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I sat on an ancient steel chair outside the Human Resources Department with my application in my lap. I wore my grandfather's tie and jiggled my legs nervously. I thought the interview had gone well and, let's face it, it was a weird and scary, dirty and dangerous job that paid three dollars and thirty-five cents and hour. But I had a baby with a ten dollar a day diaper habit, and jobs were scarce. Reaganomics, you know. The door at the end of the hall opened and in walked a man of about thirty. His hair was orange. His skin was orange. His clothes were orange. He walked past me and into an office. "Now there's something you don't see every day", I thought to myself. Sure, I'd seen an Orange Guy or two at The Bar before. I had wondered who they were, but they usually kept to themselves, so I left them alone. But it was an unusual sight nonetheless. The door where the Orange Guy had entered opened and out came three Orange Guys. At the same time, the Human Resources lady came out of the Human Resources Department smiled thinly over her reading glasses. "You've got the job", she said. I stared past her at the three Orange Guys walking down the hall. "Flare Line", she told me. "That stuff doesn't wash off. They're that color 24 hours a day. We rotate them every six months so they don't go crazy." She explained that the dye that made flares burn in different colors hangs in the air and sticks to everything. The guys that made flares worked all day in that colored air and very quickly turned colors themselves. "But don't worry about that!" she reassured me, "You're not working the flare line. You'll be testing grenades!" |