Patrick Grey

It's tough being me.

I get up early. Make sure to look as good as possible--the easiest part. Eat breakfast. Go to work.

It's safe to say that I'm the guy that most people look up to. At 6 feet 1 inch tall it's a scientific fact that most people don't have much of a choice.

I'm twenty-three years old. I go to work looking like a million bucks, because that's what I'm worth to me. I dress in a dark blue button down shirt with no tie and black pants. I wear black penny loafers. I do not wear a tie with my shirt. When someone looks this good, who would? Over the cold months, I make sure to wear a Robin's egg blue cardigan. Naturally, it fits my body perfectly. And all the ladies know it.

I am the lead international tax intern for a medical supplies company. I have my very own cubical with my very own computer and my very own double-desktop monitors. I have my very own assistant who delivers mail each morning. Sometimes I do not have mail. I supervise approximately no one. The importance of my position is shown by how far away I sit from anyone else in my department. I cannot be disturbed. I hold down the fort. Daily responsibilities include: stapling papers together, copying papers upon diligent and precise request from others--if they do not use the company email system, then the request does not count--and, most importantly, thumb-twiddling. I am an Olympic thumb-twiddler--my record is 1,000 twiddles in 10 seconds. No one at the office knows of my talents.

Makes sense. I'm unpredictable and mysterious.

It is starting to get close to that time of year--tax season. The time of the year when thumb-twiddling is at a minimum and paper stapling at a premium. It's hard to do these tasks alone. The company is looking for other interns. Needless to say, I am (not) the deciding factor in the hiring process. I'm always the first to screen potential hirees. I am briefed that this year, our first candidate is Hannah, who I saw briefly in the lobby and is a slender brunette female draped in a black dress and red see-through stockings that can only be visible from the knee down. Approximate age: 21

I await her arrival in a small board room with a fifteen-foot-long wooden table and six wooden chairs, and then she enters. She looks at me. I look back with a small, confident smile as my eyes peer into the windows of her soul.

"Hi, I'm Hannah," she says nervously, as she takes out her credentials that are neatly stowed away inside a neat, leather, and (un)zippable folder. With shaky hands, she delivers in front of me her resume.

"Pat. Pleased to meet you."

"Interesting," I say half-apathetically, half-empathetically, half-somethingelse-ically.

"What's that?" she asks with sincere curiosity.

"You went to college," I sarcastically retort as I sip french vanilla coffee from my "Medical Supplies" mug with an eye-brow raised accompanied by the same smile when her sexy eyes first met my sexier eyes.

"Is that good?"
"Absolutely."
"Do you think I qualify?"
"Oh, I thought you were talking about the coffee." Silence descends upon the the board room. I stare, waiting for her to say something else.

"Uhh, I was talking about my re..."
"...Let's go on a date." I casually cut her off. It was clear from the beginning that this interview was hardly an interview any longer. It was a mating dance. In my mind, we already started the tango under an incandescent moonlight in the Bahamas. Warm air, clear skies, and piña coladas.

She's awe-struck. With mouth agape, she looks for the right words to sprinkle out of her mouth like pixie dust.

Abruptly, she stands and slaps me in the face.

"Absolutely not!" She exclaims emphatically. She then takes a pen, rips out a piece of loose-leaf from her leather folder, and while writing on paper recites aloud, "You. Are. An. Asshole." She crumples the paper, throws it directly at my face, and starts to leave the room. As she opens the door, she turns to face me. The previously shown angst on her face dissolves to a coy smirk.

Inquisitively, I pick up the crumpled piece of paper that landed on the board room table. I uncrumple the paper to find that her vocal message was not the same as her written one--it was her number with "Call me" underneathe.

"Haha," I laugh to myself, "And the dance continues."

_____________________________________

I was promptly fired from my position.

After being questioned by my superiors as to why Hannah left before anyone else could interview her, I cited that she didn't feel qualified for the position. Clear video evidence obtained by my boss from a camcorder just above the entryway of the board room showed what really happened during my interview with Hannah. Needless to say, she looked great from that angle.

I was happy to get that date with Hannah. But, with that said, does anyone know of any job openings? I still have yet to pay off my work clothes, student debt, shoes, car...

- PatInTheGreyHat