Learn To Swim: Chapter 1 "The W"

Sonia looked around the office. It was darker than it needed to be on account of the fake wood paneling that lined the walls. Almost. The were about half an inch too short which allowed her to see the drywall underneath. This was the kind of room you'd see in kidnap footage. Sonia wasn't being kidnapped but she felt as if she were turning herself in for a crime she did not commit. Job interviews did that to her. Sonia did not want a job. In all honesty she was not sure what she wanted but she for sure knew a job was not one of those things.

Sonia could see the back of framed photos on the desk but refused to pick one up. She had no desire to know what Mr. Wilkerson's, her interviewers, family looked like. She figured that they were unattractive based on hearing Mr. Wilkerson's voice over the phone. She could do that. Or at least she told herself that. Ugly voice, ugly person.

Mr. Wilkerson entered the room and reinforced Sonia's belief in her mutant ability. He was what Sonia would describe as a skinny-fat guy. He had a pot belly with thin arms and legs in a pair of tan slacks and a light blue button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a loose tie to make him appear casual. Sonia thought he looked like he was on trial and given the clothes of a drunkard that left them behind. When he sat down the whoosh of his motion sent his smell towards her.

The sickly sweet smell of cologne, coffee, and aftershave made Sonia want to gag. It reminded her of her father. Her potentially new supervisor reminded her of her father and once you reminded Sonia of her father you could never not remind her of her father ever again. Just from looking at him she could tell you not just his age and how much his family made as a child but also his taste in food, music, and film. And she knew that she would disagree with all of his choices.

“Good morning, Sonya” Mr. Wilkerson said. His smile was wide. Too wide. Sonia searched for signs of cracking or skin splitting, thinking at any moment his jaw would dislodge like a snake and he would devour her. It's too early for this kind of thinking she thought to herself. She hadn't eaten breakfast or at the very least had coffee. Who schedules an interview at 8am anyway? Someone who lists Bob Denver as his favorite musician and watches It's A Wonderful Life every year on Christmas instead of Twilight Zone marathons, that's who. In Sonia's eyes this guy was pretty much the devil.

Sonia was not listening to Mr. Wilkerson but from the look on his face he was obviously waiting for a response to something. What would someone like him have said? What does someone that blares “Rocky Mountain High” at obnoxious levels with zero regard for his sleeping family ask at 8am? A family ashamed of their bread winner but not stupid enough to say anything about it. He's dependable, would never dream of an extramarital affair, and always remembers birthdays. He probably said good morning. Or asked how Sonia is doing. No, the former is right. Mr. Wilkerson does not ask people how they are doing because he learned during his first job serving ice cream that sometimes, meaning most times, when you ask someone how they are doing they'll tell you and then you have no one to blame but yourself when you re trapped like a fat fly in shit hearing about an old lady's cancerous cat.

“Good morning?” Sonia said. Or asked. She wasn't sure. She didn't care. Mr. Wilkerson smiled at Sonia and leaned back in his chair causing it to creak. It wasn't that Mr. Wilkerson was a large man. It was that his chair was old and he was the type to keep items until they were beyond repair. He struck a pose that to him came across as completely natural. Relaxed. He was the cool guy. He reminded Sonia of an undercover cop that went to her high school. He'd befriended her assuming that she was a drug dealer. Sonia was not insulted by this assumption. Quite the opposite. She was flattered that someone thought she could run her own business at such a young age.

“You holding?” he asked her after twenty minutes of bonding over the disgusting lunches that were being peddled as healthy alternatives to students. Apples the size of toddlers heads. Spinach so green that it bled itself onto their plates. Chicken so fresh you practically had to pull feathers from your teeth and on more than one occasion literally would.

“You a cop?” Sonia had asked. “You know you have to tell me if you are.” Sonia knew this wasn't true. It was something peddled in movies that idiots believed.

“Nah” the cop said.

“Either way, no” Sonia replied. “I'm not 'holding.' I do have drugs though.” Sonia opened her Wu Tang Clan emblazoned backpack and dumped out three text books (sociology, history, and physical science), one unused red lipstick, five ink pens because sometimes you never know, and eight prescription pill bottles. Later that day she was taken out of class and dragged to the principals office by three officers. She was accused of selling pills to students but was proved innocent when her mother, who was on eleven medications three of which did the same thing, arrived with her daughters prescriptions and accusations of racism which puzzled everyone in the room. Sonia could hear her mother arriving before she was even near the office. Her purse sounded like an angry maraca gang.

The principals office was not small but immediately felt half its size once Sonia's mother entered. Her mother was 6 foot 2 and 220 pounds. No, she never played basketball. Of course she was not a model. No, her parents were not tall. Sonia's mother liked to say that she just happened. Sonia inherited none of her mothers Amazonian height. Nor her hair color. Her mother had hair so blond it appeared translucent and eyes like blue ice. Sonia was 5 foot 2 with brown hair so dark it was black when she was indoors. She also did not have her mothers full lips. Sonia liked to say that her mouth looked like a child's sketch of a mouth. Just a straight line used to keep in words that hurt others.

Sonia just became aware that Mr. Wilkerson had mispronounced her name.

“Its pronounced Sonia” she said. Mr. Wilkerson looked at her resume, back to Sonia, and then the resume. He seemed confused. Sonia decided to help him. “Its Sonia. Not Sonya. Pronounced Sew-Knee-Uh.” She'd had this conversation hundreds of times over her 21 years on this planet. She was not sure why her mother, named Linda Rondstat which is a whole other story, decided to name her Sonia but she did and god damn it that was how people were going to say it. Jokes of being called Red Sonja or Sonja Blade did not apply to her.

“I'm so sorry” Mr. Wilkerson said. Sonia fought an internal struggle to keep her eyes from rolling. There was no need to be so sorry. Regular sorry was fine. “I, uh, from looking at your resume it appears you have quite a lot of...experience.” Translation: Sonia got fired a lot. “I see you've worked at a few shelters. Animal rescue. Yes?”

“Yes” Sonia replied. An awkward ten second stare down occurred next. Sonia realized that she was supposed to elaborate and just as she was about to speak Mr. Wilkerson continued.

“Do you like animals?” he asked.

“No, not really” Sonia said. “I mostly put them to sleep. You know. Euthanized them. No one else could stomach it.”

“Oh...”

Yeah” Sonia continued. “Most say it gets easier after the tenth one but I had no problem really. Its not like I had to chop their heads off or anything. Just a little prick with some pentobarbital, listen to family cry, and I'm done.”

“Did, that, uh...did that bother you?” Mr. Wilkerson asked. He picked up his coffee mug, realized it was empty, and began drumming it with his hands.

“No” Sonia said. “Weren't my pets.” Mr. Wilkerson pursed his lips and place the mug back on the desk. Sonia knew it would say World's Greatest Dad if it were facing her.

“So what makes you think you would be a good fit for our company?” Mr. Wilkerson asked.

“Kids like me” Sonia said. Five minutes later while lighting a cigarette and checking for the nearest Uber she wondered what she did wrong.