"Interviewing Bat Boy for a Job Sometime

in the Indeterminate Future" by Chad Frame

 

His resume

 

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Bat Boy, 1967-Present

 

 

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and cover letter [a subsonic, wordless scream] both turn up in a pile. I’m twisting slightly and leaning, green antique office chair squeaking its metallic, spring-loaded dissent as he Kramers through the door into the room, grey rumpled thrift store suit over misbuttoned shirt and blue-striped skinny tie. He’s waxed his pale pate to a sheen unbearable to look at. My gaze wanders from his face, his own eyes black and bulging.                      We start with small talk. There should be a word for the unsettling realization that people you reencounter from your past have an understanding of pop culture and current events, that they don’t exist in a vacuum, only caught up in time to when you last saw them. Alabama U. bus crash, Bat Boy banters. Pixar nip slip. First clone presidential candidate. He offers me every morsel in a desperate bid to seem relevant. I’ve been taking night classes, he tells me. Spreadsheets, he expounds, as if that should tell me everything. Perhaps it does. We had some good times, didn’t we? I reminisce.                       So how ‘bout it? he asks, face strained, nails digging into my desk. I’ll call you in a couple days, I tell him, meaning never.