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"Well, where did you go to school," the man at the door asked.

"Well, I went to USC. Go Trojans," I respond with confidence.

"Not good enough. What did you do for a living?"

"Well, I work as a lab technician. Mostly pharmaceuticals, I helped a lot of people."

"But you let your company charge them too much."

"I didn't have anything to do with setting prices."

"But you never argued against it either?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You're just not good enough," he shrugged his shoulders.

All of my friends had told me how great this restaurant was, and here I was, stuck outside the door. I thought I would swing by and get lunch, but the doorman won't even let me in. I'm not sure what he means when he keeps saying I'm not good enough. I've never had someone ask me this many questions just to get in a restaurant, or even a night club.

"Well, how much would it cost to make me good person," I retrieve my wallet.

"It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the gates of heaven," he taps his clipboard as if it says that somewhere.

"But this isn't heaven, this is a restaurant. Are you insane?"

"Perhaps," another shrug, must be his default position.

"Well fuck you," I walk off to the side.

An old lady with a scruffy overcoat makes her way to the door. She offers the man some money, he smiles and refuses. He opens the door for her, and even helps her up the step into the restaurant. A young man in a suit too large for him with scuffed dress shoes made it in with no problem. I make my way back to the doorman.

"Why did they get in and I didn't," I try to hide the rage in my voice.

"Well, they're members," he answers coldly.

"How do I become a member?"

"You just have to be good."

"I've been good my entire life," I argue.

"Yes, but only to make yourself feel better. Never for others."

It doesn't make any sense. How would he know if I've been good or not? I can't believe this. My friends had to set this up. They ranted and raved about how great this place was. Did they pay the doorman to make sure I couldn't get in. Doesn't matter now, I've wasted my entire lunch break arguing with this guy.

"Excuse me, could you spare some change," a beggar asks outside the office.

"Sure, go buy lunch. It's not like I could," I hand him five dollars and head in.

My phone rings, probably my boss asking why I'm late. I just let it go to voicemail as I clock back in. Another call, I don't recognize the number but it seems urgent. It goes to voicemail before I can answer. A third call comes through and I answer this time.

"Hello," I speak.

"Congratulations, you've become eligible for membership. We'd love to see you tomorrow for lunch," the voice is that of the door man's.

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