Wish on my lucky stars

An hour later, I'm getting off my first ride on the London Underground, my stomach full of breakfast. Aunt Linda keeps beating me to making breakfast, but I guess she's better off. I might just end up killing her with my cooking in the end. But still, her hip's starting to look stiffer.

I only get a little lost this time, which is good since I have a schedule to keep today. I don't know how I lucked out, but when I headed back to that huge bookstore with my resume, they said they'd already received a glowing letter of recommendation from the Fort Collins Main Library. I have no clue how the library even knew I was thinking of applying to this place, I didn't even tell Tyler I was thinking about it. But apparently they had and they had started interviews earlier this week for a full-time possition to replace one of their staff who would be leaving in October to study abroad. That would give them three months to train whomever would be taking over.

And as this was an important interview, Aunt Linda hobbled outside and hid my bike, saying it would make me too sweaty to look "smart" enough for the interview, so I should take the underground instead. But after the ride on that, I can safely say I hate public transportation. Too crowded. To hot. Too...public.

Im ten minutes early to my interview, which is good, since I only gave myself a half-hour of leeway. The woman who pointed my way the first day directs me to a chair by the backdoor to wait for one of the managers and then returns to the register and, getting a bit antsy just sitting there waiting, I scan the bookshelf across from me.

Knowing it'd be far too dangerous for me to read a book, since there's a good chance I won't hear the manager when she calls my name, I sit back and just look at the spines of the books. Before I realize it, I'm on my feet, alphabetizing, a habit I picked up when I couldn't find a book in a store one day because somebody had put the Weis with the Brooks.

I'm halfway through the B's when I feel a tap on my shoulder and my face goes hot. I slip off my glasses and clear my throat. "Sorry."

She just smiles and asks, "Kevin?"

"Acres," I confirm, holding out my hands. "People call me Green."

She takes my hand and shakes it, but can't hide her confusion. "Nevermind," I say. "They don't, really."

"I'm Julianne. I'll be interviewing you. Please follow me."

I follow her in, more worried about if the bold colors and shapes on my patriotic 4th of July boxers are bleeding through my pants or not, than worried I'll mess up on the interview. There's one thing to be said for having had so many jobs; I have done a ton of interviews, and obviously quite a few of those were successful.

But it is nothing like what I expect it to be. It's more like a quick mini-bio followed by a pop-quiz about the world of books. In the next half hour, she asks me a bunch of questions, like what an ISBN is, who wrote certain famous books, what the typical length of time is between Hardcover and Paperback publication, and that sort of thing. Then she gets to a question I'm not prepared for.

"Do you speak any foreign languages, and are you fluent?"

"Oh, uh..." I stumble, the question tripping up my easy flow. "I...I took sign language in college and taught my brother," I finally answer. "We talk in it all the time, just for fun."

"Would you say that you're fluent enough to help a hearing impaired customer?"

"I think so, yeah," I say, after a moment's pause to consider. "I've been...sp...per...using it for about six years."

She nods and marks that down on the notepad, then continues with her book quiz.

When she thanks me for interviewing and shakes my hand while she signals for the next person, I'm not entirely sure how the interview went. I hope it won't be long to wait to find out. I...didn't really apply anywhere else; maybe a shot in the foot, but I'm too excited about this place to even consider another line of employment. All those years of doing something I didn't love, I'm burned out from it. I'm uninspired. I just felt like I was wasting my time.

When I get outside the store, I pat my bag and feel the frisbee inside, then dig out my map to see if there's a park nearby. The map reminds me of Justin and, just in case though I know it's futile. No sign, but it looks like half of London's out shopping today.

I see a few parks I could walk to, but looking down at my interview clothes and lack of bike, decide to just head home and try to trick Aunt Linda into taking it easy for once and letting me do some things around the house.