consolation

Monday. Nine o'clock a.m. Eastern time. I meet with the very unprofessional closet case Human Resources Director. He is snarky, sarcastic and condescending. I usually like those attributes in a person. Just not in a person who is making me feel uncomfortable about my resume. "Your resume....is....different."
I look past him to a portrait on the credenza. He, an average looking woman with dust colored hair and three kids, all wearing white t-shirts and jeans, seated on the floor of an Olan Mills Studio in some kind of very contrived attempt at randomness. "That portrait...faced out for my benefit...is...not foolin' anybody in this room, you hairy-backed Mary!" I wanted to say it, but I did not. I needed a job. I needed to work with hottish mannish Ted Lane. Finally, Liberace gave up on the charade of an interview. An offer of employment had already been extended to me from Ted. He could have rescinded the offer, but there could have been a liability issue. He took me down the corridor to meet with the woman who would be training me. As we approached the cubicles, maniacal female laughter broke out. It was shrill and piercing and irritating and over the top.
"The musical trill of laughter that you hear is Candy. And yes, she is always like this." He stopped at the last cubicle. She was a faded red head with the pink shiny skin of an alcoholic. Her haircut was home made and she wore a dress that one could find at Goodwill; a blue/gray sack of a thing with a windowpane stitching pattern and a matching short sleeved jacket. She was wearing 'suntan' hosiery. The kind you buy at the grocery that comes in an egg. Her shoes were shiny Payless pumps circa 1984. They were sky blue, oval toed and decidedly plastic. On her squinchy eyelids was orange (think Crayola orange) glitter shadow. It had run into the crevices of her crow's feet as if she had been performing under hot stage lights. She was, in the words of my favorite black transexual make-up artist from Saks Fifth Avenue, Xaviana, a hot mess.
"HIIIIIIII!" She screeched at me with the most forced manic smile on her face. I thought of the pictures I have seen of children whose parents have documented thier every move from conception. When told to smile, they robotically break into the biggest smile possible, eyes clenched shut, lips stretched to breaking. I also thought of those waitresses and retail workers who have a super forced cheery demeanor that masks an seething raging murderous contempt for humanity. I am always afraid they are one customer service issue away from flipping the hell out and gouging your eyes out with a fork or a hanger, respectively.
Her cubicle was jam packed. Every surface of her desk was covered with ...stuff. She had crammed four filing cabinets, a shelving unit and a small table as well as her desk into the tiny space. Everywhere you moved, you touched something.
Her computer had an image of kitten hanging onto a rope with the saying, "Hang In There!" for a screen saver. On top of her monitor was a little angel figurine with "I Believe in Angels" painted on the base.
This was it. I had secured a job. In Hell.