My Seven Cents

A very short story.

“Associate, Mineola. Top 10%, Law Review. Three years experience. Bilingual a plus.”

Great, another job I did not qualify for, I thought as I peered around the diner. I notice a few neatly pressed suits, with one or two knockoffs, but still nicer than my worn t-shirt and khaki shorts.

I am unemployed, and I could not make it any more obvious. I have managed to sit at the diner counter for three hours, ordering nothing more than a coffee, a glass of water with lemon, and a toasted bagel, butter on the side.

“If you want more coffee, then you have to order some-ting, or else you must go,” my caffeine pusher du jour uttered with a heavy accent from behind the counter. He must have known I would be THAT guy, leaving only a seven cent tip and a coffee stained newspaper for three hours of his time.

I pretended not to hear him, returning to the futile search of the help wanted section. Conveniently located next to the help wanted ads were the personals. Those always make me laugh.

“22/F, brown hair and blue eyes, looking for some1 who has there s**t 2gether.”

Damn, another job beyond my qualifications.