Pink Slip Party Read Online Free PDF Page B

hate you,” I say to Kyle, who coughs loudly to cover the fact that he is laughing.
    We move along, and I am accosted by a man with his hair parted down the middle and a bushy mustache.
    “You look like you’re someone who knows her mind,” says the man. He’s the only one at the fair not wearing beige. He’s wearing a black business suit and red tie. He’s overdressed. “What’s your background?”
    “Design. Creative work,” I say.
    “We’re looking for people like you,” he says, nodding.
    I don’t think anyone is looking for people like me. I look over at Kyle, who shrugs.
    “We have some great opportunities for people with your skill set.”
    “Really?”
    I am beginning to perk up. People don’t usually refer to my employment experience as a “skill set.”
    “Have you thought about transitioning into finance?”
    Finance? Huh?
    “I’m with AmeriVision,” he says, handing me a card. His name is Andy Organ. I am having a hard time not snickering.
    Kyle is tugging at my arm. He’s trying to pull me away.
    “Why don’t you come to one of our meetings? They’re the first of every month,” Mr. Organ shouts after us, as Kyle drags me to another booth.
    “That’s the best prospect I’ve had all day,” I say, even though it sounds like a cult.
    “It’s a scam,” Kyle tells me. “You might as well join Amway.”
    “I’m thinking more along the lines of Mary Kay.”
    Kyle snorts. I try not to take this personally.
    By the end of it, I have shaken fifteen hands, dropped down twenty resumes, and am more sure than ever that my job search will be hopeless and that I’ll end up working on an assembly line stuffing vacuum bags into plastic wrappers.
    “Cheer up,” Todd says, seeing me look depressed. He gives me a big brother squeeze, a one-armed hug. He’s in an unusually cheerful mood, probably because he’s finally successfully corralled me into doing something constructive in my job search. “You’ll find something.”
    I give him a weak smile.
    The next morning, I decide I am going to do something constructive with my day. I clean. I restack the dishes in my kitchen cabinets, and then I decide to clean my floorboards. And dust. And vacuum. And sweep. After two hours of scrubbing and disinfecting and sorting, I take to the couch to watch the local news and think how everyone else with a real job is commuting home from work.
    When I finish, I notice that my apartment smells funny. It does. There’s something in the air. I check my trash cans, but they’re all empty (I used to be too busy to empty them, and they’d always been overflowing with empty Diet Coke cans and crumpled up paper towels but now, I have all the time in the world). I empty the trash when there are only two things in it. I make four trips to the Dumpster a day. I think of it as added exercise.
    It could be a gas leak. I check my pilot lights, which look OK.
    It takes me four hours to realize that it’s just Pine Sol. My apartment, for once, smells clean.
    There’s a knock on my apartment door. I freeze.
    I creep over to the peephole, and glance through and see Bob, my landlord, wearing his ratty pink terrycloth robe. In a panic, I fling myself on the floor and hope he hasn’t heard me. Rule number one in squatting: Avoid landlords at all cost.
    “JANE, I KNOW YOU IN ZERE, EH? I CAN HEAR YOU BREATHING.”
    Damn my building’s poor insulation and cardboard walls.
    I open the door.
    “Bob! I didn’t realize it was you,” I say. “I thought you might be an ex-boyfriend I’ve put a restraining order on.”
    “I DON’T UNDERSTAND A WORD YOU SAY,” Bob shouts at me, shaking his head. “I’M HERE FOR RENT, EH?”
    “It’s not due until tomorrow,” I say.
    “It was due five days ago,” he says.
    “It was?” I ask innocently.
    “JANEZ, PLEAZ. I HAVE BILLS TOO, YES?”
    “I’m just waiting for my unemployment check to come and then you’ll be the first one I pay,” I tell him.
    “HOW DO YOU SAY, ER,