Job Service

is a very weird place. I haven’t been there in quite some time. It’s a warren of cubicles the minions of which are dressed smart casual.

The lady at the desk explained to me how I didn’t have to come there, how it was all done online now. I shrugged.

There are many, many jobs in this area, according to the printout I was given to peruse. I focused on those of 20 hours are less.

“I just need to get out of the house,” I explained to the guy who was sitting at the table at which I, too, was sitting.

He turned away, disturbed by a Perfect Stranger talking to him for No Reason.

There was a job feeding birds. 15 hours a week. Must be able to lift 50 pound bags of feed. I applied for it, but nothing else struck my fancy.

I hope I get the bird-feeding job. It would be great if anybody ever asked me what I did for a living.

“I feed the birds,” I would announce proudly.

I am in serious wonderment over this bird-feeding job. What sort of birds are they? How hungry are they? Do they free range or cage fester? The listing had virtually no information, though the fact that I would have to tote 50 pound bags of feed says something. It says A LOT OF BIRDS or VERY BIG BIRDS or VERY HUNGRY BIRDS.

Christ, I hope they’re ostriches, emus, something. A zillion clucking chickens would be, as they always are, a huge let down.

Fuck chickens.