “Look, I’m not going to pull punches here. I want to really know you. What can you do for Bojingle’s?”
ME: “I’m always on time and I’m a hard worker,” I recite by rote. A classic clincher.
RM: “Sure, sure. But… what is special about you? What is unique?”
I can shit monkeys, I think. I can lay baboons out of my asshole and they can pick up the slack during a hot breakfast rush while all the cokehead, corporate fucks like you need to get up and go! FIGHT! FUCK! All the women in the shop will be amazed as I turd baboon-baristas out of my butt. They’ll love it and you would too. They might want to fuck me more than you in that moment.
ME (muffled, inaudible): “I wrestled a kangaroo when I was five.”
RM: “See, [NAME REDACTED], that’s what I’m talking about! That’s what-the-fuck I’m talking about! But we need to see balls at Bojingle’s. Have you got ‘em?”
Balls. I have balls.
ME: “Yes, I have balls.”
RM: “What about your package?”
Package. It’s a word that defies definition and I get scared. It implies “stuff.”
ME: “Packages are good.”
RM (embarrassed, but not really): “I mean your junk. Your cock and balls, dude. We at Bojingle’s know what sells and we need anacondas to keep the ladies coming back. No trouser-mice allowed. So, stand up and show me what you got!”
Cocks and coffee. It’s a solid philosophy, I agree, and a good business acumen. As the early-evening sun sprays across the white wall behind him, I see a faux-façade of an inverted pentagram emerge from it. Within the star’s strokes, a graphic of a goat’s head is nestled. That’s metal. So fucking metal here.
I imagine Vince Neil stopping by the shop while I’m on shift and he tells me that I’m “fucking metal” as I make a hot macchiato for him. It’s the ultimate. I can’t wait for the third and fourth interviews, I think as I stand up and unzip.
