As he stretched to reach the bed-side table-clock and stop
the alarm, a body-shuddering yawn escaped him. It emptied his resolve to stand
up and left him lying back on the bed. Remembering how tempting such a position
was and how years back he’d missed a class test the last time he allowed
himself a little extra rest after switching off his alarm, he forced his prone
body to rise.
The sleep will have to wait. He had an interview today and
he’d invested too much into this one to allow for indiscretions like a little “jara”
sleep.
He yawned again as he glanced at his reflection in the
bathroom sink while he fed his toothbrush some paste. The time he’d spent the
night before poring over the Mission and Vision Statements of the company was
asking for payback. With interest.
“Not today, pal,” he said to his reflection.
He shook his head vigorously to clear the cobwebs of sleep
trying to clog his cranium. For extra effects, he splashed some of the cold
water on his face to sting the sleep out. Then, the teeth-washing ritual began.
With five more yawns between bath and a breakfast of indomie
and what was left of his supper corned-beef, he promised himself to return home
immediately after the interview and have a siesta for a few hours. As if that
promised pacified the sleep hunger, the frequency of the yawns reduced.
Traditionally a stickler for scheduling and timing, Andy’s
prepared dressing for the day and route to the venue were pointblank with a
little over twenty minutes for him to go over his notes and prepare his mind
for the questions that were sure to come. He went over them again. Twice.
Satisfied with his readiness, he entered a calming routine he was perfecting.
“Slow breaths, in through the nose,” he muttered the
instructions under his breath, closing his eyes for focus as he practicalised
the motions in real life, but was interrupted by a female voice.
“Number 3, please.”
A small-framed girl whom Andy believed was too coquettishly dressed
for an interview for a position of PR in a multinational corporation betrayed
her enthusiasm by excitedly raising her hands and almost tripping over Andy’s
chair on her way to answer the summons.
Andy shrugged. He noticed that he was not the only one – in a
room full of about 24 prospective numbered candidates – who disapproved of her
demeanour. From the corner of his eyes, he noticed two girls who were not
familiar with each other a minute ago begin to animatedly chatter with outwards
gesticulations of how “Number 3” almost embraced the ground in her excitement.
Andy sighed.
As much as it was a funny sight, he surmised, there was no
telling who was going to be picked from the lot. So, what was the point
laughing at someone else’s misstep when one was not even sure of what steps
awaited him or herself? Why don’t you simply concentrate on…
Andy stopped himself. He had the perfunctory inclination to
overthink these humdrum inanities which often distracted him from his intents. He
needed to retrace his steps.
“Now, where was I?” he queried himself. “Yes,” he said
closing his eyes. “Slow breaths, in through the nose,” he began again, “hold. Then,
release out the mouth,” he concluded as he exhaled orally.
By the time Andy had done 10 reps, he felt his body calm. He
felt lighter and told himself that a little more and he’d be ready for them
when they called “Number 9”. He continued, nose inhaling, mouth exhaling. He
could “see” his nerves relaxing. He could “feel” weightlessness. He could…
“Number 12?”
Out of nowhere, he jolted up like an arrow.
“12?” The question escaped him before he could re-establish connection
with his mind. “Didn’t you just call “3” just now?” he still wasn’t thinking
nor asking anyone in particular. He was just querying. “How could you have gone
from 3 – 12? Who does that?”
As the real “12” got up and approached the lady that was
directing the call-ins, he sprang forward and stretched out a hand meaning to
stop the lady before she disappeared behind the door with “12”. But the force
of his drag pulled the lady so hard, he almost upended her. The contents of the
folder from which she called the numbers spilled around the legs of the three
of them standing in front of the door.
The look she gave him when she regained a bit of her
composure was from Hades.
“Are you mad?” she demanded in a pitch that raised steadily so
that the “mad” was almost delivered in a shriek. “Or is something doing you?”
This sequel was performed while the lady’s eyes maliciously roved from Andy’s
head to his feet which if Andy was keeping count, couldn’t have been anything
less than 12 times between “Or” and “you”. “Imagine the nonsense,” she finished
rhetorically.
“12” had meanwhile attempted to help Angry Lady retrieve all
the documents from the ground.
“Thank you, jare beta pesin,” she hissed accepting the
papers from “12”. “That’s how you slept yourself through your number,” she spat
out these words with the intention to injure, ending it with disapproving down-turned
lips of the yimu variety. “Please come with me,” she said to “12” as she
glanced around the tiled floor to make sure nothing was missed. She gave Andy
the 13th eye-treatment, up-and-down, hissed another long one and
slunk away with “12” in her stead.
Andy was rooted to the spot. He’d not intended for that to
escalate so badly. Not only was he sure now that it dawned on him that he’d
calmed himself into a nap, he realised that all his preparation for the big interview
had just gone up in smokes.
Poof! Just like that.
There haven’t been many times in Andy’s life that he wished
the ground could just open up and swallow him whole. But in those few seconds
between when the lady left with “12” and when he had to turn around and face
those who witnessed the entire event play out high definition, he had only one thing
he wanted. He wished…
The alarm on the table beside his bed chimed at exactly the
hour Andy had set it.
Andy opened his eyes. They were greeted by the familiar
sight of the ceiling.
“Huh?”
The confused look on his face worsened when he sat on the
bed and looked around his room. His forehead furrowed as he tried to make sense
of what he was experiencing. He slowly moved his head to the clock. It
confirmed the time to be 5 am.
It took him a while to realise the alarm of the clock was
still ringing out. He reached for it to turn it off and saw his polished shoe
still next to the chair by the table. The folder containing his documents and
notes was where he left it on the table and his chosen suit for the interview
on the hanger in front his wardrobe.
It made no sense.
Was he not just now…then, he had an idea. This was surely
going to reveal the facts of the matter to him. He dashed into his kitchenette
and swung open the door of his mini-fridge. And there, at the corner of the
base of the fridge was the leftover corned-beef from the previous night.
He stood there before the open fridge and shook his head,
heaving a sigh of relief. Some of the tensions evaporated from his shoulders
and as he felt himself calm, a yawn escaped him. Mid-yawn, snippets from the
false awakening he’d had earlier came back to him. Especially the yawns and he
ended up choking in his own laughter. He had calmed properly when the choking
stopped. But it left him red in the eyes.
“Hmmm, na wah oo, this kind of real life something!”
He shook his head and entered the bathroom.
He had an interview to meet.
