I.
The nameplate on the edge of the desk is black plastic with cheap gold paint lettering, and it’s all Frank can do not to pick at the chipped, flaking arch in the lower case "m" of "Mr. Comerford." He's in a suit and tie and if he puts his hands in his jacket pocket, he'll be able to feel the smooth metal of his lip, nose and ear rings, waiting to be put back in. Three thirty on a Wednesday afternoon and it’s his fourth interview in one day. Just like the other three, promising as the job had seemed in initial phone screenings, this one has gone to shit. Frank's pretty sure it was mostly over approximately five seconds after he walked in the door.
"I have to say, Mr. Iero, can I call you Frank?"
"Sure, yeah. Yes, that's fine." Frank doesn't care. The guy could call him Zippy the Pinhead and Frank would take it if it meant he was getting the job.
"Frank, your application is very impressive, and you come very highly recommended from your professors." Mr. Comerford leans back in his chair and Frank knows that posture and facial expression. He’s already seen it multiple times today.
"But?" Frank asks.
"As I'm sure you know, we pride ourselves on making our school a progressive, diverse environment. It's important to us to develop acceptance for a great range of lifestyles, as our community of families and faculty is… uh, diverse…" Frank watches him slide the application packet back across the top of the desk.
"But?" He doesn't need the prettied-up bullshit talking points. He's read the website.
"We do have to maintain a certain level of professionalism. I just don’t think our kindergarten parents would be comfortable with a teacher with such an appearance," he waves vaguely at Frank, a gesture that Frank’s sure is supposed summarize every problem with him in the single flick of a wrist. "You understand the dilemma."
Frank scrubs his hand through the short bleached hair at the back of his neck, flips away the longer dark strands threatening to fall over his eye. Mr. Comerford coughs and Frank almost feels sorry for the guy's obvious discomfort at the way Frank's nervous ticks just draw more attention to the 'dilemma.' Almost, but seriously, it's the twelfth time he’s heard some variant of the line in the month since his teaching certification came through. It's getting a little tiresome.
"I understand that I’m probably not what most parents have in mind," Frank says. "But I'm qualified for the job. Like you said, I've got strong recommendations. I can promise you monochromatic hair by the first day of school. It was a bad styling choice so close to graduating, I can admit that mistake. I'm a teacher, Mr. Comerford, and I'd really like the opportunity to prove that."
The shake of the head doesn't really come as a surprise, nor does the way the guy's eyes flick back to Frank's knuckles. It's enough to make Frank slide his hands off the edge of the desk and hide them in his lap.
"So, it's gonna be don't call us, we'll call you?" Frank says, trying hard not to sound bitter.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Iero. I'm sure there's a position out there somewhere for you. Perhaps at a public school." It almost sounds like it hurts the guy to say the last two words. Like just saying 'public school' is going to put him at risk of working in one. Frank doesn't bother to tell him that apparently knuckle tattoos are just as frowned on in public schools (God forsaken pits of hell that Mr. James Comerford may have decided them to be, notwithstanding) as they are in the hallowed halls of private education. That it was public schools that told him to try some of the more progressive private places to begin with.
"Yeah, sure," Frank nods and pushes his chair back. He doesn't make a move for hand shake, just nods and head for the door. "Anyway, great meeting you."
