Daylight promenade

One o'clock in the afternoon and I'm standing here waiting... the sun strikes with all its might over the melting cars, liquifying the thin air in their immediate surroundings, giving the pervasive impression that air particles, as well as plants, tables, my crazy shoes, are made of pure gasoline. Sweat is flowing in rather appreciable streams over my forehead, cheeks and neck. Any attempt of wiping it out has long being discarded as futile for I can already feel the refreshing chill of its slow condensation over my shirt's corners and edges, leaving this deep pinkish sealike impression with yellowish-salty-whiteish borders. Exacerbating the outrageously sweet embrace-embrace of the sun's embrace over my, already hurting-a lot-back neck, was the fundamentally ineffectual motive of my overly prolonged outdoors promenade. You see, I've been in a no-work-or-any-other-means-of-subsistence mode for the last couple of months and I'm already about to exhaust my formerly all too famished savings. Don't get me wrong, I'm not that kind of despicable cynic who portraits himself as the guileless victim of a wildly rapacious, inherently soulless and fundamentally alienating economic system. On the contrary, I consider myself a very efficient, honest, responsible, dependable and all that crazy crap kind of worker. As a matter of fact, I was about to be promoted to local manager of a small 'Workout Cloths & Activewear' firm. I should have seen it coming, I mean, it's more common than it seems: One day you are speculating about the multiple perks of your soon-to-be-acquired managerial position, as well as with the immediate identification with a wholly new social strata-you can even picture you parents smiling in, gratitude, yes, gratitude and satisfaction for God's sake-when suddenly a garrulous woman enters your store with a semi retarded condensation of cellulite and flabbiness as her son. First thing you notice are the yellow-orange marks that the greasy beast is leaving, with great symmetry, over every single piece of the 'recently arrived' exhibition rack as he introduces, swiftly and efficiently, the next oversized fistfull of Cheetos down his covetous throat. But, it's okay, whatever, you can cope with it, you are not going to let that grotesque display of ravenous glutonery ruin all your plans for the impending future. Next thing, you find yourself trying to help the little bastard unleash himself from an obviously-too-small piece of gear, which apparently is causing a mild asphyxia. It's not that I'm some kind of sadistic bastard or anything, it's just that the purring of his occluded throat in conjunction with the scandalous screams of his mother appeared to me as the sweetest mellifluous sound at the moment, and perhaps, maybe, I delayed the deliverance of the nauseous creature a little bit longer than I should. Well, a couple of days after the incidente I received this phony, excessively adorned letter from the administration notifying me of the 'unfortunate circumstances' of the 'strengths and worthiness of my character' and of 'my immediate, irrevocable and very regrettable demis'. So, now I'm here, waiting under the merciless sun, for an already two hours late coffee shop manager, for a working interview.