Night at the Museum. Leslie Goldman

      Bright and early the next morning, Larry headed down to the employment office. He sat in a chair as Debbie, the lady working there, looked at his résumé. He tried not to squirm. But it was hard. She seemed so judgmental.

      “Mr. Daley, I can honestly say in forty-three years at this agency, I’ve never seen a résumé quite like yours,” said Debbie.

      Larry smiled widely and said, “Thank you.”

      “That wasn’t a compliment,” Debbie explained. “It says here you were the CEO of Snaptime Industries? You care to elaborate on that?”

      “Yes, that was the umbrella corporation for my invention, The Snapper. You know, snap!” He snapped his fingers to demonstrate. “And the lights turn on. We sold about eight hundred units our first year of production.”

      “Didn’t they already make that?” asked Debbie. She clapped twice.

      Larry shook his head. This was a common mistake. “There is The Clapper, of course. That obviously stole a lot of our thunder. I personally never saw a big difference. I mean…” Larry clapped twice and then snapped. “Whatever. But I guess some people have trouble snapping.”

      “Clapping is easier,” said Debbie. “You want to tell me why you got fired from Kinko’s?”

      “That was a little misunderstanding,” said Larry.

      Debbie squinted at the fine print in her folder. “My record says ‘misdemeanor,’ as in a crime.”

      “It was hardly a crime,” said Larry. “The suits from corporate said we couldn’t have Halloween decorations. Violated policy. Well, I’m not a suit, and all I did was carve out a couple of jack-o’-lanterns. Then boom, they fired me. I still say, you can’t put a price on fun.”

      “Is that all that happened?” asked Debbie doubtfully.

      Larry felt like it was getting very hot in the room. “The candle in one of them started making a lot of smoke, which set off the sprinklers. There was eighty thousand dollars worth of damage. So, I guess technically, you can put a price on fun. Apparently it’s eighty thousand dollars. But the point is—”

      “The point is, it’s a week before Christmas and you’re a college dropout with a criminal record and a résumé courtesy of the freak factory,” said Debbie. “I can’t help you.”

      “Debbie,” said Larry. “Can I call you Debbie? Because I felt a connection when I entered this office and I think you did, too.”

      Debbie leveled her gaze at Larry. “I didn’t feel a connection,” she said coldly.

      Larry wasn’t ready to give up. “Debbie, I need a job… tomorrow. If I don’t have one I… I just need it, okay? So I’m not begging you to find me something, but I’m pretty close to doing that.”

      Debbie sighed and looked through her files. “I might have one thing,” she said, writing an address down on a card. “They’ve turned down everyone I’ve sent over, but who knows? You might get lucky.”

      “Great!” Larry said. Taking the card, he frowned down at the address. Then he looked back up at Debbie. “Do I have to wear a tie?” he asked.