The Bacon Sandwich
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: The dangers of eating a bacon sandwich before an important interview.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: The dangers of eating a bacon sandwich before an important interview.
It all began with a bacon sandwich. It was downhill from then on.
There I was, dressed in my best suit (well, my only suit – second hand from Oxfam), an ironed white shirt and a tie complete with my best Windsor knot. Determined not to be late, I got there almost an hour early, so I passed some time in a greasy spoon opposite the offices. That was my first mistake.
My second mistake was ordering a bacon sandwich. I wasn't hungry and a cup of tea would have done fine, but the smell of frying bacon was too much for my self-restraint. When it arrived, it was every bit as good as I expected. The bacon was crispy but not burnt and the heat from the meat was melting the butter. I added some brown sauce and took the first delicious bite, then another, then – horror of horrors, some of the brown sauce and melting butter dripped from the sandwich onto my shirt and tie.
For a moment I was glued to the spot before dashing to the toilet and with a handful of tissues trying to wipe the shirt and tie clean. All I succeeded in doing was making the stains worse. I hurried out of the cafe, leaving that beautiful but fatal bacon sandwich only half eaten. I thought about getting a taxi home, quickly changing shirt and tie and a taxi back, but checking my pockets I realised I didn't have the money. Anyway there wouldn't have been time and I wasn't sure I had another clean white shirt.
There must be a clothes shop nearby, I told myself, so off I set. There were bookies, fast food outlets, a jewellers, a newsagents, a chemist, even a supermarket. But no clothes shops. I tried some charity shops (there were plenty of those) but none of them had shirts in my size. I did think about ditching the white shirt and tie and getting a sweat shirt from one of the charity shops, but I doubted a heavy metal logo would be thought appropriate.
Checking the time I realised I was in danger of being late. I ran back to the offices, arriving with seconds to spare, out of breath and sweat pouring from me. As I pushed open the door I realised it wasn't just my feet that had been running, my nose had been too. I felt the snot reach my top lip, but on checking my pockets discovered I was out of tissues. As much as I sniffed, the mucus continued dripping from my nose. In desperation I used my arm to remove the snot, but all I succeeded in doing was to transfer some of it to my jacket, where it left a slug like smear. The receptionist stared at me like I was something she might have wiped off the soles of her shoes.
I attempted a smile, which just resulted in her raising an eyebrow. “I'm – sniff – here for – sniff – a job – sniff – interview.”
She ignored me for a while, continuing to work on her computer. I repeated my previous sentence, but with fewer sniffs. Without looking up from her computer, she said: “I'll be with you shortly.” So I waited. Eventually, without looking up at me, she demanded to know my name. I told her and repeated why I was there. She told me to go to the second floor.
“Have I got time to use the toilet.”
She shrugged. “Up to you. But you're late already.”
I sniffed again. “I was on time. It was you kept me waiting.”
“Whatever,” she said. I began to walk away when she called me back. “Here,” she said, handing me a tissue.
I got to the second floor, where I was faced with a corridor and a series of identical looking doors. I'd forgotten to ask which room and the receptionist had chosen not to tell me. Oh well, I thought, I'd probably already fucked up the interview. I knocked on each door in turn, until someone said: “Come in.”
I opened it and was faced with an impeccably dressed man looking at me with bemusement. “You're not what I was expecting,” he said. Before I had chance to respond, he continued: “Oh well, appearances can be deceptive.” He pointed to a computer in the corner. “That's the one that needs fixing. Do it as quick as you can: I have a deadline for this report.”
“I'm not here for that,” I said.
“Well, what are you here for, apart from wasting my time?”
“For the job interview.”
He looked me up and down. “Ha! You'll never get a job looking like that. Never. Anyway, you're on the wrong floor.” He picked up the phone and was about to dial. I interrupted him: “What is the right floor?”
“Look, I've got to chase up the repair to my computer.” I just stood there, shuffling my feet. He sighed loudly. “It's on the first floor.”
“But the receptionist told me it was on the second floor.”
“Of course she did. Didn't you notice the Yankee accent? For some reason they call the first floor the second floor. Can't understand it myself. And that's what happens when you rely on temps. Now can I get back to work, please?”
I risked one more question. “Whereabouts on the first floor?”
“I don't know, do I?” He picked up the phone again and swivelled his chair so his back was facing me.
Down to the first floor I went, where again I was faced with a corridor with identical looking doors. I repeated the process of knocking on doors until I found a room that was occupied. By this time I was not only dirty, sweaty and smelly, I badly needed a piss. No time for that now. Not that I expected to get the job, not looking like this.
When I did find the right room, I was almost half an hour late and faced with three people, two men and one woman, all impeccably and conservatively dressed, all clearly irritated. The man in the middle, I assumed he was chairing the interview, asked why I was late. I began an explanation that involved me in a lot of hmming and ahring and getting lost in long sentences that never seemed to end, until he held up his hand, palm facing me, and said: “Enough!” He then gave me a lecture on the importance of tidiness, cleanliness and punctuality.
I didn't think things could get much worse. They did. I was in such a state I couldn't concentrate and ended up giving the wrong answers to the wrong questions, speaking for too long on some questions, not long enough on others and sometimes having to ask them to repeat a question. My mouth was so dry I decided to take a sip of water. I reached for the jug, knocking it over and its contents spilled on the immaculately dressed interview panel. One of the men stood up too quickly, water dripping from his crotch, and banged his hand on the sharp edge of the table, causing a nasty looking cut from which blood oozed.
“I'm sorry,” I stammered, “I'm sorry.” And in trying to rectify things, I managed to knock the jug off the table, where it shattered, slivers of glass spread on the floor.
“Please just go, just go.”
“Does that mean I haven't got the job?” I asked.
His face went deep purple and he yelled: “Get out! Get out and don't ever come back!”
Once in the corridor I realised I had forgotten in which direction the lift and stairs were. I turned left assuming I would either come to a wall or to the stairs. I was wrong, so wrong: I came to a door. I pushed it open and stepped through to find I was outside, one storey up, standing on a metal platform, with no way down. I turned back, only to see the door shutting and locking me out. It began to rain. I banged on the door, but no-one heard me, so I searched in my pockets for my mobile phone. Only then did I realise I had left it in the cafe next to the bacon sandwich.
That was the moment I decided to become a vegetarian.
There I was, dressed in my best suit (well, my only suit – second hand from Oxfam), an ironed white shirt and a tie complete with my best Windsor knot. Determined not to be late, I got there almost an hour early, so I passed some time in a greasy spoon opposite the offices. That was my first mistake.
My second mistake was ordering a bacon sandwich. I wasn't hungry and a cup of tea would have done fine, but the smell of frying bacon was too much for my self-restraint. When it arrived, it was every bit as good as I expected. The bacon was crispy but not burnt and the heat from the meat was melting the butter. I added some brown sauce and took the first delicious bite, then another, then – horror of horrors, some of the brown sauce and melting butter dripped from the sandwich onto my shirt and tie.
For a moment I was glued to the spot before dashing to the toilet and with a handful of tissues trying to wipe the shirt and tie clean. All I succeeded in doing was making the stains worse. I hurried out of the cafe, leaving that beautiful but fatal bacon sandwich only half eaten. I thought about getting a taxi home, quickly changing shirt and tie and a taxi back, but checking my pockets I realised I didn't have the money. Anyway there wouldn't have been time and I wasn't sure I had another clean white shirt.
There must be a clothes shop nearby, I told myself, so off I set. There were bookies, fast food outlets, a jewellers, a newsagents, a chemist, even a supermarket. But no clothes shops. I tried some charity shops (there were plenty of those) but none of them had shirts in my size. I did think about ditching the white shirt and tie and getting a sweat shirt from one of the charity shops, but I doubted a heavy metal logo would be thought appropriate.
Checking the time I realised I was in danger of being late. I ran back to the offices, arriving with seconds to spare, out of breath and sweat pouring from me. As I pushed open the door I realised it wasn't just my feet that had been running, my nose had been too. I felt the snot reach my top lip, but on checking my pockets discovered I was out of tissues. As much as I sniffed, the mucus continued dripping from my nose. In desperation I used my arm to remove the snot, but all I succeeded in doing was to transfer some of it to my jacket, where it left a slug like smear. The receptionist stared at me like I was something she might have wiped off the soles of her shoes.
I attempted a smile, which just resulted in her raising an eyebrow. “I'm – sniff – here for – sniff – a job – sniff – interview.”
She ignored me for a while, continuing to work on her computer. I repeated my previous sentence, but with fewer sniffs. Without looking up from her computer, she said: “I'll be with you shortly.” So I waited. Eventually, without looking up at me, she demanded to know my name. I told her and repeated why I was there. She told me to go to the second floor.
“Have I got time to use the toilet.”
She shrugged. “Up to you. But you're late already.”
I sniffed again. “I was on time. It was you kept me waiting.”
“Whatever,” she said. I began to walk away when she called me back. “Here,” she said, handing me a tissue.
I got to the second floor, where I was faced with a corridor and a series of identical looking doors. I'd forgotten to ask which room and the receptionist had chosen not to tell me. Oh well, I thought, I'd probably already fucked up the interview. I knocked on each door in turn, until someone said: “Come in.”
I opened it and was faced with an impeccably dressed man looking at me with bemusement. “You're not what I was expecting,” he said. Before I had chance to respond, he continued: “Oh well, appearances can be deceptive.” He pointed to a computer in the corner. “That's the one that needs fixing. Do it as quick as you can: I have a deadline for this report.”
“I'm not here for that,” I said.
“Well, what are you here for, apart from wasting my time?”
“For the job interview.”
He looked me up and down. “Ha! You'll never get a job looking like that. Never. Anyway, you're on the wrong floor.” He picked up the phone and was about to dial. I interrupted him: “What is the right floor?”
“Look, I've got to chase up the repair to my computer.” I just stood there, shuffling my feet. He sighed loudly. “It's on the first floor.”
“But the receptionist told me it was on the second floor.”
“Of course she did. Didn't you notice the Yankee accent? For some reason they call the first floor the second floor. Can't understand it myself. And that's what happens when you rely on temps. Now can I get back to work, please?”
I risked one more question. “Whereabouts on the first floor?”
“I don't know, do I?” He picked up the phone again and swivelled his chair so his back was facing me.
Down to the first floor I went, where again I was faced with a corridor with identical looking doors. I repeated the process of knocking on doors until I found a room that was occupied. By this time I was not only dirty, sweaty and smelly, I badly needed a piss. No time for that now. Not that I expected to get the job, not looking like this.
When I did find the right room, I was almost half an hour late and faced with three people, two men and one woman, all impeccably and conservatively dressed, all clearly irritated. The man in the middle, I assumed he was chairing the interview, asked why I was late. I began an explanation that involved me in a lot of hmming and ahring and getting lost in long sentences that never seemed to end, until he held up his hand, palm facing me, and said: “Enough!” He then gave me a lecture on the importance of tidiness, cleanliness and punctuality.
I didn't think things could get much worse. They did. I was in such a state I couldn't concentrate and ended up giving the wrong answers to the wrong questions, speaking for too long on some questions, not long enough on others and sometimes having to ask them to repeat a question. My mouth was so dry I decided to take a sip of water. I reached for the jug, knocking it over and its contents spilled on the immaculately dressed interview panel. One of the men stood up too quickly, water dripping from his crotch, and banged his hand on the sharp edge of the table, causing a nasty looking cut from which blood oozed.
“I'm sorry,” I stammered, “I'm sorry.” And in trying to rectify things, I managed to knock the jug off the table, where it shattered, slivers of glass spread on the floor.
“Please just go, just go.”
“Does that mean I haven't got the job?” I asked.
His face went deep purple and he yelled: “Get out! Get out and don't ever come back!”
Once in the corridor I realised I had forgotten in which direction the lift and stairs were. I turned left assuming I would either come to a wall or to the stairs. I was wrong, so wrong: I came to a door. I pushed it open and stepped through to find I was outside, one storey up, standing on a metal platform, with no way down. I turned back, only to see the door shutting and locking me out. It began to rain. I banged on the door, but no-one heard me, so I searched in my pockets for my mobile phone. Only then did I realise I had left it in the cafe next to the bacon sandwich.
That was the moment I decided to become a vegetarian.
About the Author
Born in Manchester in 1951, Kevin Crowe has lived in the Highlands since 1999. A writer of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, he has had his work published in various magazines, journals and websites. He also writes regularly for the Highland monthly community magazine Am Bratach and for the Highland LGBT magazine UnDividing Lines.