Chapter 14: The Interview

Walking into the Culver's fast food restaurant with John, I brought my thoughts back to the present, trying not to let them fly out to other subjects at every moment that John held my hand. I had barely noticed that there was a help wanted sign outside with my thoughts preoccupied as they were.

"Wow," John said quietly, looking at the huge menu plastered across the wall, "Hungry?"

I chuckled quietly, realizing how ridiculous the menu really was. Ten different burgers? It was a little over-the-top when I thought about it.

"Can I help you?" a teenage boy behind the counter asked us. His orange hair was flying out in odd directions from beneath his employee hat and his small olive green eyes darted about the room.

"Yes, actually," I said, taking a step towards the counter, "We saw a 'Help Wanted' sign outside-"

"And you want a job," he finished for me, a bit rudely. Then he winked suggestively, making me want to puke. His wink wasn't a friendly one, like Paul's, but rather a creepy sort of flirt. I stiffened and John, sensing my uneasiness, put his arm around me protectively. Gratefully, I leaned into him, shooting a look at the Culver's employee.

"Yes, we'd like to apply for a job," I said, trying to keep the bitter acid out of my voice. He had a small scowl on his face as he looked at John.

"Wait," he asked, as I noticed his nametag. It said his name was Mic. "You both want a job here? I don't know if that'll work…" He sent a quick glance to John.

"That doesn't work and I don't work," John replied, narrowing his eyes threateningly.

Mic was taken aback by the thick British accent. His eyes widened considerably and he didn't seem to know how to respond. I was pleased by his inability to speak or flirt.

"Can we talk to the manager or something?" I asked after a pause. Then a thought crossed my mind. If we were to work here, we'd have to work with this idiot. It was not a pleasant thought, but I would have to suck it up to help the Beatles.

The manager must have heard his job title, for he walked around the corner, a grim smile on his face. He probably assumed that he was going to have to calm a customer down or give out a free meal.

"Is there a problem?" he asked, looking from John to me to Mic.

"We just wanted a bloody job," John told him, "That's all."

"Oh!" the manager's face lit up into a real smile, losing the grim look, "Good, good! You're both applying?"

"That was the plan," I informed him.

"Great!" he said enthusiastically, "If you two will follow me, I can do an interview right now." He smiled, then walked out from behind the counter. John and I followed him to a table, where we all sat down. The interview began.

"First, let me get your names down."

"I'm John. And she goes by Mooncow," John said.

"Mooncow?" the manager repeated.

"It's not my real name, just a nickname," I said.

"Well, alright. So, how come you want to work here?"

John leaned closer to him and put his hands together. "How come you want us to work here?" I closed my eyes and mentally groaned. This was going to be a long interview.

The manager seemed taken aback, but turned to instead, a professional smile plastered on his face, "And you?"

"Honestly, I just need to make some money to help out a friend," I said, deciding I may as well be honest.

He wrote something down on his clipboard, then moved on in his heavy Minnesotan accent. "So, what's your work ethic?"

"Oh, I don't do anything ethically, but I can work," John said with a serious face.

"I'll do what's needed," I said, mentally smacking John in the head.

"Great," the manager said, cheerily. I couldn't tell if he was actually in a good mood or not, but I would have bet on the latter. "Now, I have some personal questions. Where are you from?"

"Pool of Liver," John responded instantly.

"This is my hometown."

"And do you have any handicaps that could prevent you from doing anything?" he asked after scribbling down more notes.

John raised an eyebrow. "Handicaps? Do I look like cripple to you?" He made a derp face.

"No, neither of us do, unless you count his inability to answer interview questions," I said.

"Unfortunately, that's not a handicap. Well, if you'll let me look at your ID's, I can finish up this interview," he said, still smiling, although I could see it was a strain. John seemed to have that effect on people…

"ID's?" I repeated. I was thinking how stupid I was to bring John here. He didn't have an ID, why would he? He was part of a famous band years and years ago. Everyone used to know him. "Err, I left mine at home, I'm sorry."

"Oh, that's alright, why don'tcha go back and get it, then show it to me later. I suppose you didn't bring yours either, didcha?" he asked John. John, to my relief, just shook his head, saying, "No sir."

I got up and shook the manager's outstretched hand. John did the same, then we left. As soon as we got back outside I looked at him.

"The Pool of Liver?"

John smiled, "Of course. You know, Liverpool."

"Yeah, I got that," I said sternly. Then I gave up trying to scold him and laughed, "It was pretty clever, I'll give you that."

He smiled and reached for my hand again. I melted, wondering if I would ever be used to this.