The First Deadly Sin

This is it: either I get this job, or we move.

Jonathan Carson had graduated in June with a Master’s in School Administration from the (very esteemed) University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. He had a thick portfolio with laminated pages containing his “artifacts” of achievement (edu-speak for evidence) during his year-long internship, replete with personal initiatives (including the inaugural community parking lot sale where he generated $750 in revenue), transportation issues (including his suggestion, that found fruition, in an alternative route for Bus 223), and testing matters (including his finely-tuned plan for all EOY —end of year— accommodations for their “multiple intelligences”); accolades from parents, cards from students, letters of recommendation from administration and staff, all lauding…him. Jonathan is tall, with good posture and a build that would suggest “gym”; he has clean, blemish-free skin, white teeth, and no indication of male-pattern baldness. While his clothes are (he will quietly admit) from TJ Maxx, nobody has to know that; besides, he is easy on the eyes —he knows this, is aware of the second glances— which takes the burden off the clothes.

He is also white, and because of this he has faced what he has called “reverse discrimination” in this job hunt for assistant principal. His wife Shoshanna thinks there’s no such thing as reverse discrimination, but she’s not the one being summarily shot down, emasculated.

“They need a person of color because they already have the white administrator,” she’d tried to reason. “Doesn’t matter how gifted you are, or how GQ you think you look. You should have known this going in.”

“What, and not even apply?”

“No, apply, by all means, but with realistic hopes. Gives you time to work on your interviewing, to polish your…affect.”

“My affect?”

“You tend to come across a bit gruff, maybe the Northerner in you? It’s okay for you not to know everything, you know.”

“Pffft,” he dismissed, which is the sound he makes when she says something ridiculous, which is often, but he did quietly concede to her point about color: every principal who’d interviewed him had been not only white, but male. This job, though, the one Jonathan had researched as being 72% minority and without anyone white in their front office, including a Black, female principal, this job was his.

It was so his that —against Shoshanna’s gentle suggestion that he stay in, get a good night’s rest so he’d be “bright eyed and bushy tailed” for the interview tomorrow (to this he rolled his eyes, gave his` pffft) —he went out with the boys last night to celebrate over darts and pitchers of cheap draft beer, and while he did throw magnificently (having made the pub’s Leader Board, high-fives all around), Johnny Carson — “Hi, I’m Johnny Carson,” always including the surname whenever he introduces himself to…whomever— awoke feeling bleary eyed and drag-assed…and late.

There is such a thing as feeling late when hungover because a sequential thought process is difficult to come by. You scramble to complete too many tasks at one time, and nothing gets done satisfactorily: you nick yourself shaving, and the bleeding won’t stanch; your tie won’t tie, your collar won’t button, your pants won’t seem to fit right; the hard butter splits the burnt toast, the egg shells are too brittle, the bacon peels irregularly; the crooked coffee filter yields dregs, and the fresh pot splashes on your shirt front as you simultaneously pour and ask Siri for the quickest route to E.K. Powe Elementary; all this, while sweating out the remains of last night on the very morning before the interview that will determine your further residency in this county.

Johnny wasn’t only feeling late, due to his mind’s-soaked conundrum, but he was late, verging on egregiously so, and fortunately his hen-pecking wife had already left for work so his insane scramble was not accompanied by the I-told-you-so’s. He slammed that screen door open —a passerby would have expected him to be one-handing a double-barreled shotgun, the way that door crashed off its frame— and he leaped those porch steps, briefcase in one hand, thermos in the other, like OJ Simpson in the Hertz commercial he’d watched as a child, when OJ was someone to admire, just as anyone —a pedestrian, or passing motorist— would have admired the ease with which Johnny Carson collected himself after said-leap, eating asphalt had his car not been right there to brace his fall.

He cranked the car, and the gas needle jiggled at E. The orange gas-pump light illuminated. The clock said 7:44, and Siri said the school was six miles away. You can do this, Johnny Bulls.

****

Johnny Bulls, his new moniker at the pub after his brilliant performance last night, a night that lingered after each exhalation in this aged Corolla that definitely needed an A/C check…a quick glance in the rearview said his eyes were none-too-clear, dehydrated. Versus just paying at the pump, he was going to have to go in the convenient store, get some Visine and Listerine, even some Breath Strips to continuously mask what lay beneath, for “you never get a second chance to make a first impression” said the Head and Shoulders Shampoo commercial he’d heard as a child.

Two people formed a line, and the first was playing the scratch-off lottery which is never a good sign for someone in a rush. The mouthwash was on a dusty shelf beneath the eyedrops, hanging from a crooked arm; the breath fragrance was two shelves over. 5.7 seconds, and Johnny became the third customer.

“What’s the next number for those thirteens?”

“287, ma’am.”

“Mmmmm, no. Bad sign, ending in seven. How ‘bout for the Lucky Shamrocks, those twenty-fives? What’s the next number for them?”

“You have got to fucking kidding me,” Johnny Carson grunted, and he released a glottal sigh. The woman in front of him shifted a bit. From the back she looked like a church lady. Her legs appeared too far apart from each other, and the hat she wore looked like a bird’s nest.

“$185. Will that do it for you?” asked the clerk, folding the addict’s gambling cards.

“No, no, I need you to run these numbers for me now, if you don’t mind.”

“Mother-FFFFfff— oooh…” Johnny looked around, seething through his teeth; he hung his head back and looked up at the ceiling and created one long, back-of-the-throat moan. His protruding Adam’s Apple quivered, for sure. Church Lady turned her head, down and back, locking him into her peripheral. Her hose had wrinkles and those sensible shoes were supinated. She one-armed her purse tightly in front of her, though he could see that purse now: same white plastic purse on an endcap at TJ Maxx. I hate everybody.

****

“You have a nice day now, y’hear? Next?”

Bird’s nest squished and squeaked as she walked to the counter. “And how are you today, young man?”

“Not as great as you look! Now, how may I help you?”

Johnny sucked his teeth; he tapped his foot. Happy people suck.

“I just need my change for pump five, but look…I’d rather whole bills, so let me just count out the difference for you, you give me a five in return?”

“That’s perfectly fine, you just take your time. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Johnny snorted loudly. “Sir, can I just—”

“You can just wait your turn, young friend,” the clerk said to him in, remarkably, the same sing-songy fashion but with a smile that said or Ima beat yo lily-white ass.

“No, no,” says Church Lady. “You take care-a him first, if you don’t mind. He’s in a hurry, and I just need to count out these pennies.”

FINALLY, he exhaled. He went and stood beside this older Black woman who (and I’m not prejudiced, but) reeked of government assistance, the way she was counting out those pennies. He glanced at…CLIFF, his name badge said, who was just smiling away like he couldn’t wait to count his drawer come shift’s end. Having already drawn enough attention to himself, Johnny quietly laid his hygienic contents on the counter.

“14.29,” Cliff proudly declared.

“How much? You’ve got…” Cliff’s raised eyebrow begged that he continue, but Johnny wisely stopped himself. HE was the one with the master’s degree, after all. He casually set down a ten and a five.

“Keep the change.”

“And British Petroleum thanks you, I am sure,” Cliff responded.

****

8:02. I’m not late, yet. In thirteen minutes, I will be late, but right now I’m fine. Breathe, Johnny Bulls, you’ve got this.

Yellow light, go very fast, I quote Jeff Bridges as I do just that; quick look in the rear view, no cop accelerating. Left turn signal, glance over shoulder, all clear; another left turn ahead at the intersection, line of cars waiting for the signal, no way José. Slow down a bit, light ahead changes, left turn arrow, cars move slowly and POW there you go, Bulls, easy-peasy, just ease on in.

What did she mean, anyhow, about my interviewing skills, about polishing my affect? How would she know? She ever sit in on an interview with me? I’ve fucking wowed them; even those that formed a committee to meet me (Wait’ll you meet this guy, this Johnny Carson! I’ve entertained in retrospect) gave firm, genuine handshakes at the end, sometimes two-handed handshakes, smiles all around.

Hate to do it, I love that guy, but we’ve got to hire someone…less white. Optics, you know? All about the optics.

8:07 and I’m going 55 in a 40, none-too-wise I know, crossing the double yellow to pass and getting the flashing brights as the ubiquitous fuck you, you suck.

“Right turn on Sycamore,” Siri patiently informs, and is equally patient when I fly past Sycamore.

(rerouting)

“Make your next right on Tremont Lane.”

If I don’t get this job, I’m going to develop an app in the voice of Samuel Jackson: What about ‘right turn on Sycamore’ did you not understand, motherfucker?

Tremont is very residential and virtually one lane, so I need to slow down. Twenty-five miles an hour? What is this?

Motherfucker, say ‘what’ again. I dare you. I double dare you.

ETA: 8:14, but there it is, and my mind launches to Weeds, The Punishment Light. I never make this light. It’s green now, but it will change; and when it does, there I will sit. For one hundred-fifty seconds.

Indeed; I’ve timed it.

I accelerate, fifty-five now. I look ahead at the intersection; no cop in the queue. The light is turning yellow and I accelerate more because I am going to cross this intersection, but the Prius in front of me brakes for the light and I…no way I can stop in time, so quick-over-the-shoulder, quick signal, quick swerve— but officer, the light was amber— and my Corolla gets air as it meets the convexity of the cross street —slow-motion now, I see the valets taking the Ferrari out for a cruise on Cameron and Ferris’ day off— and then, I’m on the other side, my wheels getting grip on the tarmac, my car skidding to right itself.

Houston, we have touched down.

Johnny Bulls, you got balls.

****

Jonathan Carson pulled into the parking lot of E.K. Powe at precisely 8:15. He Visined his eyes, again; he gargled again with Listerine, and he tongued another Breath Strip. Smelling eucalyptussy, it was showtime.

“Good morning, I have a meeting with Mrs. Klein.”

“Jonathan Carson?”

“Johnny, please.” He held out his hand, waiting for the recognition; the secretary shook his hand, politely smiling, but didn’t bite. “Johnny Carson.” He put the names together for her like retelling a punchline, in case she missed it, and again she smiled politely.

“Got it,” she said. “Just have a seat, Mr. Carson. Doctor Klein will be with you shortly.”

Doctor. Shit.

The front office of E.K. Powe Elementary School was delightfully cold, and Jonathan Carson felt invigorated, effervescent even. The job was his to lose, the only caveat this morning being the “doctor” gaffe (though he’d make that up with the receptionist, tell her a joke or something). There was his potential tardiness —not a good first impression— but he’d manned up and, like a boss, he’d navigated those streets with Dale Jarrett…éclat? Resplendence? Je ne sais—

The office door opened from the foyer with purpose, and the soles of purposeful shoes squish-squeaked across the linoleum. Johnny Carson instinctively put his phone down, but it was only a parent, he assumed, the way she was dressed, so…frumpy? Is that the word? And her stockings, so droopy…and her hat, like…

He sat straight up, his heart hammering like a piston and his veins flooded with warmth. His legs felt jellied. Please, oh please be a parent.

Dr. Klein turned away from the counter to face her 8:15. “Mr. Carson, so sorry to keep you….waiting.” Her pause indicated a recognition; her mouth cornered into a smirk. “Follow me, please?” This’ll be fun.

The radio behind the front desk was playing Taylor Swift. Shoshanna was a fan. Cause karma is my boyfriend, karma is a god, karma is the breeze in my hair on the weekend. Johnny Carson knew this one.

“Great song,” he said to the secretary, a last-ditch effort.

“Go get ‘em, Swifty,” the secretary said with a wink, and gave him a double thumbs up.