With A Knife To Open Up The Sky's Veins

"I'm a riddle so strong, you can't break me. Did she come here to try, try to take me?"

A huge storm just hit sunny Hertfordshire. I was at the job centre, the last stop on what had been a frustrating round-trip to deal with various people regarding jobs and money. When I left the house earlier this afternoon it had been sunny and warm, just another Lynchian day in suburban nowhere. I walked out to the Oaklands motel in no mood to be fucked with. My head was pounding and my sinuses felt as though they were backing up into my brain.

The strange wiring in my head has always been particularly sensitive to the weather, especially rapid changes in temperature and summer storms. I suffer head pains and nosebleeds at certain times of the year, most notably in April and September, and I can usually tell you a storm is on the way long before it shows itself in the sky.

I've been in an ongoing state of negotiation with the Oaklands people for two weeks now. I dropped an application form into their reception a couple of Fridays ago and heard back from them a few days later. They were interested, they said, but my application had been misplaced. Was there any chance I could come in and fill out another? Of course, I said, and duly complied. Last Saturday, a little confused at the lack of contact, I phoned to see what was going on. I was told that they didn't look at applications over the weekend and that somebody would call me on Monday. Nobody did.

Today I walked straight into the bar and grabbed the first member of staff I saw.

"Hi," I said. "Is there a manager around?"

"Can I ask what it's regarding?" she replied, without looking up from the table she was wiping.

"A job," I said. "I was expecting a phonecall yesterday."

"Oh, right."

The girl disappeared into the kitchen and I lit a cigarette. My hands were shaking a little, and for the first time it occurred to me how angry I was. This whole job-hunting trip has become a nightmare of unreturned calls and long, frustrated days of fruitless searching. I know I'm far more employable than the morons I'm spending my time talking to, yet somehow nothing's falling my way this time. I haven't had a single break.

The assistant manageress emerged smiling. She looked open and friendly, nothing like the monobrowed neanderthal I'd dealt with the last time I was at Oaklands.

"What can I help you with?" she asked.

"Hi," I said. "My name's Michael. I dropped an application in here a couple of weeks ago. Darren called me a few days later and said you were interested in employing me but my form had been lost. I filled out another but then didn't hear anything for a week. I phoned on Saturday and the guy I spoke to said someone would call me back yesterday. No-one did."

"Oh." She frowned. "I didn't get that message."

"I was hoping we could sort it out. I'm trying to apply for other jobs as well."

I knew immediately that it had been a stupid thing to say. Her face hardened almost imperceptibly, but it was enough to tell me that I'd shown a little too much of my annoyance.

"Okay. Well, I'll look up your application form and give you a call later."

What the hell, I thought. Let off some steam.

"I'm here now," I replied. "I don't mind waiting."

"Listen, Mr. O..."

"O'Mahony," I said, and offered a truly horrible smile.

"We have a lot of applications to get through and we're a very busy establishment. Now, either myself or one of the other managers will undoubtedly be in touch in the next couple of days."

"What happened to later?"

"I..."

"Jesus, the incompetence of you people is unbelievable. All I'm asking you for is a fucking job. Considering the idiots you employ, I'd be a godsend."

She stared at me, her face devoid of expression. I wasn't shouting. My voice was low and perfectly calm.

"Never mind," I said. "I wanted to work here because it was convenient for where I'm living. I don't need it."

And I turned and walked out.

Despite the fact that it was well past noon and drifting into mid-afternoon, the day appeared to be getting hotter. By the time I made my way down into town, I was sweating freely. I had two bags of ten pence pieces in my pockets. I've been out of hard cash for a few days now, and my collection of change has become my cigarette fund. All I'd intended was to exchange the coins for a ten pound note, but even this was a hassle. First I walked into HSBC, who I bank with, and found a queue that stretched as far as the door. Thinking I could get the money changed elsewhere, I headed back out and a little further up the high street to TSB.

"Good afternoon, sir," The girl behind the counter said.

"Hi," I said, dumping my bags on the counter, "I just need to get these changed for a ten pound note."

"Certainly, sir. If I could just have your account number."

"I don't actually bank with you. I just wanted some change."

"I'm afraid we only give change to customers."

I sighed. "Why?"

"Company policy, sir. Who do you bank with?"

"HSBC."

"I'm sure they'll be more than happy to change it for you."

"I've just been there," I said. "There's around a million people in a very small room and only one person behind the counter. Can't you just..."

"I'm sorry, sir. I can't."

"This is..." I began. "...ah, fuck it."

I snatched up my change and headed back to HSBC, where I queued for almost forty-five minutes for a transaction that took around ten seconds. By the time I began my walk down to the job centre, the sky looked bruised and swollen and a light breeze tugged at my clothes and hair. My head felt swollen and pregnant with pain. I couldn't stop sneezing.

I knew exactly which job I wanted to apply for. All I needed from the job centre was a covering note. Yet the man behind the desk insisted on taking all my details, spelling my name wrong at least six times until I was almost screaming each letter at him.

"What's your race?" he asked.

I blinked. "Are you serious?"

"I need to fill out the equal opportunities section in your file."

"I'm Hawaiian," I said.

He actually started typing.

"What are you doing?" I was aware of my voice rising, of heads turning in our direction. "Look at me. Just stop what you're doing and look at me. My name is Michael O'Mahony. I am without a doubt the whitest person you have ever seen. How in god's name can I be from Hawaii?"

To his credit, he had the decency to look ashamed, and the rest of the interview was conducted in low, tolerant voices.

The storm broke as I crossed the road outside the job centre. Large drops of rain fell here and there. Thunder rolled massively across the sky directly overhead. I caught a glimpse of forked lightning in the distance as the world momentarily took on an electric blue outline. The rain quickly became torrential, and in seconds I was soaked to the skin, my clothes plastered to my body, cold rivulets of water streaming down my face and the back of my neck. I felt a stab of euphoria in my belly. Suddenly I could breathe through my nose again. I inhaled the musty scent of the storm and then held my breath for a few moments. When I let it go, I felt the pain beginning to ease, as if I could exhale it.

I smiled and then laughed, spreading my arms and turning my face up to the sky. The driver of a passing car leaned on the horn and shook his fist at me triumphantly, his face lit by a huge smile. I turned away and began to run towards home, happy for the exertion that stole my breath, for the endless sheets of rain driven into my body. I was elated, alive, and as I ran I heard Layne Staley singing in my mind.

Did she call my name? I think it's gonna rain, when I die.

From a bad day to a good one. Sitting here now, I still feel a little high. The storm is weakening outside my window. I've spent the last hour typing almost frantically, Alice In Chains playing at high volume in the background. I feel like a man with a scream in the back of his throat. I feel like my mind's travelling at a thousand miles an hour through a maelstrom of clouds and rain and light and noise.

I wish it could always be this way.