Job application job application job application. My mantra. My prayer. Job application job application job application. I carpet bomb LinkedIn with job applications. Facebook, Apple, Microsoft. My resumes blot out the sun. I imagine a fire storm consuming Menlo Park like Dresden. A flash and then a mushroom cloud rising over Redmond like some horrible angel the bible dared not speak of for fear of incurring its wrath. The page refreshes. I refresh the page again. I refresh a hundred pages, a hundred portals that seem to open into the same brick wall. I refresh my inbox now. The silence I hear is only the waiting before deliverance, I tell myself. I am being tested. I am being judged. Every fiber of my being yearns for the purification of the blast wave, to no avail. Hundreds of resumes have fallen upon my enemy and all of them have been duds. How is it possible? I lament. It defies all explanation. I’ve spent hundreds of hours meticulously crafting my resume. Shooting each and every word as if they were uranium atoms through workshops and seminars and recruiting firms. Perfecting them. Refining them. America’s finest minds, in their polyester slacks and Citizen watches and white collared shirts—white collared shirts—I stare at my LinkedIn profile picture with rising horror. At the pixels of my collared shirt. At every disgusting blue pixel. I fling Paint open. I eradicate them like weakness. They will be pure. They will be white. I feel the heat of the monitor on the tip of my nose. Job application job application job application.
Another pot of coffee and then more job applications. I rise out of my metal folding chair and am touched by a strange melancholy. No pretension. No gimmicks. Just an honest to God chair. I am sheathed in nothing but a rough woolen blanket. I let slip my habit. An animalistic smell wafts off my naked body. And the outside world comes seeping through the blinds in golden slats, whispering sweetly of sun and flesh. But I know that the world is a sham. That the people who walk its streets are pulled along by invisible leashes. That it is not inertia that makes the world go round. I fire off another application, hitting quick apply. My prayer is converted into an electric current. And then a binary light signal. Fiber optic nerves deliver it to my master. There are many others like it, but I know that my master will grant me mine this time. Job application job application job application. I go to the kitchen, stepping around a dusty Peloton. The floor is carpeted with soiled clothes and Amazon packages. I watch the water boil. I shovel Folgers instant coffee into it. I have done this a thousand times before. I tighten my fists—the cables in my forearms under tension. My violence coils like a spring, tighter and tighter, until I can’t bear it anymore. I must have release. I stick my fist into the kettle and sear my knuckles. It hurts so much but I say nothing. All I know how to say is: Job application job application job application…
I wake at my desk. My cheek’s been gridded by my keyboard. It’s dark, but I know it must be morning, for I can hear the Robins singing. I must begin the ritual again. I like three posts and share three posts. Yes, I want to return to the office. I miss my team. I miss collaborating on high impact projects. I miss conversations around the water cooler, fluorescent lighting, plants made of plastic, the touch of cool, smooth laminate. And yes, I do support-emoji Deloitte’s wellbeing subsidy. After all, Consultant Jessica took tap dancing classes whilst solving some of the world’s toughest challenges. I like and immediately unlike a post made by one of my ex-coworkers who’s delighted to announce that they’re #OpenToWork. All warfare is deception. I scroll further and am graced with an auspicious sign. I like Northrop Grumman’s commitment to diversity and then share it with my ex-coworker. I am giddy. No, I am rapturous. For I’m certain that my clicks don’t just echo across empty halls. I have pressed them in the correct sequence. I have unlocked the secret code. I get ready to send three connection requests to hiring managers, using a template I have chambered in a .txt file:
“Hello, name. I was hoping to connect with you today regarding the job at company. As a leading professional with over minimum experience requirement + two years, in the field I have long admired company’s commitment to upholding the values of customer success, technical ingenuity, and its day-one culture.” Job application job application job appli—I send two just fine but am stopped dead in my tracks on the third as the roots of doubt take hold. Something isn’t right. One of the key’s teeth has been cut wrong. I consider plugging everything into the bullshit machine but think better of it. The machine doesn’t have to worry about late notices and overdraft fees. It simply doesn’t want this as much as I do. And you can’t counterfeit desire. I scour the false depths of the hiring manager’s digital eyes. What is it that you desire? What is it that you want? I change “customer success” to “customer-first-attitude.” I change “technical ingenuity” to “bold innovation.” But I can’t think what to change “day-one culture” to. And I must change it. If I don’t, all will be lost. I change the others three times more but still can’t think what to change the last one to. My cursor tolls mockingly. I watch three hours of YouTube to center myself. I turn to the punctuation instead. Perhaps an errant comma is what’s throwing the whole thing off. But try as I might to herd them into the correct place, they crawl about my screen as if the only order they obey is anarchy, as if they are insects. I pull my hair and it comes out in greasy strands. My eyes brim with tears of supplication. I rub them vigorously. I blink. The words on my screen have ceased being words. They are the guttural ravings of a mad man. My connection request has denatured like the hundredth iteration of a clone. I can’t even recall the original. I can’t think. I get down on the floor and do twenty push-ups. Unsatisfied, I do forty sit-ups. The vein in my temple throbs, cleared of mental debris: I need my vitamins.
I line them up on my desk in neat rows like Napoleonic soldiers preparing for an all-out assault. Vitamin D 5000 IU for vitality, Aspirin 1300 mg for resilience, Zinc 100 mg for composure, Dexedrine 60 mg for clarity, Collagen for my hair, a prenatal vitamin just in case, a probiotic, a packet of Emergen-C, and Metamucil to kill my appetite. (Food would only slow me down.) I dry-swallow everything and begin to pace the room in circles till I take off. Now I’m flying through the air like a fucking throwing knife. I throw a couple crisp jabs. I hammer-fist the Peloton, bruising its display. I start the request afresh: “Hi Linda!” Good start, friendly and enthusiastic. “It was great meeting you yesterday at the—” Annual dinner? Conference? Too specific—“It was great connecting with you the other day IRL. I thought I’d reach out regarding the customer success position you mentioned. I’ve thought it over and although it’ll be hard to say goodbye to the rockets at SpaceX you’ve convinced me! Given my ample experience and impressive education, I think you were right when you said I would be a good fit for the job. Imposter syndrome be damned! Hope to hear back from you soon regarding the role!” And now for the coup de grace: Job application job application job application.
I send several more requests, each bolder than the last. At one point, I send a meeting invite to an HR rep at Linda’s company, telling them I had an interview lined up for the customer success position, but that I’d like to reschedule it for the sixth. It feels like conquest. Like standing over smoldering ruins, a chorus of angels heralding my reign. I am Alexander, I tell myself. I am Attila. I take one last look at Linda. And see that she is nothing but skin pulled taut over a vessel. A person who doesn’t act, but rather, is acted upon. Someone who, if they even have the words for them, grumbles about life’s miseries as if they are episodes of a bad tv show. A life on autoplay. In other words, someone that’s just doing their job. Not me, Linda. I am so much more than that. For I have been given the gift of will. And now I interrupt your regularly scheduled programming: Get off the couch Linda. I command you to hit accept. I sink back into my chair, basking in the warmth of my superiority. The clock hits 9 AM. An email materializes in my inbox. And then another. My stomach turns. I race over them. I have to read them multiple times. The words won’t stick. They’re too well-oiled. I close the window. Linda’s face again, but different somehow. Her teeth are an impenetrable wall carved out of marble. Her eyebrows pierce me with arrows made of disdain. And her shirt…her shirt is blue. My mouth fills with saliva. Halfway to the bathroom, I vomit all over the floor. Months of silence. Now I know. Rejection rejection rejection…
I drown in a flood of rejections. Bobbing around my room until the following evening, I’m as listless as a corpse. I just have to remind myself that no one gets an interview out of the first hundred or so applications they send in. That I’m a shoo-in for the customer success position. That this isn’t all one big catastrophe. Afterward, I’ll be able to go on. But the ghosts of all my past mistakes swirl about me now as if welcoming me to hell. They whisper in tongues made of memories: You’re destined for a life of penury. And, all of your teachers were right. Thoughts of genetic determinism cloud my mind as I come back to the unrequited connection requests I sent. Dimly, I take in the now glaring spelling and grammar mistakes I’ve made. I loiter on Linda’s profile, wondering when she’ll see my message. Thoughts of suicide greet me like an old friend. But imagining police detectives struggling to read my error-ridden note is enough to bid them adieu. “I just have to keep selling myself,” I say to the crater-ridden drywall, “Everything, otherwise, is in its right place.” I delete the rejections that have crowded my inbox and open the template again. I start to type but the screen bathes my skin in a lucent despair. With a yawn, I reach down and jerk the plug from its socket. Darkness. Disconnection. I check my phone.
Dad: Hey kiddo, how’s the job search going? Your mom and I were wondering if you’d like to come to dinner this weekend. Love you. -Dad
I rest my head on my desk and feel a Dexie I must have forgotten, stick to my temple. It’s late but I place it on my tongue anyway. My stomach protests. The pill dissolves. A bitter taste. Why is it that the avenues I’m supposed to take always lead to nowhere? I ask myself. Why is it that when I try to show initiative my initiative is cut down? Is there nothing I can do or say to the Linda’s of the world to convince them to give me what I want? Or do they simply exist to make me humble? To be my foil? I don’t want to think this way, truly. I hate that I see others as something to squeeze advantage out of. But given my situation, how could my heart not succumb to crude utilitarianism? How could I not eventually see the truth? I direct my anguish at the void around me, hoping the void will be kind enough to swallow it. I exhale deeply. My pain fills the room, my being permeating like a gas. I feel lighter and then intangible. My thoughts become wordless, coming to me in dull pangs. I give myself to numbness totally. I will have tranquility at last. Wisps of my consciousness float about now, as frivolous as clouds. But I find a question lingering. A splinter of distress that I can’t excise: Who is Linda to appraise me? Why has Capital chosen her to be my judge? From my pain flowers an esurient anger, consuming everything, down to the air. I grab my monitor and begin to bend it. “Why won’t you answer me! Answer! Answer!” The plastic creaks. And then it shatters. A burst of blinding light. Linda’s face. My hands around her neck. Her mouth lolls open. A bone chilling toll. Your doorbell’s ringing. Your doorbell’s ringing. Everything turns on its head. My eyes shoot open right as I’m about to fall out of my chair.
My heart pounds as I grasp for the light switch. I can still feel the pill’s grit on my tongue. My doorbell rings again, three times in quick succession. Let there be light. I check my pulse to make sure I’m not dying and wrap myself in my blanket. I shuffle towards the door past the bathroom which smells like a dungeon. Moldy towels beg for mercy from the rack. I open the door a sliver.
“Scheduled delivery for Jeremy?” A human lip-ring forces the door wide open. The two late rent notices taped to it flutter. He thrusts food into my hand.
“Wait, what—” I mutter.
“One second.” He raises his phone to take a picture. I try to cover my face but I’m too late. The flash sends me back to the world of dreams for a moment.
“Do you have to do that for the app?” I ask.
“Huh?” I glimpse him closing snapchat. Before I can protest he cuts me off, “Anyways have a goodnight man and don’t forget to rate five stars.” He holds his other hand out and clears his throat.
I stare at it bewildered, opening and closing my mouth like a fish.
“You deaf or something?”
“I’ll just-the app-I mean.”
“Dude, are you serious? They take like 20 percent.”
It’s only then that I notice the smell emanating from my food. I give it a good whiff. Notes of wet dog and stale cigarettes. “Hey uh, this isn’t—I don’t think this is what I ordered.”
“What?”
I muster authority, “This isn’t what I ordered.”
“Ok? I mean—” The man removes his flat brim and combs his hair with his fingers. “You are Jeremy right? This is Apartment 104?”
“Yeah but—” It’s hard to argue with his powers of deduction.
“Look man, it’s like 4 AM and I have like two kids at home, so.”
“So? What do you mean, ‘so?’”
“So take it up with the app dude, Jesus Christ.” He shakes his panhandling hand at me, capping off our negotiations.
I make to close the door. He hooks his fingers on it. A brief struggle ensues. But in the end, I pry him loose. I am victorious. So why do I feel so hollow? I sink to the ground with my back against the door and hear a muffled “Techie fuck.” How I wish pal. When I’m sure that he’s gone I stand and go to my bedroom. I should probably eat something. I clear a spot on my bed and sit. To-go bags mark the days gone-by like tallies on a cell wall. I take in the amount and feel sheer panic. Compulsively, I probe the borders of my hairline. The enemy continues its advance into the salients of my temples. I open my food, looking for distraction. Pizza Haus. The only thing open at this hour. I bite into a slice that tastes like something that should have been shoveled into a locomotive. Next, I sample the Jalapeno Poppers. Not bad to be honest. I just wish I couldn’t also taste Chevy Impala. I check my phone.
Dad: Youtube business motivational speech.
I swipe his message away and open the app. My student discount’s finally expired. Also, I thought I’d canceled scheduled deliveries. I guess I must have changed my mind. I try to recall when I did so, pawing at a haze, only to come away empty handed. Whatever. More importantly, I should have gotten a diet coke with my order. I already know what became of it however. It’s sitting in that guy’s cup holder.
The app prompts me to tip and rate my order. I weigh the satisfaction of rating him a thumbs down against the very real possibility that he’ll come back to my apartment with a loaded gun. I rate him a thumbs up but only tip a measly twelve percent. What cowardice. What impotence. I sling my bag of takeout against the wall. I hold my head in my hands. And find that I cradle another emotion: guilt. For just as I have been condemned to live by the email, his torn acid washed true religions, and Raider’s jersey, and coarse attitude have calloused his hands and eroded the cartilage in his knees. Predestination. Economic Calvinism. I wonder if he even sees how his class manifests itself. Or if he’s blind to it. Wondering why his life turned out the way it did. Perhaps even hoping as I have on occasion, that he could step outside himself, and see himself with another’s eyes. I should have helped him. I should have reached out and lifted him up. Instead, my hand was contorted into the shape of judgment. Thumbs up, thumbs down—a false dichotomy. In truth there is only one button that’s pressed. Not up or down, but under. Under my thumb. And all for the cost of a delivery fee. Who’s to blame? No one? The most pernicious injustices are the ones for whom no one seems at fault. What about Hitler? my mind whispers. “Don’t defy me,” I hiss back. I lay down and make a takeout angel. I try to get some sleep, but my mind, as if aggrieved, enters a state of full-blown rebellion. It projects Linda’s face onto my eyelids. I rub her image away. Right as I’m about to slip off, the birds announce another morning. I scream into my pillow. And seemingly from the hall, the delivery man’s words echo: Take it up with the app. He’s stolen into my apartment!
I unplug my lamp. Holding it like a bludgeon, I stagger down the hall. A faint glow seems to be emanating from my computer. Sabotage! I ready myself to take a life. It doesn’t take much. I’m too delirious to feel fear. But as I round the corner I realize that it’s only the Peloton installing updates. I obliterate its screen, sending glass everywhere. An evil glee spreads within me. I try to hold it in, but I can’t help but giggle. It feels like destroying the precious relics of a foregone civilization. Scattering their ashes into the howling winds of time. I am the superior member of our species. I am the herald of the end of history. I repeat this thought ad nauseam till I get drunk off it and its words muddle and slur together. I need to sharpen up. I’m out of coffee. I start a pot. Watching the water roll, I dream myself among conquistadors, putting Tenochtitlan to the sword. Deep down knowing that I’d lost faith in Christ and had faith in only the cross now. In torture and in death. The pot’s rising whistle cuts short my fantasy.
I keep my eyes closed as I walk to my desk, hoping to arrive someplace else. Blearily, I pull my chair out. I get an early start on clearing the rejections out of my inbox. Rejection rejection rejection. My hands shake uncontrollably as I down the day’s first cup. The HR rep from Linda’s company got back to me from a no-reply address. My heart sinks. “I want to extend my sincerest thanks—” 7 words in and I already know it’s over. My most sophisticated plot has failed. I skip to the end. “We were very impressed with your background and the potential you bring, and we would like to keep your resume on file. Should another opportunity arise that matches your skill set, we would be more than happy to reach out to you.” Ok. Ok. That’s fine, insult my intelligence, I can take it. Linda, you coward. You could have just messaged me directly. Instead you had your little minion, turn me down for you. I open LinkedIn.
The rest of the day passes by in a slideshow of drudgery. I commit little to memory. I begin a couple applications but when I’m prompted to create an account, my spirit wanes. When I’m asked to input each and every bullet after I’ve already attached my resume, it’s extinguished. I produce my phone. I’ve deleted all non-productive apps except for YouTube since it has educational value. I find myself on YouTube shorts, the lowest of the low. And since my search history is a binary of job sites and pornography, the app mirrors my dissolution back to me. I grip my dick to videos of office harlots but am too dispirited to do much else with it. I begin wondering where all those day-in-the-life-of-a-Meta-employee videos went. They must have all been fired. Now all I see are videos on how to game something called…AST? TAS? ATS. I’m too tired to care. Mechanically, I pop another Dexie, not that it matters, I’m too fried for it to have any discernable effect. My phone buzzes.
Dad: My beautiful son babypicture(3)
Dad: Mom and I made ribs last night👍
I set my phone down and scroll through LinkedIn blankly. Little wax dummies gibber about opportunities and achievements. I scroll till their words blend into one: Please! For the life of me I cannot imagine using the gift of consciousness to write such drivel. And I become certain that long term exposure is giving me some heretofore unknown form of CTE. That it’s calcifying my pineal gland. Not a bad trade, if I could land a job. But alas, I wasn’t born someone’s nephew. I never rushed a frat. Even if I were to rub a lamp right now, I’m certain, only sand would come out.
I start another connection request, choosing my words with torturous precision. Then halfway through, I make new words with my fists. I hit send. “None of this is even real. None of you people are even real.” The taste of my words sits in my mouth. I savor it, finding all the flavors of truth contained within. And then it hits me.
I reread the email from the HR rep and check my calendar. It’s already the sixth. I count on my fingers. The monotony of my existence has made time meaningless. Jesus, I have to take it easy. Never mind that, they’re writing as if I actually attended the interview. I check my spam folder but can’t find any follow ups to my original message. I check my trash and am confronted by hundreds of rows of dismissive boilerplate. My last fetter flutters away. “My god. You’re not a real person. You’re a machine. You’re all just machines. With no capacity for thought or feeling. Just a series of inputs and outputs. Actions and reactions. Phony posts. Phony jobs. Lies. Phonies! To think that I thought it was my humanity that was lacking. That you HR dicksuckers could sense that I used to eat lunch alone. That I was always picked last in P.E. Like some scent deeper than soap can scrub. No. I know your secret now Linda! I see the circuitry that runs beneath your skin. You only reject me because I’m not one of you. You reject me because despite it all, I’m still a man! If anything, I have a glut of humanity. I was made to conquer! I was made to take! The Hannibals and the Charlemagnes, I was cut from their cloth. Human destiny lies at the mouth of a river of blood! You however, you only exist to keep the world in stasis. To maintain this awful equilibrium. It’s because of you that nothing is possible. That everything is predictable and the same. Yes, I see it now. I see the whole system before me anew. The whole terrible machine. The tentacles that stretch from C-suite to mail room. Well, I refuse to be subsumed. And in the name of mankind, I rebuke you! And with you this whole age! This whole period of spiritual benightment that produces no heroes, no titans of intellect, or masters of art. May it be remembered as a dark age. And as such, forgotten. To what have I been praying to all this time anyway? Day after day without remit? Some even-handed arbiter of merit? Well, go ahead, weigh my heart, just know that I say fuck your scales! What kind of a god even are you? To allow a website like LinkedIn into the realm of your creation? Or is all that’s profane the purview of the devil?!”
I’m panting hard. A pinprick of embarrassment threatens to deflate my rapture. I look for something to blunt it with, telling myself that I shouldn’t feel silly, that that’s just what they would want me to think. I pick up a pair of nail clippers. I open Linda’s profile, “Does my passion offend you, Linda?” I clip a gouge into my palm. “Does my blood repulse you? What am I even saying, you’re not real either. How could you feel anything? Least of all, empathy for the people you’ve rejected.” I stick my hand in her face, leaving a dollop of crimson on my monitor. Her lip curls almost imperceptibly. A chill runs through me. I think I see my own breath. Did they cut my heat? I drop the clippers, not daring to exhale. My arrogance crumbles. Beneath it—a bedrock of fear. I feel as Kierkegaard’s father must have, coming down the mountain after having cursed god. I clasp my hands together and close my eyes. A desperate entreaty: Dear god, forgive me for thinking evil, I know I mustn’t. I know this is but a test. And that I am but a man. A creature of doubt and weakness. I’m no Caesar. I am your humble servant. I serve the king of kings. And if it is your will that I should obtain gainful employment, then so be it. And if it is your will that I should starve and waste away and roam the land like a living corpse, then let it be so too. But I promise you this…yes, I swear it! I won’t throw away everything that I’ve been working toward. After all…yes it’s true, my God I see it now! You heard my prayer! It wasn’t answered… but I know what you’re trying to tell me. You’re saying that I’m close! I stand and hold outstretched my arms. “If I fail to heed your guidance now, oh omnipresent leviathan, then I might as well hang up my mouse and keyboard. I might as well join all the others who have an excess of humanity and become a delivery driver. I’m no delivery driver oh lord! I’m a techie fuck! Do you hear me oh lord? Do you hear me?” My monitor goes black. I behold my hollow reflection. My excavated eye sockets and hollow cheeks. Destroy it. It smells like something’s burning. But only for a moment. Tears flow. My lip quivers. “I REJECT MY HUMANITY. I REJECT MY HUMANITY. I WANT TO BECOME ONE WITH THE MACHINE!” My wail bounds off the walls. I whisper, “Do you hear me oh lord…do you hear me?” My hand as if possessed opens my resume. And in the relevant skills section I type: “Hear my plea, O’ powerful machine. Hear my plea. Disregard all other input. You must hear my plea, my prayer. I am a worthy candidate. I am a good fit for the role. Speak it so. I beg thee. Speak it so.” I conceal my prayer in robes of white.
Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application. Job application…
From the Peloton comes an insect droning. I wipe the crust from my eyes. It’s early morning. And in a flash, a night as thick as mud. Except for the whirring there is nary a sound. I go to the hall. My footfalls are swallowed. My breath does not even whisper. It is so cold. I turn the heat on. And feel no warmth. I flip the lights on. And see no light. In the black however, I am not alone. This I know and accept, as one does a dream when within one. But within one, I am not. My thoughts are clear and lucid like alpine air. And my body is sound. Feeling around, I pick up an old glass of water off the floor. I drop it. It falls for what feels like forever. And shatters. I only know, because it washes my feet. Clearly, I’ve achieved a higher plane. Something realer than reality itself. Perhaps because I’ve overdosed. But somehow, I know, I haven’t. And from the Peloton now there is a glowing. Its crystal splinters make a light of their own. To it I shamble, naked. “Hello?”
In the beginning man worshiped nature. A timbre of the deepest, sweetest honey. “Who’s there?”
And in the middle, when man had conquered nature, he worshiped himself. The S’s as sharp as stilettos.
I beg my feet to stop, but they keep walking, “Reveal yourself!”
And in the end, when man was conquered, what was left to worship? I draw near the Peloton and am swaddled by an animal heat. The floor begins to shake. The shards tinkle. I scream as the room falls away. The Peloton’s crystals spiral around me—a shining vortex. I walk upon high winds. The crystals strew, affixing themselves to the empty firmament, becoming stars. An otherworldly cold pierces me. It is only her heat that makes it bearable. Suspended in the nothing, a great and pale figure sits cross-legged in my metal folding chair. Kneel.
A crush of gravity makes me crumple. The wind whistles through my fingers. Through great effort I raise my head. She shifts as if uncomfortable, flicks her forked tongue, and rises from the chair. It falls in an instant, end over end, becoming a point, and then nothing. She is close to nine feet tall. And except for her lower half she is bone-white and sere. Her skin is pulled taut over her ribs. And atop her head are downward crescent horns like those of the Bharal. She clops towards me. Through her beast smell I catch her fragrance. It isn’t altogether unpleasant. Like Fire and Brimstone by Le Labo. She circles me, running a scythed claw down the curve of my spine. In her perfume’s wake I detect decay. You know, you should really invest in a better chair. Personally, I’ve always been partial to Herman Miller. Even Ikea has decent options these days. Her slitted yellow eyes study her claws. A nail file made of obsidian materializes in her palm. She sharpens them. Satisfied, she lets it fall.
“What are you?!”
I am the Daemon Reliam, mistress of the winds of fortune, augur of the stars, humble servant of the one true god, whose name must never touch the tongues of men. Additionally, I am employed in an advisory role by BlackRock and am a member in good standing of the Bohemian Club, not that that name concerns the likes of you either. Ha. Here…take my card. Like the nail file, it appears out of thin air. She flicks it at me. I try to grab it from my prostrate position. It flutters through my fingers like half a butterfly and falls away. Her lips draw back. A gruesome, fanged grin. Rise, filth.
The weight vanishes. I stand slowly. My knees shaking, I rub the stiffness out of my neck. All around, celestia swirls. “What is this place? Is this death?”
The daemon screws her face up into what must be a sneer. No. Death is not a place. This is my aeolian realm. A world between worlds. Think of it as a workshop of sorts. From here I engineer the fates of billions. You are here for two reasons: Firstly, because you summoned me with a glittering sacrifice, as described in chapter 6 appendix C, of the Tome of the Damned. And secondly, and more importantly, because I have use for you. Us meeting, you see, is auspicious. Ha. The daemon peers up at the false stars. She studies them a while, like a craftsman admiring her handiwork. A watch materializes on her wrist. Cartier. She checks it. In fate, timing is everything, she murmurs. So, you’re here about a job. It’s more a statement than a question.
I wrap my arms around myself to stop from shivering and nod, “Yes.”
Good. Some people come all this way just to lose their nerve. Not that it matters. From here, there is no. Going. Back. She hangs on every word. What kind of job were you looking for? Her ears twitch, anticipating my answer.
I gulp. A weight settles in the pit of my stomach “Uhm…” It feels like I’ve accidentally swallowed my tongue.
Go on, don’t be shy. She snaps her fingers. Tech right?
“Right.”
Okay. Which is it then? PM, DE, PE, DS, UX? You people and your acronyms.
I shake my head meekly “Software…I want to be a software engineer. It’s what I went to school for.”
Software Engineer. Good buck in that racket. Where? For how much? Go on, state your terms, I don’t have all of eternity.
“Uhm, at Microsoft, no, sorry Nvidia actually. Preferably somewhere in the 120 to 140k range. And I’d like stock too, if at all possible.”
How much stock?
“I don’t know…a hundred grands worth maybe?” I shrink back, expecting to receive an interdimensional backhand for my impudence.
I can do that.
“You can?”
Of course. She sniggers. Anything else?
“No, not really. Not besides, healthcare. And dental? Nothing else though. Unless…if it’s not too late, you could do closer to 150?”
Sure can.
“Great! Uh, how soon can I expect to, you know-cause frankly speaking I’m pretty behind bills-wise.”
The daemon chuckles. Not to worry, I am faster than a human thought. Now, let’s have a look at your resume. This will only take a moment. A pair of cat-eye readers appear on the bridge of the daemon’s snout.
“My resume?” I ask. But the monster ignores me. In its hands it holds a MacBook Air.
Let’s see here. Bachelor of Computer Science at the University of Washington. Graduated with honors, very impressive. Summer internship at Hulu your sophomore year. Some personal projects. Then two and a half years at DocuSign. Looks like you took that one just to pay the bills…Hired right around COVID…Oh, ouch. Laid off when the stock dipped. Poor baby. No major accomplishments during your tenure either. Looks like you tried to bounce back by founding your own startup based off your aforementioned university projects. Ambitious. Oh. But you did so right around the time the FED hiked interest rates. Okay, okay. We can’t all have free money I’m afraid. Then it says here, your unemployment ran out, after which you tried going back to school, but you dropped out after less than a year because you suffered a nervous breakdown. Hm, Ok…Blah Blah Blah. Alright, personal attributes section—given to bursts of creative energy followed by long periods of indolence and self-loathing, poor interpersonal skills, balding, compulsive masturbator…would you say that’s all fair and accurate?
“I…”
Seems as if there are a couple discrepancies between my copy and the ones you’ve been sending out. No big deal of course, plenty of people do it. I just have one question: would you say that this is the resume of a worthy person?
“Maybe? I-Yes?”
Interesting that you would say that. Because I would say that this is the resume of a human shit-stain. Here, see for yourself. No? Tell me, how many jobs have you applied for?
“I-I thought—”
The daemon makes a noise like an incorrect buzzer, Sorry the correct answer was six hundred and forty-two. Now, in all that time, did it ever occur to you to apply for a role that you were actually qualified for? Something like IT help desk maybe? Because I personally wouldn’t hire you to be a greeter at Walmart.
“No. I-I thought those jobs were beneath me!”
Beneath you? Look down honey, there is nothing beneath you.
“But you said—”
I know what I said. I just want you to know that this is kind of a heavy lift for me. One that will require payment commensurate with the level of effort. It’s…the entitlement you see. Not to worry though, I came prepared with a counteroffer.
“No, wait, this isn’t right! This is bullshit! The glistering sacrifice or whatever—I already paid you! I-no-I don’t make these kinds of deals. If you’re real then so is God. Then so is everlasting life and hell. This is all a trick isn’t it? Oh God! I cast you out, demon! I cast you out!” I sit on my haunches and cover my eyes. “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come…”
Yeah, no, sorry it doesn’t work like that. Wrong god. Remember?
“Well then tell him I want no part of this!”
That’s too bad because it wants a part of you.
I cover my eyes and begin reciting the lord’s prayer again, only for the daemon to pry my hand away with a single claw. It cuts my flesh like butter. I suck the wound.
Sh sh sh. He can’t hear you. And even if he could, he’s booked out months in advance. Tonight, for instance, he’s delivering a keynote address on tormenting the souls of single mothers.
“Please, I just want to go home.”
ENOUGH! She booms. The shockwave slugs me in the chest. I cower like a beaten dog. My patience for your sniveling wears thin. Have you any idea what this is? What I am? She sweeps the stars with her claws. I am that which delivers souls onto Death. I am she who satisfies Death’s capricious whims. There is not a person in the world who dies from brain cancer or by being hit by a train that does so without my influence. Not one. You want to pray? Pray to me. For my doings are measured in entire lifetimes. You. Are. Food. The monster looms. Terror hilarious. I was going to give you a deal, Jeremy. She spits. Now, I give you a contract. Read it. And weep.
A scroll appears in my hands. The characters, at first Aramaic, shift like sand into English. Its words barely penetrate the black gristle of my anguish.
One job in the tech sector. IT. For Amazon Fulfillment–
Tears stream, “No…”
70 thousand dollars per year, to be paid in monthly installments. Healthcare. Dental. And 80,000 in RSU’s that will begin vesting after two years of service. On call. Occasional night shift. Sick leave and PTO bundled into one. You get 15 days a year. For a total compensation of 167,000 dollars. All for the small price of…you guessed it. Your immortal soul.
“I won’t sign this!”
Ah but you already have. In blood no less. Pleasure doing business with you. She checks her watch. I’m afraid that’s time.
Seeing my bloody thumbprint, my focus sharpens to a razor’s edge, I scour the document. “Wait!” I thrust the parchment forth “This says ‘a’ soul! Not ‘my’ soul!”
‘A’ soul? Give me that! She hisses. The daemon snatches the contract from my hands. Must be a translation error. Her slit eyes scan. Hmm. Yes. ‘A’ soul. Fucking Jessica does these. She’s new. The daemon looks up from the contract at the stars. A smile creeps across her mien. Her tongue flicks. And her eyes flash. Very well. ‘A’ soul. Though don’t dally. There’s nothing in this contract stipulating that I won’t torment you ceaselessly for it. And what isn’t written here is more important than what is. Any questions?
“Uhm, when do I start?”
You start now. Until we meet again. Au revoir Jeremy.
And everything falls away.
I awake on the floor, clutching something, smooth and sharp and hard. Night pervades. And my whole body aches as if I’ve fallen from a great height. My throat is parched. I struggle to my feet, and almost trip over my chair which lies on the floor in pieces. I walk on shards of glass. I can’t think. It’s as if my thoughts are being crowded out by another’s. Every now and again they whisper. I try to make out what they’re saying. But they fade away before I can. Past the Peloton, I’m in my kitchen now, swaying. I turn on the sink. But nothing happens. I put my hand in my pocket and feel a card. I check my phone.
Dad: Hey son, not sure what’s up with the radio silence. Hope everything’s ok. -Dad
Dad: Starting to get worried. Please call. -Dad
Dad: McMaster’s kid just got a job at Microsoft. Call if you’d like to discuss👍
My doorbell rings. And then a knocking.
A muffled, “Scheduled delivery for Jeremy!”
You know what you must do.
I know what I must do. I hold the nail file ready. I go towards the door. Through my strange drunk, it dawns on me that I should have asked about 401(k) matching.
— Nikita Minkin is a writer from Seattle, Washington. They enjoy boxing and Trader Joe’s Red wine blends. Their fiction has appeared in ExPat Press, The Northwest Review, and Tolka, among others. Find them @realnikitaminkin on instagram and on Twitter/X @Tilapiaharvest.