Alternative Treatment?

Job interviews are a great way to begin a story, hint the sarcasm. I lift the mug to my lips and allow the beverage to run down my throat with ease. However, that's the easiest challenge for today. In a few hours, I'll be interviewed for a job as a doctor. Not the ones who deal with blood, or organs, or skin. I'm attempting to be a psychologist. Impossible, I know. A grown man without a high school degree is sure to make a living as a psychologist.

How did I even get a chance at this job? Some new guy idiot must have hired me. I mean, a tattooed, lip pierced man that is financially unstable isn't the ideal appearance of a psychologist. When I think of a psychologist, it definitely isn't me. As a matter of fact, it's the exact opposite.

I sigh and drag myself off the couch and into some decent clothes. They say to never wear jeans to an interview, but all I have are fucking jeans! Wait a second.I look under my mattress and find a pair of mustard colored jeans. I assume they're close enough and slip them on. Afterwards, I venture on a journey to find a suitable shirt to wear.

The journey in my pile of junk, by Frank Iero. That should be a book, cause it's one hell of a story I get after going through it. I pull small nails, bookmarks, blankets, pillows, and my glasses. I almost forgot I wear glasses to look sophisticated.

I push them up to my nose and continue going through the rubble. Aha! A dress shirt. Miracles happen, you know. I haven't worn a dress shirt in forever, and it's my favorite color; black.

Then comes the shoes. Converse or converse. I choose a pair of converse that are cleaner, but they happen to be those converse boots that girls like to wear. The ones that go up your calf, and almost to your knee, precisely. I slip them on without a care in the world, I mean, I'm not even guaranteed this job. I have nothing *cough EVERYTHING cough* to lose.

I get nervous and pull the pants over my boots so they look like normal converse.

I'm wearing a cancer wristband, it's almost October, cancer awareness month, so it's understandable. I lock the door of my apartment, and head to my car. "Shit shit shit," I mumble, only because I lose time from going through all my keys, trying to find the one of my car.

I get the right one, but it shaved a lot of time off of me. Panicking, I drive with both hands tightly gripping the wheel. The place I'm supposed to meet the guy looks like a fancy bank. I'm fucked. I can't get this job. I'm also late.

Running, I pull at the handle of the door. It wouldn't open. It had to be locked. I was too late. This was my chance and I blew it. Oh god, I just ruined my life.

I lean back on my car, reading the words over the bank place and over the door. In large white letters it wrote PUSH. My god, it said push.

Changing my strategy, I push instead. And it opens. I rush inside to this man in a fedora. Damn I swear I'd look better in that fedora. Where do people buy fedoras again? Wait. Can I even afford a fedora?

"Are you the doctor?" the man spoke in a deep tone.

"Oh!" I recollect my thoughts. "I'm Frank Iero, I believe I am the one you're looking for. I, uh, am here for the doctoring job, yes."

He gave me a serious look. What the hell does that mean? "So you know how to treat this young man's heart condition? His life is on the line."

Well. Did not expect that to come. "Sir, I'm not actually a doctor. I'm just a guy who wants a job."

The man smiled. It didn't seem like that 'you're not getting the job, sonny' kind of smile but it wasn't the 'you're hired!' kind of smile either. I had no way to react.
"I'm joking," he broke the ice. That was a terrible joke. I didn't respond and he kept going.

"Well, that's actaully good. We need a real rookie for your patient."

"What does he have?" I asked. Well, I need to know what I'm getting into before I sign up. I mean, he could have cancer. But who would want a rookie for cancer?

"Oh nothing...he's just..." the man paused. "Different."

"Sir I can't accept the job offer if you don't..." I was cut off.

"There are many other people who would accept this job without one word or detail from me. I could give it to another person, you know," he said.

Prick. I gritted my teeth. "Give me the form, please, sir," I said, grabbing a pen and signing the paper. He grinned wide, handing me job information.

I left the bank place without another word, hopped in my car, and went to my house that I would have lost without this new job. The job information is a huge packet.

At the last words of the packet, I flop it aside and jump into bed. "So basically..." I mumble to myself in the dark. "I'm caretaking a criminal?"

Notes

new story! please tell me if I should continue