NEEDLING

DAILY GRIND ON THE PATH TO GLORY

My first job interview today.  Twelve o’clock sharp.  Be there five minutes early in business garbs.  Bring a pen and paper.  Okay… shit.  Was driving on the highway heading back to Austin when the call came in and I had to pull up onto a gas station.  We’re an employment agency and we deal mostly in sales and marketing.  Translation: Telemarketing… yikes… calling center blues, I can feel it in my bones.  Got to give it to’em.  They were Quick.  The day before yesterday, I was sitting at the Flightpath Coffee Shop surfing on the web when I started putting in addresses from the want-ads, getting tired of looking for a car.  Filled out this form with my name and phone number, answered a couple of questions, and in less than twenty-four hours, some young woman named Crystal phones me for an interview.  Well, I don’t really believe in it, meaning I doubt they’ll be offering me a paid trip to the moon with a cocktail waitress at my beck and call, but what the hell, can’t hurt none.  Though I’m getting a little ahead of myself, as I had promised not to do any job hunting before I’d purchased a vehicle, which I have not done… not entirely my fault as I’ve seen two automobiles which I could have willingly acquired in exchanged for a certain amount of cash.  However, can’t find access to my money stuck in my French bank account.  The bank in France says there’s no problem, my card works and all I got to do is find a willing bank this side of the big pound who understands the concept of cash-advance… thank you, mam… the several banks I’ve walked into over in this part of the country have all told me my card is simply getting refused by Big Brother International Visa Card Center and there’s nothing they can do… sorry, honey… come back soon, you hear… hope everything works out for you.  All this translates in No Wheels for Francois.  The rental car is starting to dig deep inside my wallet, so deep matter fact, it just might incrust itself a permanent wound which might take weeks if not years to heal.  This weekend is the limit, the magical line in the sand, the peacocks’ cry of glory is coming, the moon is mounting its celestial pedestal… we must arrive at showdown baby… got me some wheels and AM ready for the path to cruising haven on the drag… that MUST be done by Saturday, Sunday latest.  Smoking grass listing to Tex-Mex country music driving down into the desert… that’s the peyote goal, the hour of truth COULD come if I had me a set of wheels.  Shit, I even got me a haircut yesterday at the Hancock Barber Shop (first opened its doors in 1965) where I used to be a customer ten years ago, and told them so.  Got my sideburns trimmed, my mustache domesticated, my goatee cleaned of all excess little hairs.  That son of bitch barber even shaved the bottom of my neck, or rather the top of my back.  I asked him, when I sat down on the swivel chair, I want it cut about half what it is now, absolutely NO layering and all of it the same length.  He looked at me as if I was a strange alien coming down from God and the cumulous to test him.  Then I added, seeing his distress, just make it look good alright.  I can do that, he says to me, don’t you worry, we gonna make you look good, that we can do.  So, what did he do?  He layered the whole thing, cutting around the ears and in the back real short and leaving it long on top.  I look like a damn hick just got out of a cheap haircut all trimmed up for his step-sister’s wedding.  At least my sideburns look Smashing.