The job interview
He was running towards me across the street and waving. He had long, stringy brown hair that was covering part of his face. At first I thought he was a woman. When I still thought he was a woman, something felt off about her, out of control, troubled, unsettled.
I stopped to pick him up and his stringy hair and his messenger bag. This was at Waller and Webster. He said he had to go to 2nd and Market and that he was running late. I convinced myself that he was on amphetamines. He kept sniffing his nose. And each of his movements made the whole backseat shake.
Near Market and Octavia he asked me about how many more blocks we had to go. I said about twelve. He received a phone call.
"I'm in a cab. I'm almost there. Am I in trouble?"
"What is the exact address that I can tell her?"
"Oh, that's at 2nd and Bryant?"
"It's at 2nd and Bryant," he said to me.
"Oh, that's a little bit farther."
"That's a little bit further, she says," he said into the phone.
I turned off of Market at 11th and took Folsom instead. Just before we turned on 2nd Street, he leaned forward to look at himself in the rear view mirror and said
"How do I look? Do I look okay?"
I wanted to say that he looked strung out. I wanted to say that he looked a little tired.
"I'm going to a job interview. Do I look okay for a job interview?"
I wanted to say that he looked like he was on drugs and that the people interviewing him would probably be able to tell.
"Maybe push the hair out of your face," I said. He pushed the hair out of his face.
"What kind of job is it for?"
"It's an art director position. I really need this job."
I dropped him off at 2nd and Bryant.
"Good luck," I said. He ambled towards a door on 2nd Street, shifting around his messenger bag, his hair hanging into his face. I looked at his clothing. He was wearing slacks and a dress shirt. I hadn't even noticed.