Whether nine minutes late or six early, he’s still going to need two. The forums advised a full two minutes of posing like Superman in a mirror. There’s no reason whatsoever, they assured, to be embarrassed about verbalizing words of self-encouragement. This will boost confidence, testosterone. Not enough time to scramble in search of the men’s room inside, so he marches right up to the black door. In its sheen he is met by his reflection, cast dim as if through sunglasses. Together, they twist knuckles into their hip bones. Roll their shoulders back. Their chests expand, their chins lift then tilt, and he wonders which, if he even has one, is his good side.

The mirror trick actually works. Holding himself with such authority seems to shrink his outdated suit down to more modern tailoring standards. The pant cuffs show no sign of last night’s jury-rigged alterations. The flush of his cheeks isn’t the toast of anxiety but pure vigor. After the Snickers bar’s sugar and protein, he’s still hungry but not famished. The hunger is good. It will sharpen him, file him down to a predatorial focus. So lean, he keeps the waistband from falling with his left hand in the pocket, lending him a casual air and freeing the right for hearty handshakes. Only his hair is in need of adjustment. As if preparing to grab a retaining wall block, he spits into a palm, then rubs both together. He molds the black pouf down, to the left, and it doesn’t just do—it looks good.

He’s no impostor, no fraud. He is an American like everybody else, and so entitled to everything else. Summoning this morning’s homeowner—white, clean, easy-go-lucky free—Henry shakes his hand with the self-assuredness of a man with nothing to prove, for they are equals in both capacity and worth. A pleasure to meet you, truly. Most certainly. Super.

He flaps into one last flex. With the heel of his fist, he traces a wide S across his chest and fastens it with a pound. Ribs don’t give an inch and he is ready. The door swings open and right inside is a security guard, slouched against a counter, smirking. “Looking mighty sharp, Mr. Kent.”

“Henry, actually.”

“It’s a joke, kid.”

“Yeah, no.” Henry tries chuckling into focus, normalcy. “I, uh, got an interview. It’s over at Hor—”

“Horizon Lines. Right.” The guard makes a finger pistol, fires it to the right. “Last door thataway.”

As Henry makes his way down the hallway, the security guard tells him to go get ’em, champ. A gunmetal carpet absorbs his footfalls, allowing the old, linear lightbulbs set in the checkerboard of asbestos ceiling tiles to hum uninterrupted. Right outside the entrance, he’s fine, just great indeed. He grits his teeth into a high-beam smile and pushes through the door.

“You must be Henry. I’m Alex.”