Interview #2 Task

“Could I impart a wave of wisdom onto you?”

My disgust at the thought of having anything imparted to me by a stranger must be clear, as the man laughs and steps closer.

“It’s just a brief sonnet babe, it won’t kill you.” He pulls out a thick book from his shoulder bag.

The rush hour crowd of the station usually swallows me up, I’m almost flattered that this grifter thought of me as an appropriate victim for his latest scheme. But not flattered enough to buy anything.

“Look, I don’t have any money…Wait, what are you doing?” At the mention of cash, he begins banging his head on the pole next to him.

“Um, are you ok?”

“Sorry, just waking up my psyche! Where was I? Oh yes, I wrote this for you.” The book is shoved into my hands.

“My writing is best understood when read from a female perspective.” He shrugs.

“Ok, um, what is the book about?”

“Just a juicy heap of ideas.”

I notice his slick turtleneck and skinny black jeans, consistent with the beatnik vibe he seems to be going for. But the wild mess of curls on his head and scruffy, unlaced shoes send any semblance of a clear image into a tailspin.

“Its best understood from a female perspective, I know you’ll totally vibe it.”

“Thanks, how much was it?”

“I’ll do it for $20 today babe.”

We say our goodbyes as I hand over a crumpled note. I open the book as I disappear into the crowd, and begin to decipher the messy handwriting on the page.

On the weekend I had a sleepover at grandma’s house. I got to ride her horse and at dinner she made a pasta. I went to sleep and then the next day I went home.

Hmm, pretty avant-garde. I turn the next page.

Today is Valentines day but I didn’t get any cards. Sarah got five even though she is ugly. Boys are stupid.

I flick through the rest of the book, which is filled with the same girlish scribe of narrative as pointless as an eight-year old girls diary.

Then I spot the inscription written in the front.

To Eliza,

Happy 8th Birthday! I had a diary just like this when I was a girl, I know you will treasure it as much as I did!

Love, Grandma

This actually is an eight-year-old girls diary. That bastard just got me to pay $20 for a diary he had stolen.

Full of anger and self-loathing, I march towards my platform, only halting when I notice my train pull away. With a stamp of my foot, I look back into the crowd. A middle-aged man is pulling out $20 for another book from that liar's pile. So much for needing a female perspective for his work.

As much as I’d like, I can’t be mad at the gypsy who conned me. Men like him have a certain genius for bullshit. Sure, he’s a predator, a dead end. But he has my $20 and 10 minutes. I have nothing.