Milson (Chapter 5)

Chapter 5.

That morning Milson awoke feeling refreshed and re-energised. He ate a hearty breakfast of eggs, toast and juice and anxiously accepted the words of encouragement and support from his roomies.

At 8.47am as Milson stood outside the grey, concrete consumerist construction, he took time to prepare before entering into the unknown.

‘Appropriate attire’. Check. Beaten-up briefcase. Check. Beaten-up briefcase containing one 1-page rushed résumé including vague contact details and curry stew residue. Check. One confident, apt applicant… check? Milson wasn’t so sure. Milson took a deep breath and a step towards the automatic doors. They glided open and Milson hesitantly hobbled through into the bright, stark surrounding. He was directed to a tea room where six other large men sat in catharsis consuming coffee. Milson sat at the end of the table some distance away and shakily removed the ‘résumé’ from his case. Some of the other men glanced his way, and then easily returned to their conversations, obviously unthreatened by his presence in the present situation.

Suddenly a well-dressed woman entered the room and held all to attention. She stated her name and position and the procedures of the interview process. With that she called the first applicant and returned to the lair.

Milson watched the men enter in Santa mode. Full of chubby cheeked confidence and robust. They returned withdrawn and blank. Not one made eye contact upon leaving. Not one spoke or sussed out the panel and their vulnerability to bribes. Just as Milson was ready to leave in fear of entering an alien-run brain washing unit, his name was called by the extra-terrestrial leader herself.

Mr Hauumer, Milson”. Statement. He was expected to enter. And why not? It was just an interview. What could be so bad?

As Milson entered the cold room he knew what could be so bad. Three firm faced females sitting propped behind a mahogany matriarchal table. They fired questions from left, right and centre. Milson answered all as honestly as he could, yet when finding himself rambling on about his loss of childhood and lack of seasonal spirit, he knew he had lost them.

‘Fuck Dickhead, shut up. They’ll think your some kind of nut case’. Milson peered above his glasses at the silent surveyors above. Their faces had softened. Milson relaxed.

By the end of the interview, Milson had left the room in, and with a smile. As he walked through the tea room, he held his head high and greeted the remaining applicants ‘good-day’.

For the rest of that day Milson was on cloud nine. For the next week that followed with no contact from the prospective employers, Milson dropped nine below zero.

He passed the days at the refuge drinking and smoking and playing cards. Listening to the others tell of tales repeatedly told.

Just as Milson had given up hope and was ready to pack it all in, he received a call.

 

 

 

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