Guilt’s Master
It’s hard to believe how quickly time passes. It speeds up as we mature. I’ve gotten to a point when I say, “I wish tomorrow would get here faster,” and instantly regret saying it. It’s natural to wish for time to move faster when facing fear, anger, and sadness. No one wants to endure facing those trials or anything that disrupts good moments.
We are all riding in our proverbial car. Sometimes we are steady on the gas for a casual Sunday drive; other times, we weave in and out of traffic. Then there are the days when the engine moans going uphill, or it simply stops.
Each of us has a thought of what life should be. As a child, I only wanted to play with my friends and be the most popular kid in class. I blink; I am in college trying to attain that most accredited degree, hoping to get that rewarding job I deserve. With great anticipation of finding that job, I start typing my resume.
Proudly behind the steering wheel of my legionary car, I accelerate, and boom, I get stuck in the mud. I have the passion and a drive to work. I want to improve the lives of others, but do I have enough skills? As the wheels are spinning, my thoughts are too. The help-wanted ads that spark my interest are looking for five years of experience or more. My only experience in the last five years was sitting in lecture halls, studying, and praying for good grades. What if I told a tiny white lie on my resume? What if I stretched the truth about my experience?
Staring at the resume, how do I get this damned car out of the mud. Do I step on the gas and put what I have experienced, or do I strategically put cat litter under each tire and cunningly lie my way forward? I am good at flubbing. I strategically put cat litter at each wheel, get into my imagination-driven car, put it in gear, and remain stuck. This lack of work experience is killing me. I am going to have to lie. Does anything go right in life? Wait, I do have educational experience. I have taught my eight-year-old niece how to tie her shoes, my mother how to use Facebook, and my dog how to roll over, and I taught myself how to come up with untruths without them being flat-out lies. I take a deep breath and smile with pride that I have found a loophole. I have found a way to get this damned car out of the mud; yes, I have teaching experience. I will only elaborate on where I obtained my expertise. I type in eight years of teaching experience and submit my resume to Gustavo Middle School.
As I wait for the interview, I reflect on the six months I spent interning with recovering addicts and their families. That was something that raised my interest. Gustavo Middle School has a class that focuses on addiction and avoidance and shares support for children of recovering addicts. What a perfect fit? Right? I could be working with the children of the addicts that I supported during my internship. If I get the call, I will be elated. I am confident they will like me, trust me, and be impressed with my imaginary Master’s Degree required for the job. In my defense, I do have eight years of “experience.” The anticipation of their call is making my stomach twirl. Will they give me a chance? You don’t always get what you want — another one of life’s tough-love lessons. Fingers crossed.
I was sitting in silence the phone rang. The ring echoed across town. Who dares interrupt my quiet deep, thought moment? Gustavo Middle School, that’s who.
“Hello,” I answer with hesitance and some concern that they found out the truth about my experience and, well, my missing Master’s Degree.
“Miss. Verdad, this is Mr. Mentirosa from Gustavo Middle School. Your resume is impressive. Your Master’s Degree and eight years of teaching experience make you a fantastic candidate for an interview. Would you like to set that up with me?”
With a deep breath, I reply, “Yes, I would like to set up a time.”
All the while, my stomach is aching with guilt. The fact that I’m going to have an interview with false information is tearing me up. I tell myself that I will go to the job interview and ride the wave of guilt. If that discussion arises, I will have to be honest about my experience and degree. I don’t have a Master’s Degree or their definition of the educational experience needed. I must let the cards fall where they may — just like any other consequence. We live and cherish our happy times and then dread the guilt-filled times. Well, this is one of the dreaded times. My car starts rolling downhill — backward.
I dress in my interview best. I look at myself in the mirror, “Fraud. Liar.” I may be ambitious. Yes, excellent! I found another loophole. I am ambitious.
The receptionist greets me and walks me to Mr. Verdad’s office. The hallway lights were flickering, and voices echoed, “Liar.” Miss. Bondad knocked on the door, “Your 10:15 interview is here.” She turned to me and smiled — I know she saw guilt written all over my face, “You can go in, Miss. Mentirosa.”
I put my hand on the doorknob, and a tingle ran through me. I opened the door to a white yet dull room. Mr. Verdad’s suit was tailor-pressed, and his mustache slightly curled at its ends. Subtle light rays came in through the window and gave Mr. Verdad an unusual glow.
“Sit down, sit down. Let’s look at your resume,” Mr. Verdad said while he sat in his tall back leather chair. “You are here for the teaching job?”
With great nervous confidence, I replied, “Yes, I am.” I sat in the chair across from Mr. Verdad.
His mustache seems to curl more as he speaks, “What makes you so different from everyone else that applied for the position?”
I sunk as deep as I could into the chair; something came over me that I couldn’t explain — I knew I couldn’t go on with this interview. It was like a virus that I wanted to expel from my body. What have I done? As I started to reply to the question, Mr. Verdad interrupted me, “Before you utter a single word, think before you give me your answer.”
“Does he already know my lies?”
I looked up into Mr. Verdad’s sparkling blue eyes, “Miss. Mentirosa, I already know the honest answers.”
I could barely breathe and could not unlock my eyes from his. I was crying without tears. My heart stopped beating, consumed with the guilt that I couldn’t feel it beating. My proverbial car seems to be forever parked.
“Miss. Mentirosa, you have a Master’s Degree in deception, white lies, and wit. You have a great deal of educational experience — more than eight years. Your whole life, you have been a teacher and a student. Along with your mastery of deceitfulness, you feel shame and guilt. You have more than enough compassion to say or do what it takes to help people.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his desk plaque, ‘St. Peter Verdad’.
He continued, “This makes it difficult for me to decide.” There was a very uncomfortable silence; I couldn’t speak, and I couldn’t move.
“Miss. Mentirosa, I am sending you back to Earth. You are equal parts good and bad. During your second time on Earth, do what it takes to tip the scales.”
He stood up and walked me to the door, “I hope when you return, the decision is clear.” He opened the door; I walked through it into an office with a Master’s Degree hanging in a golden-colored frame, ‘In recognition of the satisfactory completion of all requirements in the course of study upon recommendation of life experiences.’ I turned to thank Saint Peter but behind me was a hallway filled with inspiring young people. A small plaque hung on the door, ‘The Office of Elisa Mentirosa.’
The End
Maryann Linquist & Mojha MacDowell
2021
