The ad in the paper said: Job opportunity
and I took the train from Warden Station
into the city.
My bright-eyed sixteen year old self
looking for summer work.
Making the trek two blocks west along Yonge
listening to a cassette tape of William Burroughs
that a friend had given me.
The address was a hotel
and I took the elevator up to the seventh floor
knocked on the door
I had only gone a few feet
when I realized there were two greasy middle aged men in there
with a single camera on a tri-pod
pointed at the bed.
Care for a drink?, the one closest the door asked.
I backed out of the room without a word
and took the elevator back down.
A good job was hard to find.
William Burroughs had been right.
Ours is a world of bottles and buggers.
When I got home
my mother asked if I gotten the job
and I told her
I wasn’t right for the part.
She gave me that look that said
I hadn’t really tried
and for once
I was happy that I