Behind Glass Doors.

Every time he goes by this place, used to be on the bus ‘till his pass ran out, every time he goes by he looks at the window, the poster, and he thinks. Walks by, and stares at the window. Tries to match his reflection so his face covers the one on the poster. But he’s too short, his hair’s a mess, not slick like the man on the poster. His smile is a grimace, and his eyes don’t shine.

So he walks by. Every time. He wants to “Apply Now!” , to go behind the glass doors, to be the Man in the Suit, smiling and beaming and shining. But all his clothes are old sweaters and jeans, Salvation Army. He knows, though, he’s got to look just right, just like the Man, to even get past those doors. He knows he’s got to do it.

When he’s picking up his unemployment cheque, he knows, somehow he knows by taking it in his hands – it’s the last one. The envelope feels too heavy. Sure enough, there’s a letter inside, and they’re telling him he’s not trying, but he’s been walking. But they just won’t get it. Folding the cheque into his wallet, he feels like he’s been kicked in the sack.

And when he’s in line at the bank, the feeling doesn’t go away. The pain rolls up into his bladder, man, oh man, it’s not comfortable. Walking down the street, he’s limping a little. When he’s trying on the pants of a suit, the pain has shot up into his side, just rolling up and down, from balls to bladder to under his ribs. And he’s squirming and bending and cramping. The sales guy’s talking to him about shoes, and he just nods and counts out the cash for the suit, and bolts. Runs bowl-legged all the way to a clinic. Gets to catch his breath in the waiting room while kicking himself for wearing the suit, nervously eyeing all those people walking around with samples.

Old army boots under a new cheap suit, that’s what the doctor sees when telling him it’s either a kidney stone or a bladder infection, but he can’t afford x-rays or follow-ups, so he just gets a prescription for antibiotics and hopes for the best. Never in his life did he think that hoping for the best would be hoping for a bladder infection. And now he can’t even afford dress shoes.

Monday morning. He walks by the place. Once. Forgot his wallet, so he walks back home. Twice. Forgot his resume. Three times, four, and now he’s just pacing. And now standing in front of the glass doors. There’s the poster, behind his reflection. The reflection with the cheap suit. The bad hair. The army boots with a thick coat of black shine that look nothing like dress shoes. The Man in the poster looks down at him. The Man in his crisp suit, great hair, a smile like a switchblade and the hand extended to shake his, but it feels like it’s grabbing him. Right by the balls. And that pain starts up again, he thought the pills cleared it all up, but now it’s shooting right through him. And nailing him right to the spot along with his fear and anxiety and desperation.

Then he feels something like fire and acid fill his bladder, and he forgets about the Man in the poster, and his desperation and his fear. The pain flings him through the doors and at the counter where all he can squeeze out, red faced and teeth clenched, is “Bathroom! Stone!”. The guy behind the counter – cheap suit, bad hair- just points, looking terrified.

When he finishes screaming and his eye focus again, he thinks he can see a tiny rock in the toilet along with the blood and piss, but probably not. Doesn’t want to give it much thought. He can hear a knocking at the door – “Sir, it’s the manager. Are you alright? Should I call an ambulance?”. He pulls his pants up, opens the door, and trying to keep his hand from shaking too much, he hands over his resume.