Here are the questions and the answers I’ve received:

Interviewee: Jojy

1. What is your favorite word?
It’s a four letter word I don’t think I should say.

2. What is your least favorite word?
No

3. What turns you on [creatively, spiritually or emotionally]?
Seeing something outside of a project that you think would apply.

4. What turns you off?
Something that can not be done.

5. What is your favorite curse word?
Same as my favorite word except with an ‘er’ at the end.

6. What sound or noise do you love?
Music without lyrics - just the rhythm.

7. What sound or noise do you hate?
My heater.

8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Pilot

9. What profession would you not like to do?
Lawyer

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
I am proud of you. You did what I sent you for.

NOT HIRED

Nevermind that I hate that they’re everywhere - I just wanted something warm, something not coffee, and something comforting. They’re they only place near the office that can provide something of that nature, and they make an apple cider drink. They call it Apple Caramel.

So I go into the place and scan their menu for the Apple Caramel, but it’s not on the menu anymore.

I ask the jackass behind the counter if they still make their Apple caramel drink. He said it’s been taken off the menu because ‘they discontinued cinnamon’.

I ask how someone can discontinue cinnamon.

Then he gave me this long song and dance about something being eco-conscious. What that has to do with cinnamon I don’t know.

He tells me, though, that he can make the drink for me without the cinnamon, but he’ll have to put whipped cream on top.

I tell him no whipped cream.

He looks at me like I’m a bum covered in shit that stumbled into his store and asks again if I honestly don’t want the whipped cream. I confirm that i do not.

He sighs, “what size?”

“Medium,” I tell him and then instantly remember their unique words for sizes, “sorry, grand.”

He pronounces in a cocky manner, sure enunciate the word just so, “you mean grahn-day?”

“Whatever.”

He sluggishly starts into the motions of making that drink, with an air about him as if he’s doing me some monstrous favor.

Another cocksucker in a green apron and mohawk comes up to help ring me up while jackass makes my drink. The cocksucker asks the jackass what to ring up, and the jackass says, “Grahn-day apple caramel.”

Cocksucker repeats as he’s punching it in, “grahn-day apple caramel.”

“NO WHIP,” jackass says with a not-so-subtle sound of shock.

“No whip?” asks the cocksucker.

“I know. No whip,” the jackass repeats, “just make it.”

So now they’re making me feel like a jerk.

I pay the cocksucker, go to the counter where the drinks are presented to the customers, and wait. Jackass pushes a cup at me with an expression of disgust, “grahn-day apple caramel - NO WHIP,” he announces to everyone in the store even though I’m right there, within earshot of a murmur.

I wanted to spit in face.

So I take the fucking drink and start looking for those cardboard sleeves you put on the cup to prevent burning your hand. Where are the cardboard sleeves?

RIGHT NEXT TO THE FUCKING CINNAMON THAT JACKASS COULD HAVE FUCKING PUT IN MY FUCKING DRINK. The very same cinnamon Starbucks supposedly banned for some mindless, zombie, eco-friendly bullshit.

I say again, I hate Starbucks.

It was a funny gag gift. We both love the movie Idiocracy and talk about it way too much.

I open the bag and there’s as many millions of green Brawndo jelly beans as it takes to weigh 20 pounds. I eat a couple, kind of a tart lemon-lime flavor, we joke about the movie, and then move on.

Nobody at work could give a shit about the Brawndo because they all hated or never saw Idiocracy, and I spend the rest of the day in vein cracking Idiocracy jokes in an attempt to get more people on board and interested in the movie. The day ends, no new Idiocracy converts, so I take Bart home.

On the train I eat a couple more. They don’t taste too good.

I get to my station, get in the car, and drive home. I set up carrying my things from the car to the house so that when I walk in the door I have a free hand and I’m eating Brawndo.

I’m expecting Lisa to roll her eyes with annoyance because she hated that movie with a passion. Instead there’s an expression of horror, “What are you eating?”

“Brawndo! The Thirst Mutilator!”

“That’s BRANDO, the lawn fertilizer.”

Pause.

I look at my sack of jelly beans.

Sure enough.

Not knowing what else to do, I run out to the backyard and spread it around. As each green pellet hits the ground it shatters into a kind of damp grey dust, almost sludge.

‘I was eating that?’ I asked myself.

The end.

“HIYA” the messenger said to me.

“Hello,” I sleepily asked back.

“Benjamin um…,” he checks his clipboard, “Smash? Is it?”

“Yeah?”

“Hiya Ben!”

I hate it when people call me Ben, “Hi.”

“Did you receive you email notices about our Working Remote program?”

Ever since that new company bought the company I used to work for email notices never really made it to their destinations, “No, I hadn’t.”

“Oh. Well. It’s a really great new program that will reduce our congestion here at the office from our increasing headcount. By letting those, whose jobs don’t require them to be here for meetings day-to-day, work remotely we’ll open up space.”

“But I have meetings every day.”

“No you don’t. If you did you would have responded to the email blast sent out to everyo…”

“I didn’t get that email. I told you.”

“Anyway, pack up your things. A moving crew will be here in about 30 minutes to pack your desk for you.”

“But I like where I sit.”

Putting my laptop back in my bag for me, “let’s get you working remotely!”

As I’m being escorted to the elevator lobby a couple of my friends are getting off, “leaving already Benjamin?”

“I’m taking Ben to remoting,” the messenger explains, “but I’ll be right back. Don’t get too comfortable, um, uh, John Noorton? Nortoon? Nartan?”

The elevator doors close between us, John looking at me confused as they squeeze shut.

“You don’t have to walk me to my car,” I tell the messenger as we walk out into the building’s main ground level lobby.

“We’re not going to your car. We’re going to REMOTING!”

“I know. I get it. I’m working from home. Do I just check in with you when I get home? Call? Email? Text?”

“I don’t think you quite understand the larger concept here,” the prick tells me, “we’re going to Remoting to make extra space available for those who need it upstairs.”

“I get it. So why are you walking me to my car?”

“Ben,” I hate it when people call me Ben, “I don’t think you’re grasping the larger idea. You see, you’re being moved to remoting.”

“I heard that. Remoting. I’ll be working, with my laptop, remotely.”

“Yeah! Exactly. I thought you didn’t get it.”

“I get it. I’ll just take my laptop home and work remotely from there.”

The idiot sighs as if he were the superior intellect trying to explain to a child, “you’re not working from home. You’re working remotely.”

“Ok,” I play along, “remotely from where.”

“It was all detailed in that email blas…”

“I didn’t get that email.”

“Oh right, right, right. You somehow didn’t ‘get’ the email,” he mocks me.

Then a pause hits me. I realize that I’m working remotely, but from someplace other than somewhere remote. Only corporate jargon can get so unbelievably confused to create a ‘work remotely’ program where the remote location is a pre-established location for all people working remotely to work from. Technically, that’s just another office.

As we step out into overcast 2nd Street between Mission and Market in glorious San Francisco, there’s a huge truck parked in front with tents attached to it sitting on the sidewalk. Under the open sides tents are folding tables, folding chairs, big orange Gatorade jugs filled with water, and stacks of Dixie cups.

With as hard a slap on my back this feeble moron can muster, “Welcome to Remoting!”

“You’re kidding me,” I try to tell him, but he’s already on his way back into the warm building.

Until this morning started I had really, really, really enjoyed my job. So, being a team player and all that I gave it a shot. Who knows who else would be joining me at one of these long, fully exposed, no privacy tables set up on the same sidewalk bums pissed and shit on over the night before.

I sit down, set up my laptop, get myself a Dixie cup of water, and get to work. The day slides on and the messenger doesn’t return. Nobody else from the company comes down to sit next to me.

By the time 3:00 rolls around I realize that I’m the only one in Remoting.

The night after I had this dream I had it again with a scary new addition. Apparently in order to work at this company I needed to wear a bluetooth earpiece at all times that was physically connected to the firewire port the company surgically implanted behind my ear.

I woke up in the middle of the night and realized that all four of our daughter’s cows were disastrously dirty and needed to be washed and dried before she woke in the morning. I ran around the house collecting all four cows (even the one we leave at her daycare, somehow, was home) and rushed out to the laundry room.

We live in a decent house, and just outside, past our backyard, is a semi-guesthouse of sorts. There’s a bedroom/bonus room, full bath, some storage area, and the laundry. I throw all four cows into the washing machine, along with some other things of hers, and turn it on. To keep myself awake while the wash goes through its cycle, I head into the bonus room which I’ve made into a kind of theater and start a movie.

As the movie goes on I notice that I can’t hear the washing machine. I get up and, very cautiously, look around the doorway toward the washing machine.

The washing machine door is open. I step slowly to the machine and look in.

Only three cows.

I shut off the movie in the background and start searching around the side house in midnight silence.

I hear nothing in the semi-guesthouse and move my search into the main house – the door is open. In the main house I hear a rustling through the kitchen. I hear the jingle of keys. I hear a creek and then the slam close of the door to the garage.

I rush through the kitchen, open the door, and the garage door is already rolling up – the Civic turns on. I stare at the car and see two furry paws on the steering wheel and a fluffy head with fluffy ears and stitched eyes looking at me.

I motion for the cow to stop, but the car’s already backing out. I rush for the Pilot, but I have no keys. Back into the house I rummage through my wife’s purse and find her keys, rush back to the Pilot and get it running. The Civic’s gone.

I back out into the street and hear screeching followed by a trashcan crumpling under a car just down the block. I speed toward that direction.

The chase is on, and I’m chasing only glimpses of the back of my Civic as it turns sharp corners and weaves in and out of traffic once we’re finally on the freeway heading for San Francisco.

We get into San Francisco from the south, having raced up the peninsula, and the cow works his way through the Park Merced apartment complex and toward SF State. He makes a right down a short street on campus, and then a left into the main parking complex. I follow inside and instantly lose him. I patrol the bottom level of the complex, keeping a keen eye on the only entrance/exit. Driving slow, windows down, I both look and listen.

A crunch sounds through the cement parking garage bottom floor, accompanied by screeching tires, the crumple of metal, and shattering of glass. Judging by the dullness of it all and the echo I assume it came from the top floor. I race up the ramps between levels to get the roof and I see my Civic on its side, the only wheel still on it spinning, seemingly fused into another car.

I pull up to the wreck, get out, and walk around it. I look in the car. I look under. No cow.

I then hear the starting up of an engine and look over my shoulder to see a Land Rover pull away with two furry paws at the wheel. I jump back in my car and pursue once more, this time the cow’s leading me back down the peninsula toward the airport.

The end.

Here are the questions and the answers I’ve received:

Interviewee: Joey

1. What is your favorite word?
Man

2. What is your least favorite word?
Cute

3. What turns you on [creatively, spiritually or emotionally]?
Other than women? Getting that sensation of success when finishing a huge project.

4. What turns you off?
Someone on a team that slows you down/blocks you.

5. What is your favorite curse word?
Shit

6. What sound or noise do you love?
808 Drum

7. What sound or noise do you hate?
Squeeking

8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Psychologist

9. What profession would you not like to do?
Police officer

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Welcome.

NOT HIRED

Here are the questions and the answers I’ve received:

Interviewee: Mark

1. What is your favorite word?
Yes

2. What is your least favorite word?
No

3. What turns you on [creatively, spiritually or emotionally]?
Music

4. What turns you off?
Bad music

5. What is your favorite curse word?
Fuck you

6. What sound or noise do you love?
Opera

7. What sound or noise do you hate?
The screeching of the BART train’s wheels as it makes a turn

8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Race car driver

9. What profession would you not like to do?
Accountant

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Welcome home.

PENDING

The Square
In a large public square, in a large city in Russia (I know not which city, only that it’s large, in Russia, and the city square very ornate), I’m followed by one very regal and inquisitive entourage. I’m moving slowly through the square, counting every brick in the intricately patterned ground and adjacent buildings. In a wide semicircle behind me is an escort of Russian ministers and secretaries, uniformed high ranking officers, several men with clipboards and charts keeping detailed notes on my counting, and three or four armed guards at either end of the crowd (bored and upset that they were put on my detail instead of weekend leave like the rest of their troop).

And that’s it, yet it goes on forever. I’m dressed warmly for the weather, and every so often all I need do is raise a hand to have someone rush over some food or drinks so that I may continue my massive counting project without have to take a formal break.

The Mountain
Again, also in Russia, I wander through mountain ranges and forest with ridiculous hunger. Why I’m hungry and how it pertains to the rest of the dream is beyond me – it simply starts out with my being ravenous for food.

Sooner or later, in my wanderings, I find a mountain. I ascend the mountainside just a bit until I find just the right fissure in its side. I slide my hand in and grip the rock, and then with my other hand I punch a shallow hole into the mountain just above the fissure. With all the strength in my shoulders and back I press the back of my neck against the mountain and heave.

Earthquakes ring out in all directions from the mountain as I break it free from the earth and raise it up onto my shoulder. The mountain, now tipped at a considerable angle on my shoulder, is balanced by my head and arms. From a mile or more up in the sky – where the top of the mountain now is – snow falls quickly from its now tipped over peak. As I carry the mountain I find myself irritated at the one part of carrying mountains that truly annoys me – blocks of ice and snow cracking over my head after having fallen for a great while, at great speed, from the tipped top of the mountain I now carry.

And that’s it. I wander through the Russian countryside with a mountain on my shoulder, every so often getting pelted in the head with snow.

Here are the questions and the answers I’ve received:

Interviewee: Toby

1. What is your favorite word?
Giggle

2. What is your least favorite word?
Infection

3. What turns you on [creatively, spiritually or emotionally]?
That ‘Eureka Moment’ when everything just clicks and, “AH HA!,” you’re inspired.

4. What turns you off?
Lack of communication

5. What is your favorite curse word?
Motherfucker

6. What sound or noise do you love?
Daughter laughing

7. What sound or noise do you hate?
Daughter’s deep, silent inhale just before srcreaming out in pain

8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Film

9. What profession would you not like to do?
Sales

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
It doesn’t matter what you did, just so long as you were a good person.

NOT HIRED