“I’m not going to get this job, am I?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said as she nervously adjusted her KB Toys name tag. Her eyes fidgeted in their sockets as though physically wrestling with the presence of a deranged killer.

I wiped the drool from my mouth and sleeve. How did I get here?

Sitting in class, I stared out the window — rays of light illuminated the snow-capped branches of lovely big Bloomington trees in the late-afternoon drift. I just wanted to be laying on the ground…out there in my big down coat, looking all the way to the tops.

A flying stuffed animal to the side of the face was Dorian’s attention-grabbing device.

“Wie geht’s?”

“Nada.” I mumbled.

His mouth crumpled and his arms bowed out — hands on his hips.

“Waaaaas?”

“Tut mir leid” I smiled and the pretty girls giggled.

An assignment was on the way: semester-ending German video project. My classmates scrambled like eager chipmunks for suitable partners. I rubbed the side of my face and stared back out the window. I felt a nudge on my shoulder.

“Hey, buddy…Wanna be in our group?”

Dave was a fun guy with a big nose and white boy fro — real class clown — never malicious and always upbeat. Over his shoulder, stood Greg: a freckled worry wort. Their mutual aquaintance, Johnny, smirked anonymously behind his giant dictionary; he adjusted his glasses and scratched his head.

We’d meet to work on the project, but just end up drunk. Dave and I would act out hypothetical routines in garbled half-German. Greg tapped his number two pencil on his legal pad with a frown on his face.

“Whattsa matter? Oh, haveabeer…” I’d say.

The deadline hung over us that last week. Not a single word laid on that yellow, blue-lined pad. So, we did what any self-respecting mismatched group would — impromptu stunts.

I peeled out around the corner in my big white truck. Dave clung to the tailgate with one hand and grappled with his fake bazooka in the other. The details weren’t important…to us. The only rigorously rehearsed scene involved me leaping from my roof and attacking Greg. It was a leap I’d perfected over the years.

The camera rolled on as I leapt down toward him. A last second flash of conscience saw him in a hospital bed — brace around the neck…possibly worse. I pulled back from my usual trajectory and struck my chin on the crown of his head. My head snapped back — I spilled onto my back and laid motionless. Greg moaned, clutching his bloody forehead — the zits split wide. Johnny ran to my side and hoisted me up. I rubbed my jaw indefinitely.

A week turned my locked jaw sour — pus rained from my gums. A visit to the dentist proved necessary, but the prescribed root canal was unsuccessful. A follow-up visit brought new facts to light: crack down the center of my poor butchered tooth.

As I laid on the comfy leather dentist chair watching Wayne Brady’s daytime talk show, I watched the syringe periperally — my eyes watered with pain. Wayne’s figure grew blurry as the pliers approached. With the precision of a novice car thief, Dr. Former Football pried my tooth from its throbbing spot. My hands fumbled for a hold on the chair — something to rip…kill. Blood gushed like a faucet.

Call me sensitive. I like pain killers. Pills later, I headed to the mall for a chat about employment. Turns out I didn’t fit the KB mold. That’s how I became a straight-jacket salesman.