Watch out for thorns when entering the offices of Dr. Paul Roses in Bayonne, NJ.
Although the doctor who casts out demons wears glasses with pink frames and has an office adorned with scripture from the Bible, there is a certain evil that lurks over the large grey house along Avenue C, and it seems he is obsessed at having people bow down to him.
Dr. Roses called me last Friday evening at 9 p.m. and invited me to be interviewed for a job as receptionist at his clinic. It seemed odd to receive a call about a job so late at night, but nevertheless, I agreed to attend an interview on Saturday morning.
Nearly a week passed before I heard back from the pain in the ass, but Dr. Roses called again the following Tuesday and insisted that I start a “working interview” the following day. “We’ll start you out at $12 an hour”, he promised.
Training was vigorous on Wednesday in Bayonne. I learned that Dr. Roses “hired” several other individuals for his “working interview”. Like slaves, we called a list of patients who had missed appointments. We attempted to have these suckers come back in for another chiropractic visit. I felt like a whore on 42nd Street trying to pick up trade on a Sunday morning.
While calling until our ears nearly melted, the trainees discovered that Dr. Roses was still interviewing additional candidates for his “receptionist position”. Poor, desperate job seekers poured in. Every nervous trainee who came in for an interview was forced to sit in a cramped waiting room and watch a long-winded commercial featuring the ugly doctor. Dr. Roses bloomed on camera, he ran his mouth repeatedly for a half hour about back pain. In the made-for-waiting room commercial, Dr. Roses explained the details on demon exorcisms by using a term” luxations” to refer to these legions that possess seemingly everyone in the trashy town in Jersey, just east of Elizabeth.
An obese receptionist who has been working in this seedy weed-patch for several years tossed a clipboard at an African American interviewee who she obviously didn’t like. There was something about her nastiness towards this person that nearly caused me to walk out of the office and “quit” on Wednesday. I should have followed my instinct. Before leaving on Wednesday evening, the severely obese receptionist whose backbone is buried under flesh thicker than Dr. Roses pink glasses, turned away from her intense training exercises and asked me if I had any children.
“No, and I don’t want any,” I replied, jokingly.
“Well, you are gay, are you not?” she asked. I was floored. Suddenly my back hurt and I got what was my first headache in years. It seemed that demons were being cast out of patients who came and went throughout the day, and we, the half-dozen or so interviewees were there simply for the chiropractor and his demon possessed assistant to release the demonic forces into. My head hurt like pure hell.
Something’s weird and evil about this place, I thought. Why such hate? I wondered.
I learned on Friday morning, upon arrival at the doctor’s office after an hour commute on the bus, that I was supposed to have been there by 8:30 a.m. so that the doctor could quiz me on what I had learned the previous day during my “paid interview” and training exercise with Linda Blair. Apparently, the receptionist neglected to share this information with me. I explained that I was unaware that I was supposed to come in a half hour early. I was, after all, fifteen minutes early for what I was told was my normal “work schedule” late last Sunday night.
I wondered if my sexuality had something to do with not getting the job.
“Here,” the creepy doctor said while handing me a $10 gift card for a local convenience store, “this is for your car fare, I have to let you go.”
“Will I be paid for yesterday?” I asked.
The non MD pretended he never promised to pay me for our “working interview”. He looked down at my hand through is gay glasses at the plastic card he had placed there as if he had just given me a back rub.
May you burn in hell, mother-fucker, I thought, and simply smiled as I walked out of there.
I decided to do a little marketing for the quack who cracks backs for a living. In his ad for a job, he did note that he was seeking someone with “marketing experience.”