‘Walk this way,’ scowled the comely receptionist.

I wasn’t usually up and about at that hour of the morning unless I was still following a moon of one kind or another but this time was different. I was there for a job. And not just any job.

I was there for the kind of job you don’t take home to Mother. You know the kind.

Long, sultry hours and the kind of fast, cheap repetition that can make or break a man or a woman or anything in between. The kind of job you hear about on the street, under the bleachers or written in neon yellow highlighters on the bathroom wall of your local college Rathskeller.

The kind of job that makes you sweat from the outside in until it bubbles out of your eye sockets like a Kylie Minogue video on Instagram. I wanted this job so badly that I was willing to do anything short of clipping Steve Bannon’s nose hair.

A jamoke has to draw the line somewhere even if it’s down Rudy’s face with hair dye.

So I followed her. It wasn’t easy because while I was standing in front of her desk with one side of my face cocked toward the ceiling enjoying this little expositional reverie, she’d strapped on a single roller blade and sauntered off over the stained linoleum with both hands behind her back and a parrot perched on her right shoulder. She matched the rhythm of her stride with the music that oozed down the purple-hued hallway like a Prom date at three in the morning.

I was certain I knew the tune.

It reminded me of a girl I used to be.

Tall, tanned, young and lovely.

And when I walked by, everyone said ‘Ahh.’

But that was before the world crawled in under my fingernails and pulled out the last strands of optimism.

I finally caught up with Miss Personality & Parrot at the end of the hall. She stood in front of a door marked ‘New Hires.’ I played dumb and didn’t let on that I liked my fountain drinks aged in oak barrels.

She gestured toward the door with one hand.

‘Do you call your mother with that hand?’ I asked. She whistled a merry tune, pushed the door open with one foot and got out of the way so I could step inside.

And there it was. The Golden Ticket, the mystery solved of what was behind the green curtain or maybe the Green Door depending on your age or proclivities. It was La Belle Epoque given form and substance through flour or maize envelopes of deliciousness.

As I stumbled into this enchanted emporium of gustatory revelations, a veritable Rabelaisian Bals des Pompiers of spices and scents thrust themselves upon my senses over and over again. I could feel the drag and dross of a thousand discouraging yesterdays draining from me like the smoke from Snoop’s limo. Suddenly, Life was good.

And then I saw him. Bent nearly triple from the bags of unreconstituted singly fried beans, he stood out like a cheap polyester suit on a diplomatic attaché. I turned toward the door to ask Miss Personality whether he needed any help but she was gone and the door was shut tighter than my wallet at my last alimony hearing.

‘Hey, Bud. Anything I can do?’

He sighed. ‘You must be the new guy.’

‘Only to you,’ I countered. ‘I’ve been around the block long enough to know four right turns will get me where I need to go.’

He sighed again. ‘The slicker the patter, the cheaper the platter.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ I asked.

‘It means you get two choices here. You’re either a worker bee and step up to the counter and give the people what they want or you can stand around with a cork in your water cooler and come up with snappy advertising slogans. Both have their good and bad points.’

‘What if I pick ‘C’, None of the Above?’

He stopped and gave me a heaping helping of side-eye before mumbling something about a wise ass and somebody named Richard who gets stepped on.

Then he carefully walked toward a wall with his forefinger outstretched. It looked like he was aiming for a nostril-shaped dartboard and intended to hit the juicy center.

‘You don’t understand yet, do you? You got to pick one or the other once you’re here. You can goof off but you can never leave.’  He moved closer to a small button set in the wall, shaking his head gently.

I thought about what he said and bent down to tie my shoes and stall for time. It was easy to stall because I put on my favorite penny loafers that morning.

And then it hit me. Something…. heavy. Something……that molded itself and covered my back like a church pew made out of Gumby and Pokey.

‘What the hell?’ I yelled. ‘What’s the big id….’  BONGGGGGGG

BONGGGGG      BONGGGGG

My deep metal remonstrations were lost in the full-throated peals of an unseen bell.

A bell rung by a curiously bent character with an Accuracy International forefinger.

Suddenly I felt the curves and bone spurs of my spine flex and crack under the new burdens of gainful employment and I understood why and how Bud looked the way he did.

He knew what I didn’t know. That when I entered the door marked New Hires, I was halfway to being a goner.

But when I heard the bell, we both knew.

I didn’t have to ask Bud, my new troll friend.

Because I was the one for whom the troll bells.

FIN