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The next morning, I awoke early. I showered and shaved clean, I even trimmed my hair. I donned my long-lapelled shirt, and my fancy sailboat tie. I felt ready to conquer. I certainly looked the part. I sprayed on some cologne, and even put on a bracelet. It was a platinum chain Christine had bought me; I hated it. I never wore it. I hated wearing jewelry altogether. I had explained this to the crazy bitch on several occasions, but I had apparently been lacking the necessary conviction to part the drunken fog from her ditzy little brain. I hated the way it felt on my skin, I found myself compulsively flicking my wrist, adjusting it constantly. But it added to the look. I even throw gel in my hair, going all out. Gazing in the mirror, I didn’t recognize the man I had become. I looked like some guy named “Fat Cat Charles,” or “Boston Monroe.” I headed to the interview. I was a strange man in a strange city, back in my own truck. I arrived at the office, where a couple of other guys were walking up as well. They were also wearing shirts and ties, but I only spotted one of them with a bracelet. It appeared there would be some competition.
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