I
looked
down
and
noticed
my
pants
were
unzipped,
which
explained
the
draft.
"It
won't
happen
again,"
I
said,
waiting
until
Spatz
returned
his
attention
to
his
clipboard
before
reaching
for
my
open
fly.
"Each
time
I
have
been
assured
that
it
will
not
happen
again.
This
is
your
fourth
tardy
in
two
months.
Look,
Mister
Jenkins,
I'm
not
here
to
give
you
a
hard
time.
I
want
you
to
succeed.
I
want
you
to
have
a
long,
happy
employment
here
at
Peachy
Burroughs."
Mr.
Spatz
flashed
me
his
trademarked
unctuous
smile
as
he
handed
me
the
clipboard.
"Please
sign
here."
I'd
been
accused
of
being
late,
of
forgetting
my
employee
identification
card,
of
having
a
dirty
uniform,
and
of
improper
hygiene
(not
shaving
completely).
I
informed
Mr.
Spatz
that
I
was
growing
a
mustache.
The
employee
handbook
stated
that
mustaches
were
the
only
facial
hair
employees
were
allowed
to
cultivate.
Goatees,
beards,
sideburns
lower
than
the
earlobe,
or
any
other
creative
types
of
facial
hair
were
strictly
verboten,
as
were
visible
tattoos,
piercings,
and
unnatural
hair
colors,
but
the
employee
handbook
said
I
could
have
a
mustache.
Mr.
Spatz
looked
even
more
disappointed
than
usual.
"I
don't
know
if
I
would
call
that
a
mustache,
but
very
well.
I'll
strike
that
comment
from
the
record."
I
signed
the
form.
He
handed
me
my
pink
copy
that
said
For
Employees
Records
at
the
bottom.
"Now,
chop
chop,"
Spatz
said,
clapping
his
hands.
"Clean
your
face
off
and
get
your
vest
on.
There
is
a
dining
room
to
set
up."
Mr.
Spatz
turned
to
leave
but
paused
a
moment.
"I
will
be
studying
your
performance
closely
this
afternoon,
Mister
Jenkins.
Any
more
mess
ups
and
you'll
be
no
longer
employed
here
at
Peachy
Burroughs."
Then
he
was
gone.
I
went
into
the
employee
bathroom
and
washed
my
face
but
my
cut
still
bled.
I
grabbed
the
vest
from
my
locker
and
went
down
to
the
first
aid
kit
in
the
kitchen
for
a
Band-‐Aid.
The
only
bandages
were
the
size
of
a
large
butterfly.
I
had
no
choice.
My
little
black
and
gold
vest
almost
but
not
quite
covered
the
blood
on
my
shirt.