During a period of unemployment, I am more than happy when one of my job
applications proves successful. The post is for curator of a museum somewhere
downtown near the meat-packing district.
I am not greeted at all upon my
arrival for my first day, and enter the unlocked museum with some trepidation.
To my grave disappointment, the building is a mess, filled with unlabelled
items of an unremarkable domestic nature. The many microwave ovens, refrigerators,
cookers and so on are characterised by a multiplicity of mundane faults, and I
conclude that they could be of no conceivable use to anyone. I nervously take
a seat near the entrance, unsure of how to proceed.
No one visits the museum
for several hours, so I am surprised when, at 4.45pm, a group of large men
walk in, carrying further domestic items which they leave on shelves further
down the room. They nod brusquely to me, and leave.