Truth, Lies, and Unleaded
Confronting poverty in middle age
The tone of his voice controls the meaning of the question. His words are dismissed as silent observers. He isn’t asking what intrigues me about the gas station or convenience store industry. No, the tone is in control, and it wants to know how badly I screwed up my life to end up here.
“Why do you want to work here?” he asks. His upper lip nearly kisses his nose with indignation.
His words fling off his lips, as carefree as children in a bouncy house. But his tone means business. His tone wants answers. His tone demands the truth in all its ugliness. His tone will accept nothing less than the splitting open of my life for examination and judgment. He is the manager. I am applying as a clerk. I owe him answers. Poor people always owe something to someone.
I glance at his computer screen and notice an unfinished game of solitaire. He needs to move the queen of hearts over to the black king and free up that ace. He catches me looking at the screen and clears his throat. Answers. Now.
The truth is easy. It pings around my noggin like the silver ball of a pinball game. I don’t want to work here. That’s the truth if you really want to know. No one does. No one has ever wanted to work here and no one ever will. I’m pretty sure even you don’t want…
