Nine Too Many

After getting my ninth tattoo, it was time to find a job. I spiffed up my resume and sent it all over the state. After a few weeks, I had an interview lined up.

I woke twenty minutes before my alarm, having only slept sporadically the night before. Interviews turn me into a quivering mess, even though I’m usually a very confident person. I’m just not very good at self-promotion, I prefer to let my work speak for itself. I showered quickly and stood in front of the closet in my underwear, pondering its contents. I’d laid out a smart, understated dress the night before, but was having second thoughts. In the line of work I’m pursuing, suits aren’t really the way to go, but on the other hand, neither are jeans and tee-shirts. After rifling through several options, I decided that maybe the dress was the best option after all.

After moisturizing thoroughly, I slicked my long hair back into a bun and put on just a dusting of makeup, waiting to put my dress on until the last minute so I didn’t nervously sweat all over it like a circus strong-man. Not that they usually wear dresses to sweat on. Even my metaphors were nervous and confused. I sat on the edge of my bed for a moment, willing myself to calm down. Good opportunities in my field were rare, and this interview could really make or break things.

I was finally ready to go. I hopped in my tiny car and willed myself not to speed. Parking wasn’t too bad, and I arrived with five minutes to spare. The interview was being held in one of those big beige trailers that they use for overflow for the really poor kids in shitty public schools; the kind of trailers that always look dirty, no matter if they’re brand new.

The door creaked as I went in. Three women looked up from a line of metal folding chairs. A bored guy who sort of looked like he was dying was shuffling some papers at a cruddy desk next to a door leading to the rest of the trailer. He didn’t really look like he was in charge, but he was the only one with a desk, so I walked over to him and waited patiently until he looked up.

“I’m Naomi. I have an appointment at ten?”

“Is that a question?” he sneered, and I could see that his yellow teeth matched his jaundiced skin, beneath which you could faintly see blue veins and just the hint of gray bone.

“Um....I have an appointment. At ten.” Not off to the best start then.

“Yeah, well, take a seat,” he said, going back to his papers and waving a skeletal hand towards the chairs.

I paused, thinking about asking him if there were any forms to fill out, but no one else seemed to have any, so I went and sat in the only empty chair, which teetered slightly as I sat. The room was quiet and empty, and I hadn’t brought a book, so the only thing to do was try and steal surreptitious glances at the other three applicants. The one on the farthest end kept getting up and pacing, so she was easy to see. Tall and slender, she would walk three steps then rise up on her toes, then back down, and repeat. Next to me was an enormously fat woman. I could tell this without looking at her, as part of her thigh was in my seat, and she breathed the phlegmy, wheezey breath of the enormously fat. I couldn’t see the woman next to her, for obvious reasons, but I could see the giant rolling suitcase that she’d brought with her.

The inner door opened and we all looked up, and then readjusted our gaze downwards about three feet.

“Naomi?” the tiny lady said in a tiny voice. “Would you like to come in?”

I hastily gathered my things and stumbled over to the door. Was I meant to bend over and shake hands? Wave? Just say hello? Luckily, she made the decision for me, brightly saying “Good morning, close the door and let’s have a seat.”

I shut the door and shuffled over to my chair. The tiny lady climbed a stepstool to hers, which had a stack of pillows to raise her to my height.

“Naomi, I’m Louise,” she trilled. “That’s a very impressive resume you have there, schools and training and internships. You’re very accomplished for being so young.”

“Thank you,” I said, nibbling at my lip a little bit. “It, um, it helps to have a family in the business.”

“And such a well-known family at that.” It was hard for me to concentrate, because I felt fairly hypnotized by the voice, which was so high that it was almost hard to hear. “But I’d like to be sure, Naomi, that you can perform on your own merits, and not just rest on your family’s laurels.”

I nodded vigorously. “Of course, of course. Is there anything I can--”

“You can start by removing the dress so we can take a look.”

“Of course,” I said, and pulled it off over my head. The tiny lady, Louise, I supposed I should call her, slithered down off her perch without bothering with the stool.

“Now, tell me about your legs first,” she said, coming right up to the left one.

“The right leg is the mystery of the Marie Celeste, with the boat drifting in the sea.”

“Mm,” she said appreciatively, walking around my calf, “I like the rope trailing down to your ankle.”

“The left is the legend of the Flying Dutchman, with the mirage boat suspended over the other.”

“Of course, of course,” she murmured. She skibbled across the room to drag the stepstool over. “And your tummy?”

“That’s Lord Carnarvon opening Tutankhamen’s tomb.”

“Delightful detail, here, is that the mosquito? Oh, wonderful!” she clapped her tiny hands together and motioned for me to turn around. “And the back is...wait, let me guess...the wandering Jew! Beautiful, look at that beard! Arms next, please.”

“The left arm is Agatha Christie in her hotel room, and over on the right is Amelia Earheart.”

“And who are these charming fellows here, nestled below your collarbone?”

“Those are the princes in the tower, Edward V and Richard--”

“Of Shrewsbury,” she sighed happily. “And now please tell me about the beautiful family portrait on your face.”

“The Romanovs,” I said proudly. “All seven of them. And Anna Anderson over by my ear.”

“Well, my girl,” Louise said, throwing her arms wide, “These are just the most beautiful tattoos I’ve ever seen. Did you know I was an amateur history buff?”

I smiled and shook my head. I was in there. There was no way I was missing out on this job. But then Louise’s face clouded.

“The thing is, dear, you’ve chosen a bit of an obscure subject, historical mysteries. I myself would hire you on the spot, if I could be sure that the audiences were going to be as erudite as either one of us. But I’m afraid that Alan Pinkney’s Freak Shows just don’t attract a particularly bright clientele.”

I stared, my mouth open.

“They’d be confused, dear,” she said gently. “I think you might be better off trying more of a metropolis. There are some very clever circus people in New York.”

She thanked me for my time and I left. I couldn’t bear to look at any of the three women or the skeleton man on the way out, so I just walked straight to my car, got in, and wept. Nine tattoos and my life savings. All for nothing.