Show Them a Good Time
For my grandmother
There was, finally, only so much one woman on the vast and wicked stage could do.
From ‘Four Calling Birds, Three French Hens’
by Lorrie Moore
Contents
- Show Them a Good Time
- Sweet Talk
- Hump
- Abortion, a Love Story
- Track
- Parrot
- You’re Going to Forget Me Before I Forget You
- Not the End Yet
- Acknowledgements
- Note on the Author
Show Them a Good Time
The schemes were for people with plenty of time, or people not totally unfamiliar with being treated like shit. I was intimate with both situations. Management interviewed me – bizarre questions through an inch of plexiglass: How long, in hours, have you been unemployed? Did you misspend your youth throwing stones at passing cars?
‘This can be a tangential process,’ Management explained and I said sorry.
‘Only peasants apologise,’ Management stated and returned to her obscure markings.
The interview was an all-nighter, designed to break my spirit and ensure I pledged organisation and responsibility for the rest of my days. I emerged from it, not completely sure of anything except my own name and my age, which I knew was somewhere in my late twenties. In the morning, I was taken to the bathroom to be measured for a uniform. The toilet stall had the dark, depthless feel of a place where a body may have lain undiscovered for days. The shirt gave me breasts, the regulation boots gave me legs. All those parts I had worked so hard to forget were now reunited under surprising polyester circumstances. When I was dressed, Management offered me a manic thumbs-up. Management was round, almost perfectly so, and given to spontaneous bursts of laughter. She looked at me, at my white and empty face, and asked, ‘Isn’t it a great thing to be able to give yourself a giggle?’ I saw in that gesture her former life as a farmhand, the crazy ease with which she sent animals off to be slaughtered.
Management explained the procedure again. Our function was to be near the till, maintain the appearance of the garage and, most importantly, believe. Management left the room as I screened the demonstration video. In it three participants, with the sexless good looks of catalogue models, spoke of the joy of being back at work. Whenever they did something spontaneous, or something considered outside their remit, a large X popped up on screen. As I watched I felt giddy and ashamed, as if I were witnessing a particular type of vicious pornography.
Management suggested if I ever felt like I didn’t believe, I should go for a short, furious walk – maybe up and down the motorway path – and stay away from my colleagues, as my attitudes and sulky face could be hazardous. She said I seemed like a nice person and if we had customers they would probably like me. I had a personality that was best suited to short interactions.