The Recession Special!

The subway car rocks methodically, sending you into a trance as you stare at the new Metrocard in your hand. Your mind conjures the image of that familiar eye of your empty wallet staring at you after you took out the last few dollars you had for the honor of, once again, experiencing the exhibition at the zoo of humanity that is the New York subway. You feel its judgemental glare on you all over again. The deep emptiness surrounded by thin fabric wrapped in cheap leather sarcastically whispering to you 'Hello, old friend.' You feel all the air drain from the subway car, as the minutes blend together in a moment that feels like it will last forever.

The harsh grinding stop of the subway shakes you from the fog you put yourself in. It's been an hour and a half. It's finally your stop.

The ominous light-gray glow from the cloudy sky above you grows darker as you walk away from Times Square. The once blue ceiling of the city was replaced with the dull fluorescent light of an imposters hazey gloom. The further you walk the more clouds arrive to mourn the death of the sun. You feel a drop or two of their grief-ridden tears plop on your shoulder. But the clouds don't break down and sob. They stay strong. They knew this day would come. The sun was a hot ball of gas after all.

The interview is only a few blocks away so you get to your destination before the sky is turned to charcoal. 

You smell the freshly cooked noodles and steaming broth from outside. Before you are able to enter the front door you see a head peak out of the more discrete side entrance. You are ushered by the owner with a nod and a wave into the neighboring doorway fostering a descending staircase into what you deduced was the basement of the establishment. You hesitate for a moment, but you need this to go well. You follow the owner down the stairs and duck your head through the narrow doorway to be greeted by a cramped room with a low ceiling. In front of you is a large man wearing ski goggles covering his eyes and a face mask covering his mouth wielding a large kitchen knife. Separating you two is a table with a large wooden industrial cutting board carrying at least a dozen green onions. To his left there are bins of some kind holding various freshly cut vegetables.

He regards you by tilting his head slightly while simultaneously lifting the blade up, as if to say 'Hello there' without wasting the words. The owner walks further into the room, behind the man to a small table with two chairs and you instinctively follow. He sits at the chair against the wall and you sit with your back to the onion murderer. The space is so small that the owner's chair is touching the back wall and you can feel the heat of the sweaty man radiating off his back.

The owner gives you a disingenuous smile and shifts in his chair to a more upright position before asking you about yourself. You begin to stammer out an answer as you feel the heat in this basement begin to force sweat to trickle from your forehead. As you realize that the interview has begun, the sudden sharp slice of an onion behind you takes you by surprise. The owner, unphased, continues his questions one after another.

"What is your previous employment experience?"

"What made you want to work here?"

"Do you live in the city?"

"What level of education do you have?"

You start to feel yourself getting more comfortable. You make a joke and the owner chuckles. You stop paying mind to the sounds of the blade slicing through the onions to get to the wood. You feel the room become less suffocating. This guy's not so bad, you think, I could like it here.

But then your eyes begin to swell with tears.

"How did you hear about this position?"

You start to cough slightly and realize how potent the smell of onions have become in this small chamber. The tears begin slowly pouring down your cheeks as you muster up enough air to give a halfhearted answer. With each question the walls get closer and closer.