Sherl's was a run down hole-in-the-wall sort of establishment. Located in south Kansas City, and notorious for supplying food for the local sheriff's lock-up, it was the last place in the world a professional employer would use for hosting a job interview. But stranger things have happened.
The restaurant had the floor plan of a Waffle House, without the bright colors. A long coffee bar running alongside the main entrance, and smaller booths lining the sides. Old men with no taste buds and fat blue collar workers with hangovers occupied most of the grimy tables. One of the men waved aside a pesky fly again and again as it landed on different spots in his chicken fried steak.
In a back corner booth of this dingy gray restaurant, a black man in a polo and slacks puffed on a cigarette, eyes searching the front entrance for the tenth time since he'd arrived and ordered a very bland tasting chicken plate.
Flicking a cockroach off the table, he checked his watch, frowned, and tapped his ashes into an ashtray.
He heard the door chimes ringing a moment after he ordered a slice of lemon meringue.
Looking up, he saw a squatty Mexican man in a rumpled dress shirt and baggy brown pants shuffling into the room. At first, he thought he was just another shabby customer, but the man approached his table.
"Hello," the stranger said. "Weenston...Zedamore? Yes?"
The black man nodded, smoothing his close cropped curly hair. "You're late."
The Mexican laughed nervously, seating himself without being asked to. "Mucho sorry, señor. I had engine trouble. I had to call my sister, you know?"
Winston shook his head in annoyance. "Jesus, right?"
"The name is pronounce `Hayzoos.' Jesús Jimnez."
Winston took a drag on his cigarette. "Right. Jesus." He still failed to pronounce it correctly. "So, uh...I realize this isn't the most professional environment, but we don't have a building yet, and this is one of the few places where I can smoke and eat indoors."
"Tis okay, señor."
Winston took another drag, thinking that he really shouldn't apologize about unprofessionalism to a man in rumpled clothing that shows up late to a job interview.
"I was recommended here by Labormax. They said it would last a day."
"Well, we uh, might need you a bit longer than that, actually."
"It is my lucky day then! How much overtime can I get?"
"Uh...let's go over the preliminaries first." He dug a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, examining it. Brushing ashes off the Ghostbusters logo on his shirt breast, he said, "Admittedly, this isn't the best resume I've ever seen, but it says you're bilingual, you have some mechanical skills, and you assisted in an exorcism."
"Yes, señor," Jesús nodded. "But new foreign cars..." He shook his head. "No es easy with computadoras. Muchas electronicas, I no can do. But I clean, no? Run floor buffer?" He made motions like he were pushing a stick. "Mop?"
Winston rubbed his face. "Truthfully, Jesus, we don't have that much need of a janitor. I know that's what you wrote on your application, but we don't even have a building yet."
"Ah, sí. You will call me?"
The interviewer just rolled his eyes. "Look, Jesus. We need another kind of help. We need you to be flexible, or you can just leave right now."
Jesús shrunk in his chair. "I am mucho flexible, señor."
"Listen, can you run up and down stairs with reasonable accommodation?"
"¿Como?" Jesús gave him a blank look. "Repitan usted, por favor."
Winston drummed his fingers on the table in annoyance. "Man, what I said was, can you run up and down stairs with a big heavy backpack without a problem?"
"Ay, sí. This something you do a lot of?"
"I'd say so. It says on your file that you're a fire fighter."
"Was, señor. Volunteer fireman in Belize. You know Belize?"
"Yeah," Winston groaned. "Tiny place. A friend of mine parked his car there once and they stole all the tires off of it."
"Sí, sí. Lo siento for so amigo. Mucho bad people, but also some good...and very poor. After hurricane, I come here."
"But you were a fire fighter."
"Sí. One time." He glanced back and forth, as if afraid to be overheard. "I see things, señor. While I fight fire, I see El Diablo, and he look me in the eyes and say to me, `You let this house burn. It is mine.'"
Winston frowned. "So you let it burn."
"No, señor. I put it out, but fire come back. I come back second time with Padre Pio to bless casa malvado, you know?"
"I see. So you know something about ghosts and spirits, then."
Jesús crossed himself. "No, señor. I am too afraid."
"But not afraid enough to put out the devil's fire."
"Señor, devil was in house, and I was only outside with hose. ¿Comprendé?"
Winston shook his head. "Whatever."
Before he could say something more, Jesús blurted, "When I hear the dogs barking in vecinadad, I no go outside, porque el muerte es waiting for me, sí?"
"Uh, no."
"Es a good paying job, sí o no?"
"Uh, sí."
"Then I will make myself brave!"
He offered his hand.
Winston didn't take it. "The interview's not over. Be seated."
Jesús retracted the gesture and did what was requested.
Winston stared at the man's neck, examining the shape of a confusing round outline. "What's that you got on your neck?"
Jesús touched the tattoo. "Ah, it is Maria, Madre del Crísto, señor. ¿Comprendé?"
"Uh...yeah." He squinted, betraying the fact he wasn't fluent in Spanish. The meaning presented itself as he made out the stylized rays of divine light always associated with the image. "Virgin Mary. Got it. What's your wife think of that?"
"Oh señor, she loves it."
Winston laughed. "Okay then." He cleared his throat. "Do you have any questions for me?"
"No, señor."
"Any questions about the company?"
"No, señor. I hear about Nuevo York. You catch ghosts, no?"
"Uh...sí." He sighed. "Is your contact information all correct and up to date?"
Jesús looked flustered. "Sí, pero, it is my sister's phone. I no can afford one. Tis okay?"
"Honestly, I don't care if it's a string and a tin can, as long as you can answer it if and when we call."
"This a joke, señor?"
"More like an exaggeration." He frowned. "If I see you stringing up a tin can to my window, I will personally kill you."
Jesús was unperturbed. "I no have lunch. Es okay if I order, señor?"
"Knock yourself out. I'm leaving."
"I shake hands now?"
Winston nodded, and they did so. "I can't make any promises, but you're the only candidate I've met today who wasn't a total nutjob. If we want you, we'll call you back for a second interview. If you don't receive a call in about a week or so, good luck on your other career endeavors."
The Mexican flipped open the menu, staring at the list of entrees.
Winston's waitress chose this moment to bring him his slice of pie. "Coconut cream, right?"
He scowled at her. "No, I asked for lemon meringue."
"I'm sorry," the woman said. "We were out of lemon. Would you like vanilla cream?"
"Forget it," he groaned. "Just give me a check."
Jesús looked up from his menu. "¿Señor? Any recommendations?"
"Yeah," Winston muttered. "Eating somewhere else!"
