This post is about a fresh encounter, so it’s not as sunny as it might be after some time passes. Bad words, too.
The inevitable lunch with the contract company’s manager (typically you meet the recruiter during the process, but not the manager). I always dread situations that include eating with strangers, but I had a particularly sinking feeling about this one.
Four people were going.
Car pulls up. Looks something like this.
The manager is driving, recruiter is in the front and a gal I don’t know is sitting in the back hidden behind a huge car seat. One of those fit for a thirteen-year-old.
“I’m sorry for the small car. I meant to drive my other one today.”
How does one mean to drive a car? (I would later also learn that he lives less than a mile from his office. If one really meant to….I’m just sayin’. )
He reaches back to shake my hand. I shouldn’t say reach, because he really just squeezes his hand between the headrests and leaves it there for me to awkwardly grab onto.
My dog has a firmer handshake.
And he never turns back around. Our heads couldn’t have been more than a foot from each other in this plastic egg of a car, but still.
Hey, hotshot, here’s a thought: Turn the fuck around.
I guess he was waiting on me to buckle up for safety, because he tells me that I may need to unhook the car seat to buckle my seat belt. Now, I’m not gargantuan, but I’ve also never been called petite. I wasn’t going anywhere. Frankly, none of us would be able to move in a fiery crash. All potentially severed body parts would remain in position.
So, while he’s staring at me, I unhook it. But then the seat belt won’t come out of its container above my head.
So I give up and grunt, “None of us is moving in this car anyway. Let’s just go.”
He never breaks his stare. So I stare.
“I guess I should’ve put that car seat in the back.”
Ya think?
Making sure he sees me look behind me at the empty hatchback right behind the car seat, “Yea. Maybe.”
At the restaurant, I can’t get out of the car (which was actually a good thing, because I had been this close to throwing a tantrum and stomping off after the seat belt drama).
Everyone else has exited the vehicle and is standing outside the car staring at me.
I sit back, fold my arms, and stare (even though it’s impossible to look fierce locked in the backseat of a tiny car) back.
I hear him through the glass: “Oh, the child protection lock is on that side.“
Just this side? Seriously? No, seriously, what is wrong with you?
He stares. I stare.
Hey Goon! Open the fucking door before I’m the last thing you stare at.
(I would later learn that their child isn’t quite 3 months old. Is this an indication of how small the car is? A 3-month-old can reach the door handle and open the door? And maybe this 3-month-old is right-handed already? Or is this just goonidity in action?)
Inside the restaurant, one of the women in our party gets a little miffed when the hostess seats us in a packed section when there were wide open spaces all around.
I mention it being the path of least resistance for the hostess.
She mentions customer service.
I take it a step further and mention common sense.
To which the goon nods in agreement so fast he looks like a bobblehead.
Oh no you don’t, you mow-ron. You have lost all rights to participate in a conversation about common sense.
But I just stare. And he stares.
And then he smiles.
They always smile, the goons. While they drive the rest of us mad.
Posted by Sunny Disposition 