A Panel Van, A Megaphone, And A Whole Lot Of Nerves

Worst job interview of my life. Not the *first*, mind you. That was for a shoe shop when I was fifteen years old, and was a short Keiron who didn’t yet know how to tie his shoelaces properly because my mum did it for me. Walked into the shop, came straight back out again, then called my dad in tears. “Why didn’t I know about shoelaces, dad? I feel like you let me down.” “I’m gonna beat you.” Anyway. Back to the worst job interview of my life. It started on classifieds dot com, which was a .gov website that listed work available in the various towns and cities. I scrolled down the list of postings on the page, as there was very little else to do during what we called the crisis. “Bedside nurse, no experience required, ten hours a day for the next eight weeks.” I’d never been to med school. Besides, I’d heard that it was a lot of work. “Farmhand; milking, cattle, feeding animals. Ten hours, six days a week.” I had neither the strength nor the experience to do farmhand work. “Full-time panel van driver.” *Yes*. Sounded simple enough. I clicked the link on the page, then clicked the “apply” button almost immediately. It didn’t ask for much info. I forgot about the job application immediately. Food stamps and a small welfare check took care of my needs. I survived on my own in a house I’d inherited in the city of Ashwood. It was a three-bedroom ranch on the outskirts of town, and for the most part I was happy. I spent my days reading, or walking, or smoking weed. There was nothing else to do. Until one morning when I got an email with the subject line “Job interview scheduled.” I stared at it for a long time. I’d applied for a job? I opened it, scrolling down to the bottom of the page. *Panel van driver.* Suddenly I remembered. It was a simple job, they said. Two hours a day, Monday-Sunday, six months. I had to be available at eight am each morning, and be ready to drive at a moment’s notice. The job would require a cell phone signal strong enough to reach most of the city. In return, I would be paid a thousand dollars a month, on top of my welfare and stamps, for the duration of the contract. I would also receive a panel van of my choosing (although, they warned, the budget was limited.) There was one last sentence at the bottom of the email. The address the next morning, as well as the contact for the interview. I squashed my cigarette in the ashtray, then read the sentence again: Burton funeral parlor, 7.30am, Don. I was a little confused. Was I gonna be driving dead bodies around? That didn’t sound so bad. I’d seen that movie *Weekend at Bernie’s* and it looked like fun. I didn’t spend much time thinking about it. The job was a job. And besides, it was only for six months. I set my alarm for 6.30, then opened another beer and went for a walk. I didn’t sleep that night. # # # Ok, so this is gonna sound crazy. But I think it’s necessary. You see, in the world I live in, there’s this guy called Mr. Solomon who has a company called Solomon’s. Restaurants, bars, hotels, gyms. He owns most of it, even if it doesn’t have his name on it. I know a woman who is addicted to Methamphetamine. She lives in a house owned by Solomon’s, works at a restaurant owned by Solomon’s, and buys her meth from a guy who works for Solomon’s. Worst of all, she spends most of her money at Solomon’s bars. Every night she drinks herself silly at Solomon’s, then stumbles all the way home, via Solomon’s corner store, to work it all off the next day in one of Solomon’s gyms. I can’t say for certain how she got herself in this situation. I have heard, however, that it’s a common thing around here. I’ll also say that I have never seen Mr Solomon in person, and I don’t know what he looks like. I do know, however, that the crisis took a lot out of him. He survived, but only just. He’ll never walk again, and thanks to a virus that rotted his lungs, he’ll probably never talk again either. This hasn’t stopped him, however. He’s still as wealthy as he ever was. He still runs his businesses, albeit from a tank that keeps him alive in his mansion. He’s a cut-throat guy who’ll stop at nothing to make money. That’s why he went to such lengths to protect himself and his business during the crisis. He didn’t want people to stop spending their money at his establishments. He didn’t want them to stop using his services. Most of all, he didn’t want people to stop spending ten hours a day working for him. # # # I didn’t sleep that night. I tossed and turned, thinking through the interview ahead of me. I didn’t know much about the job, except that it was two hours a day, Monday-Sunday, six months. And I had a panel van, apparently. I figured the two hours a day would be spent driving around the city, dropping off dead bodies. Or picking them up. Or something. I’d never had a job interview before, except for the shoe shop one (which I’d since chalked down to a panic attack), and I wanted badly to make a good impression. I set my alarm for 6.30, then shut my eyes. I didn’t sleep. I wrote down notes for the interview, and read them a dozen times. *Do I know how to drive?* *Have I ever held a driver’s license?* *Do I know how to change a tire?* *Have I ever dealt with death?* *Am I comfortable with dead bodies?* I got out of bed at 5.50, then ran a bath. I hadn’t had a bath in years. In fact, I’d almost forgotten hot water existed. The bath was the best I’d ever had. I soaked in it for a whole hour, running through my notes and practicing my answers. At six fifty I was dressed and in the kitchen, scrambling up some eggs and toast, and hatching a plan. I’d make a good impression. I’d show them I could be an excellent driver. I would prove that I, Keiron, was the best man for the job. I finished my breakfast, then took a long drag on my cigarette before squashing it in the ashtray. I was ready for the interview. I was ready for the job. I walked down the street, into the neighborhood, then followed a laneway between two houses. There was a field on the other side of the laneway where a old lady kept a small farm. She had chickens, and pigs, and one cow. She also had an old pickup truck, which I used to mow her lawn each month in exchange for a dozen eggs and some milk. I jumped into the pickup, then got out and stretched my back. It was an old truck, and it was a short drive to the funeral home, but I didn’t want to turn up to the interview like Quasimodo. I got back into the truck for a second, then got back out again. I’d forgotten something. I walked back to my house, then walked up the path to the front door. I unlocked it, then stepped inside. I’d forgotten my notes. I grabbed them off the kitchen table, then ran back to the farm and got back into the truck. I drove up the laneway, down the street, then turned onto the main road. I drove down the main road for a while before I realised that I was lost. The address in the email was the only thing I knew about where I was headed. Burton Funeral parlour. That was it. I pulled over to the side of the road, then opened the phone book on my phone. I typed in “Burton” followed by “funeral parlour”. I scrolled down the list of search results, then noticed a phone book entry on Google maps for “Burton funeral home”. I opened the maps listing, then clicked on the “directions” tab. Google location services activated, then, after a few seconds, Google maps told me how to get to Burton Funeral home. I drove for a few more minutes in the right direction, then saw the sign up ahead. “Burton Funeral home.” I turned into the car park, then pulled up to the main entrance of a dark, Victorian-style house. The door was closed, and the lights inside were off. There was no one nearby, except for an old guy sweeping the footpath, and a man in a tan trenchcoat standing on the corner of the block. I recognised the guy in the trenchcoat, and I gulped. “Hey, Keiron,” he said, tipping his hat. He turned away, then walked down the street. I turned my attention back to the funeral home, then got out of the truck. The old guy sweeping the footpath looked up, then walked towards me. I watched him approach, then held out my hand. “Keiron.” The old guy shook my hand. “Don Keaton.” We didn’t say

A Panel Van, A Megaphone, And A Whole Lot Of Nerves

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