My parents were cruel: they named me Guy Fawkes. It always surprised me how people wondered why I moved out when I was seventeen. After all, I had a sneaking suspicion that my mother planned so I would be born around the right time; as it was, she had me induced on November fifth. The whole thing took a degree of obsession that was rather horrifying.
I avoided anything even remotely associated with England like the plague.
When I went for my first job interview, though, I heard the British accent of my interviewer and knew that I was screwed. I fidgeted as I sat on the other end of a bare table that was a bit too long to be practical—she looked tough, clearly knew she was hot, and was completely prepared to use that against me. Besides, she had that no-nonsense bun-and-glasses combo that, on TV, at least, always spelled “hardass.”
“Name?” she asked in that clipped tone that meant certain mortification.
“Does the term ‘Gunpowder plot’ mean anything to you?” I asked, praying for a negative. “Anything at all?”
The woman, in her crisp white shirt a stern black vest, looked taken aback. She even went so far as to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t see how that’s pertinent, but yes, it does.” Of course it did. Of freaking course. “Now, your name, please?”
I sighed. “Guy.” I was stalling pain. So sue me.
She raised an eyebrow in an are-you-really-that-stupid sort of way. “Last name?” Now she sounded scathing. She pushed the plastic frames of her glasses up her nose. Crap.
“Fawkes,” I mumbled desolately. Super cute. Thanks Mom, thanks Dad. Really appreciate that. You really did me a solid with that one.
The woman—it would have been ever so cordial of her to give me her name, but no—stood, looking almost too British Businesswoman for the world to hold without combusting from sheer predictability. That’s how I knew she was going to eat me alive: she wouldn’t dare deviate from the stereotype she clearly held so dear.
“Young man,” she snapped, enunciating every syllable sharply. “This is no time for jokes and games. If you want this job, I recommend you start getting serious. Now.” Then she made a moue of her mouth, looking on the whole rather pleased with this speech. Congratulations, lady! You just bitched out a kid who wasn’t even lying! Well done on taking one of those damn teenagers down a peg.
I didn’t even want this stupid job. Nobody ever wanted to work at a video store. This was only a pit stop while I found a job that didn’t suck. “I’m sorry,” I said softly, for all intents and purposes the image of adolescent remorse. “But my name really is Guy Fawkes. My parents had a rather ridiculous joke at my expense.”
I considered adding, “If you were American, this wouldn’t be an issue,” but decided that would be sort of an antagonistic statement.
She eyed me speculatively, trying to decide if I was screwing with her or not, but wrote down the name on her little clipboard that clearly made her feel super important. I felt nothing short of relieved. This was, of course, the toughest hurdle to get over. Other than that, I was over-qualified for this job. I was a top student in top classes (except history—it was far too mortifying to hang out with kids good at history), and had a letter of recommendation from my last employer, who had unfortunately had to close down her bakery.
Then the interviewer sat down primly and asked, “Birthday?”
Holy crap, she had to be kidding. “Remember what I said about my parents?” I asked, wincing. “About the ridiculous joke part?” She merely glared at me. “November 5, 1990.”
She stood sharply. “That’s enough.” Of course she didn’t believe me. I wouldn’t have believed me, either. Interviewers usually didn’t ask the birthday question until after I’d been accepted to whatever I was applying for, and then they had my birth certificate, and a good laugh. “That’s quite enough. Please leave.”
“Miss, please—“
“I do not have time for little boys and their games. Please go.”
I’d never actually been kicked out of an interview because of my name, before. This was a new low. I could have easily punched my parents in the face at that moment. Annoyed, I stood. “Sure, thing. I mean, now that you mention it, I’m late for blowing up Parliament.”
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