Monkey Business

it’s the doghouse for russ

10:30 a.m.

I shake the interviewer’s hand firmly and sit down. We’re wearing matching Brooks Brothers navy suits, white shirts and blue ties. He’s in his forties, balding at the top of his head. He hands me a pad of yellow paper and a black ballpoint pen, then opens the black leather folder in front of him.

“We’re going to run a case,” he says. His chin disappears when he talks.

No kidding. I relax my shoulders and try to smile. I need to invoke all of my superhuman mental strength. “I’m ready.”

“How many dogs are in the U. S.?” He’s looking me straight in the eye to see if I flinch.

Oh, man. Who gives a shit how many dogs there are in the U. S.? I try to remember all that I’ve learned about answering estimation cases. They don’t expect you to get the right answer. They just want to see how you think. How you analyze the problem and come to a conclusion. First you have to show that you can clarify. So here’s my clarifying question: “Is that just domestic dogs or working dogs, as well?”

He’s still staring. “All dogs.”

All dogs. Wait a minute. Maybe he doesn’t expect a number, like 2,000,577. Maybe he wants a list of types, like beagles and boxers. What the hell do I know about dogs? Wait. Maybe I’ll be creative, and list them by function. “All right. Let’s see now. There are domestic dogs, police dogs, show dogs and racing dogs.”

“Are you sure that’s it?” he says, pointing an accusatory finger.

Am I sure that’s it? I have to appear confident. If I can’t make choices in my real life, how am I supposed to make them here?

“No. Let’s not forget hot dogs.”

He smiles.

Afterward I go straight to Kimmy’s room. She’s lying in her bra and panties. I take off my clothes and carefully arrange them over her chair. (Maybe she’ll be inspired to iron them?)

Four hours to relax before my next interview.

Relax. Now that’s a good euphemism.

I inhale her warm, vanilla smell. “How’d you do?” I ask.

She nestles her knee between my legs. “All right. I’m glad I’m done for the day.”

“Cases suck, eh?”

“Don’t laugh,” she says, “but I don’t mind them as much as I thought.”

I mess up her hair. “Did you enjoy yourself? Did you find the cases fun?”

She giggles. “A little.”

Knowing how ticklish she is, I go straight for her underarms. “Stop,” she squeals, squirming in my hands. Her hands are now under my arms, and we’re both laughing and rolling around.

I spent twenty-one years alone, and now I’m seeing two people at the same time.

Shit. I freeze.

“What’s wrong?” Kimmy asks, sitting up.

Shit, shit, shit. “I forgot seeing-eye dogs.”