Pinocchio

New interns feed the queue outside my door. They’re idealistic and full of hopes but have no clue about what they’re getting themselves into. They are a tireless source of labour, willing to work in exchange for experience, travelling expenses and meagre salaries.
Youth is their virtue, it makes them flexible and naïve, but when age and experience add up, I greet them with a handshake and let them go without skipping a beat. I’m aware they call me Mangiafuoco. They whisper among themselves: “We deserve more, we want more.” But when I walk by their desks and clear my voice, their clean faces widen in great and eager smiles.