Peezis Gets A Job

The elevator opened. Peezis stepped out
and saw a sign: PREPARE TO CRAWL.
Falderal he could believe. He wanted to go,
but had to relieve his poverty, so he wandered
in, joined a line, blankly stared at a blank design.

When his turn came, she took his name.
“Do you have a skill or degree?”
“I’m part way up the knowledge hill,”
said he, “a servant of love and industry.”
“Would you like to steal, or lie, or cheat?”

He scratched his head and thought about all
the things he’d done and read and
reluctantly said, “Cheat.”
“Great,” have a seat,” was her reply, “until
you think you’d rather die. It’s kind of
a-maze-ing.”

So he took a molded pastel plastic seat
and picked up the morning scandal
sheet. Saw who beat whom. Action
all around like a tomb. People sitting
like clothes in a bin; coffee in hand,
hand holding chin. At least, he thought,
I won’t be used. My talents will go
unabused. What talents?

He closed his eyes.
Sleep was almost realized when he
heard his name. He went to the Go
of another game. “Slosher, washer or
squasher,” he was asked. After several tries
he dreamed of a world of perfect
size and said, “Squasher.”

“Fine,” said the man, “kindly
take a seat and wait as long
as you barely can, please.”
This time Peezis had to squeeze.
At least a dozen wanted to cozen
as squashers. He waited…unabaited.

Then came his name.

“Now that you’re in the squasher section, we
find we must make a slight correction,”
he was told. “Dumping, pumping or lumping?”
he was asked.

He thought about the city dump and the
water works and their assumptions and said,
“Lumping.” And swallowed.

“Excellent. That’s really the best thing for you,
we think. Just take a test and go around the
partition.” An audition for lumping? he wondered.

They gave him a card to try to outpunch.
When he turned it in they were out to
lunch. A ho hum hour. He plunked in change
in a food machine and out came a sour.
Crumpled the cellophane. Then he got back
on the waiting train. Foot went to sleep.
Thumb thumping. Then they called his name
for lumping.

This is it, thought he. Now I get to sit in a
booth. Sure enough, the interviewer adjusted
his cuff and said, “Now, tell the truth: full or
part time?”

Peezis was about ready to commit a crime.

“Full,” he replied. That word seemed to have
some pull. “Good,” said the man. “Here’s the
job description: look like a fool and work like a
a crew; minimum wage, any age, intelligence won’t do.”

Peezis stared at the frosted glass and he knew
that great peace minds must pass.

“What do I lump?” he asked, with something
in his throat. “I don’t know,” came the reply.
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Monroe. Wait…
Polychloroltripolate.”

“Oh,” said Peezis.

“Good. Take this card and give us a call if it
turns out to be nothing at all. It’s underneath
an overpass. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks,” said Peezis. “But, I wonder, along
with schemers and reamers, do you ever get a
ring for dreamers?” “Sorry,” said the man. “Not
on this floor.”

And Peezis walked out the exit door.

From The Endless Evolving Trilogy – A Poem Cycle
by Hudson Owen. All Rights Reserved.

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