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It’s a carpet­shampooer, it’s a floor buffer, it's an air pump, it’s a curtain­cleaner. I don't

know what the hell it is, but I just nod my head. I'm no good at interviews. I keep thinking about

the redhead waiting out front who has a pot leaf tattooed smack on her underarm, probably

covering track marks.

It's a spray­paint­applier, it's a pet­hair­vacuum. He sounds like Dr. Seuss.

The only message you could send by having that tattoo and not wearing long sleeves is: I

don’t give a shit and I don’t really want this job anyway. As it happens I'm probably sending the

recruiter the same message, what with me coming in ten minutes late and the face I must have after

his five minute it’s­a­whatever Dr. Seuss impression, but he still shakes my hand and tells me

training is going to be at the same building, and at nine o’clock, and to bring such­and­such, and to

wear such­and­such.

The Now Hiring! flyer I picked up at the laundromat said Advertising and Distribution. Dr.

Seuss, or Blue, as he calls himself, is talking about sales. High­end vacuums; door­to­door cold

Blue is tall and coal­colored. His belly wants to burst through his overstuffed dress shirt.

“You meet all kinds of people selling Kirby vacuums,” he says. Once he met a Klu Klux

Klan member, and they became good friends. It was okay, because the other man had found God

and wasn’t a Klan member anymore. Blue, apparently, thinks faith is very important . . .