Aspiration Breast Inspectordom

Word Count: 818

Aspiration Breast Inspectordom

***

Breast Inspectors Wanted
No Previous Experience Required
$12.50/HR
Must Apply in Person on 3/13/2008
18301 180th St N, Hampton, WI

***

         Wallace stared at the classified ad, still as stone, mouth gaping, mind racing to believe his eyes. He sat this way for a full five minutes before his brother, Gordon, walked into the apartment they shared.

         “Hey, Wal,” Gordon said, “What’s up bro?”

         Wallace tapped on the ad, spun the newspaper around, and shook it in a victorious gesture worthy of an Olympic champion.

         “I finally found a job! Dis is too good to be true!”

         Gordon leaned in toward the paper, and squinted at the page Wallace was practically jabbing his finger through.

         “Breast inspector; what’s dat aboot?” Gordon asked skeptically.

         “Are you crazy? You haven’t heard aboot breast inspectors?”

         “Well, I’ve heard jokes ‘boot it before, but I didn’t think dey were real talk.”

         “Breast inspectors work for Playboy dude,” Wallace insisted.

         “Oh ya’, is dat real?”

         “Of course it’s real,” said Wallace, thrusting the article in Gordon’s face, “It’s in da’ paper.”

         “Well, da’ ad’s real. But what if dey’re talking ‘boot like a chicken breast inspector er sumtin’?”

         “Dude, dat’s stupid. Dey would say something aboot it in da ad.”

         “Don-cha think dey would say sumtin’ if it were fer Playboy? What’s Playboy doin’ oot here in podunk, no place Wisconsin? It’s chicken breasts dude.”

         “Noted, but you sir, are an ass, and I think you are wrong. I’m goin’ der tomorrow, and I’m goin-ta become a breast inspector fer the Playboy, Girls of Wisconsin edition. And you’ll be stuck wrenchin’ on cars over at Uncle Albert’s shop,” said Wallace indignantly, before huffing over to his side of the apartment to be alone with his ad and his imagination.

***

         Wallace rolled through a stretch of Wisconsin farm land on Highway 316. He had washed his ‘86 Cutlass Supreme, and dressed in his Sunday best. For the first time in months, Wallace was clean shaven, and he had bathed himself in the Aqua Velva his mother had put in his Christmas stocking the previous year.

         “God damn-it, get off da road ya slow-poke!” Wallace cursed at a livestock truck blocking his path to breast inspectordom.

         Wallace crept over the broken yellow dashes in the middle of the highway, and peeked around the lumbering truck. All was clear. He gave a courtesy honk, and the truck driver replied with a lazy, wheeling arm gesture, signaling to go-ahead. Wallace pulled out into the oncoming lane, dropped his foot, giving life to the Cutlass and stormed past the truck.

         Chickens? Thought Wallace, Were dose chickens?

         He was pretty sure there were birds of some kind on the truck, but weather or not they were chickens- that was what had him bothered. In the mirror, he watched the rig, shrinking away behind him, and strained to see any indication of chickens.

***

         “Oh-boy, I’m an idiot,” Wallace said aloud as he sat in the parking lot of a long, battered, old warehouse. A sign swung above the main entry, bearing the disappointing legend, “Olson’s Meat Supply”. It was all to bitter, the loading docks, the refrigerator truck parked next to him- every car in the lot had a Wisconsin license-plate. The evidence was damning.

         Gordon’s gonna have a field day wit dis one.

         Wallace started his car, and pulled up alongside a greasy window, peering into the warehouse for a miracle. The windows were dingy, so he saw no angels inside. Just as he was about to pull away, a man came out of the door.

         “You here for the breast inspector job Mac?” the man said to Wallace, pulling a pack of smokes out of his pocket.

         Wallace thought about it for a long moment. He was behind on rent, and maybe Gordon would take it easy on him if at least he had a steady job to show for his misadventure, “Yea, I suppose,” replied Wallace, and shut down his engine.

         “Don’t look so glum, Mac,” said the man as Wallace loafed out of his car. “It’s right in there,” he pointed at the front door, “Talk to Joe.”

         Resolved in his shame, Wallace moped through the door into a small office at the front of the building. Inside, he found Joe and a man in a driver’s uniform.

         “You drive dat truck outside?” he asked the driver.

         “Not anymore,” the driver beamed, “I broke down out front, and came in here fer da phone. Joe’s gonna make me a breast inspector now. He talked me inta it. I couldn’t say no.”

         “Oh-yah, me too,” Wallace said, impressed by the driver’s enthusiasm.

         Joe opened the office’s back door into a room filled with the most beautiful women Wallace had ever seen. Joe flashed them a grin, “Welcome to the Playboy talent tour boys. Sorry about the makeshift studio. It was a last minute fix. Now, let’s get started.”