It must be frustrating to be an ignorant, inarticulate slob with a great deal of pent-up anger and the inability to express it in a way that would be understood by anyone except a 14-year-old with a drinking problem. And Randy Beemis was no 14-year-old. He was, in fact, a 34-year-old man whose job was cleaning the lavatory/shower rooms at his neighborhood pool. And he was getting darn tired of it.

   Oh, the work was all right in the old days—when he used to spend every waking hour away from his pool duties getting stoned and drinking beer with his high school buddies—but now that most of his old friends were working real jobs and raising children and teenagers (some of whom Randy had partied with and even dated), the whole thing was beginning to get stale. Randy felt that the time had finally come to secure gainful employment and find his way in the world.

   The first person that he turned to in this time of personal re-evaluation was his father...

   "Dad," Randy said, in as sincere a tone as he could muster, "I'm tired of this pool shit. I need a real job. Somethin' that pays more than $3.45 an hour. A place where I'll be surrounded by chicks closer to my own age. You know what I'm talkin' about. Chicks who are interested in me for who I am. Not because I'm old enough to buy the malt liquor."

   Mr. Beemis, who always felt that his son would have benefitted from an exorcism, was sympathetic to his plight. "I only wish that you had come to me sooner," he sighed.

"Dad," Randy said, "I'm tired of this pool shit."

   "Get me a job in the government or at a bank or at someplace with a whole bunch of chicks." said Randy. "But make sure that I don't hafta' wear a suit or shave every day or get a haircut."

   (Randy sported a Motley Crue haircut that was less than flattering to his puffy, double-chinned face, part of a head that appeared to have been attached without a neck to his 250-pound body. And at 5-foot-8-inches, every pound was an incriminating reminder of Randy's less than healthy lifestyle.)

   "...and make sure that's it's a place where I can smoke and play the radio. How come you never hear Skynrd playin' in the bank...and do they have topless banks or government offices like they have carwashes and bars? ...what about nude banks or government offices? Do they have ones where all the chicks walk around nude and where I can drink as long as it's only beer and I don't get too fucked up?"

   Mr. Beemis rubbed his chin and stared for a long time at his only son. What could he do to help him? For the first time in their long and frequently stormy relationship Randy had actually come to him for help. He actually wished to improve himself, and yet his plan was so confused, so fragmented, so infantile that the elder Beemis didn't know what to do.

   ...Then it dawned on him. He could have Randy finish the summer as an intern at the Harris Publishing House. Publisher Susan Harris was an old family friend and owed at least her early success to contacts made through his intervention. And she had spent several of her pre-publishing years working with emotionally disturbed adolescents so, while she would probably find Randy's presence at her office to be disruptive, she may just feel indebted enough to give him a chance.

   The Harris Publishing Company interview was scheduled for Monday morning before Randy's normal pool shift. Mr. Beemis implored Randy to say nothing about nude secretaries or water coolers filled with malt liquor, and tried to impress upon him the importance of the appointment. Perhaps he was too successful because Randy arrived at the Harris Publishing Office in one of his rare nervous states.

   "...Just need something to calm my nerves...," he mumbled as he approached the outer office door. "I wonder if there's a bar in this building? It doesn't even have to be bottomless."

   Of course there was no bar. Topless, bottomless, or otherwise.

   "...What the hell am I gonna do? I'm only 34. I've never been to a job interview before."

The urge to urinate became his number one priority.

   Randy was already 45 minutes late, so going back outside to look for a bar was out of the question. If Randy was going to calm himself down it would have to be done in the building and without benefit of alcohol.

   The amount of PCP that Randy smoked in the men's room stall was far less than he would have smoked on an average Monday morning but perhaps more than he should have smoked before a job interview. Still, he stumbled out of the stall, submerged his entire head in a sink full of cold water and, without bothering to towel off his hair or face, staggered one hour and ten minutes late into the first job interview of his life.

   Probably a feminist publishing house was the last place on Earth that he should have been at this time.

   "Are you Mr. Beemis?" queried the delicate male receptionist as Randy stomped loudly into the office. His eyes darted suspiciously around the reception area as he eyed radical feminist tracts that even he, in his paranoid and disoriented state was able to identify as literature not to his liking (actually all literature was not to Randy's liking—but political literature measured in at the bottom of the list). "Ms. Harris has been waiting for you." said the receptionist, testily. "You are Mr. Beemis aren't you?"

   Mucous was beginning to drip from Randy's nose as webs of dried saliva began to appear at the sides of his mouth. It was difficult to respond.

   "Well, are you Mr. Beemis or aren't you?" asked the receptionist, rising from his chair. "Ms. Harris is a very busy woma..., er, I mean person, and isn't used to being kept waiting. "Who are you?"

   "...B...B...B-Beemis...," mumbled Randy. He then began to hiccup uncontrollably.

   "Ms. Harris will be with you momentarily." snorted the receptionist. He then disappeared into the next office.

   Randy sat in a chair by the door and put his throbbing, soaking-wet head between his knees in an attempt to make the room stop spinning around him. He wished now that he had relieved himself when he was in the men's room. The urge to urinate became his number one priority. More important than Skynrd. More important than nude chicks. More important than smashing in the face of that secretary guy.

   The door suddenly swung open and Susan Harris walked in. Ms. Harris, the family friend, tried to make the best of what was obviously a bad situation.

   "I'm Susan Harris, Mr. Beemis. You're father is a very dear friend of mine. I'm so glad to finally meet you."

   Randy struggled to his feet. He bladder was about to explode. "Can you tell me how to get back to the men's room? I have to piss with my dick." Then he vomited and collapsed onto the floor, where he soiled himself and then the carpet.

...

The toilets at the pool were particularly fetid that day. The Knights of Columbus had held some sort of function the night before that appeared to have involved baked beans, onion rings and Guinness Stout. Randy had serious doubts about his getting the Harris Publishing intern job, but he didn't much care at this point. Who wanted to work in that shit-hole with assholes like that? The whole idea sucked from the start. What was the point of leaving a job that he knew inside and out if he wasn't going to work with nude chicks and drink cold beer and listen to good tunes? This pool gig would hold him for now. After Labor Day he could start checkin' out the help-wanted section of the newspaper. He could see it now...

WANTED: Male with cool haircut to work with nude chicks at bar. Must be alcoholic.

   Yes, thought Randy, life was about to start looking up...

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