Five Things

“Five things.” Bob holds up his hand to illustrate. “Five things you should remember about me—and this job—and you’ll do well here. Forget them and you’ll be shunned forever.” I smile and nod. They tell me not to do that—all the places I got advice from about first impressions. But I figure, if I’m going to be doing it later anyway, I shouldn’t get people’s hopes up.
         “One.” Bob lowers one finger as he says this, “Never call me Bob. Robert, Bobby, Rob—but never Bob.” Shit. Already fucked up and I haven’t even said a word. Well, it’s not like Bob will ever know. Besides, Bob didn’t realize how good he had it. Bob was much better than Bobby. Even if it is longer, Bobby just seemed like a nickname for Bob. Bob was the halfway point between Robert and Bobby. Rob didn’t count. It was a detour nickname, a different path to follow. I smile and nod some more.
         “Two,” One more finger down. “Listen to everything I tell you for I will give you some of the best advice you have ever heard.” His voice begins to drift out as those words escaped his lips. No surprise for me at all. Most of the people—scratch that, all of the people—who have told me that in my entire lifetime either gave me the worst advice ever, or just flat out lied to me. My parents (“That bully’s more afraid of you than you are of him”), my best friend (“Just try it. I swear, one drag is not addicting”), my girlfriend (“You don’t have to get me anything for our anniversary”), and my career advisor (“This job is perfect for you”). I don’t listen to those people anymore. Mostly I just don’t listen to anyone. Mostly I just don’t listen. People waste my time. I never really know what I’m saving it for, just that I desperately need to hold on to it. I save it to have more free time. I use that free time to discover things I don’t really need. I save time so I can use it later to discover things I don’t really need.
         “Three.” The fingers are dropping like flies. I never really understood that analogy. “No sex…no relations…just don’t date…at least don’t date co-workers. No don’t even date. We’ve had some really bad experiences here.” Experiences? Plural? Looking at his face it’s obvious he hasn’t told everybody this. I wonder why he’s telling me. Maybe I look like the type that would date a co-worker. How would I look like that? Do I look single? How do I look single? Maybe I look desperate…I should stop that. I’m not that desperate. I’m not even desperate. I’m not even desperate for this job. I don’t want this job. And yet I’m still here. Why? That seems to be the question of my life—why? Why am I still here? Why am I here in the first place? Why do I care? Why do any of us care? Why am I still searching for something I know I’ll never find? Why do any of us go searching for answers we were never really meant to find? It seems that if you spend your entire life looking for meaning in life, that search for meaning becomes your meaning. But if you don’t take the time to do this, does this mean your life has no meaning?
Well at least that means I don’t have to listen to what Bob has to say. But then that also means that I have no true reason to live.
I start to get depressed. I smile and nod some more, trying to escape my own dark thoughts.
         “Four.” Bob drops another finger, but slowly realizes that he has left only his middle finger and his thumb up. He seems to consider leaving it for a second, but then drops the middle finger and raises his pointer finger. I consider saying something, but he seemed to know what he was doing—and didn’t really give a shit. I just make a mental note to get him back later, probably when I’m leaving from this interview, since I don’t think I’ll be keeping this job.
“Don’t call and tell me you’re sick when you’re not. Don’t call and tell me you’re sick when you are. You won’t be paid either way. You come back when you feel better, everything’s fine. Never come back, I’ll assume you’re dead and start looking for someone one to fill your position.”
         Well, if I ever plan to kill myself, I’ll know who not to go to. He must be a riot with his children. God, I hope he doesn’t have children. God, I hope he isn’t married. How could he be? He’s so boring. He’s too boring. He would bore any potential wife to death. Maybe he has done that. Maybe he has a trail of women that he has killed by boring them to death. Maybe he’s on the run. Maybe I should go to the police and warn them. But then again, I’m sure I would have heard something. Boring someone to death—would that even count as murder? Hmm…murder…wait…how did I get on this topic?
         I start to get bored again and find myself staring at a mole on Bob’s upper lip. I’m surprised I hadn’t noticed it before. It’s big. It’s huge. It’s gigantic. It’s monstrous. Yeah, monstrous works because it was frightening too. Like something out of your worst nightmares. No, something out of your worst fears. I feel like crawling into a corner and crying. While I’m staring, I see Bob’s fifth and final finger start to curl down. But I can’t pull my eyes away from the monstrosity that is—HIS MOLE. I swear it grows eyes as I’m staring at it. And a mouth. And it starts talking to me, telling me elaborate plans of world domination. It swells with pride at its excellent plans, but it doesn’t stop swelling. It’s getting so large it looks like it’s going to explode. But it just keeps growing. Somewhere in all of this, Bob sternly says “Five”.
         I cringe as I feel it caress my nose, shiver as it envelopes my face, and tremble as it devours me. As I start to lose all hope of ever escaping, Bob’s voice breaks through, snapping me back to reality.
         “Never…NEVER…stare at my mole.”