by Andrew Peed
“That sounds fancy.” Waylon chuckled.
“It’s interesting, to say the least.” Kaylie shrugged. “What do you do?”
“Until yesterday, I worked in IT. Now, I guess I’m looking for a job,” Waylon said. He spaced out a little, thinking about the idea of looking for a new job. “It’s probably going to be in IT.”
“Do you not like working in IT?” Kaylie asked.
“I do, but it’s an endless cycle of people not listening to you when they hired you to tell them what to do,” Waylon said with a soft chuckle.
“Do you have any hobbies?” Kaylie asked. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs under her on the bed.
“I like to draw.” Waylon smiled. “I don’t really think I’m any good, though.”
“Art has power,” Kaylie said, looking Waylon in the eyes.
“What?” he asked.
“Art, no matter the quality, has power,” Kaylie said. “The beauty is within the artist, and it’s within the viewer. It has power to shape the world, and it has power to do so much more.”
“Ah, well. I’ve done some doodles,” Waylon said. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to follow up that proclamation of power in art.
“Sorry, I do that sometimes. Forgive me if I get weird,” Kaylie said, giggling awkwardly.
“No problem. I’ll take weird over boring any day.” Waylon smiled.
“Oh, well, then. Prepare for some top-level weird.” She laughed.
“Color me prepared.” Waylon saluted Kaylie and ducked out of her room.
He desperately needed to shower. He had spent the majority of the last two days missing inside of his own head. For a fleeting moment he considered that maybe he should seek help, professional help, about what was going on in his mind. Blackouts were no joke, and if it happened while he was driving or during some other potentially dangerous task, it could be bad.
Waylon stood under the rushing water and zoned out. It was one thing to detach from the world for a few moments, but completely blacking out? He sighed deeply and leaned his head against the wall. His eye was still hurting from his fall, which he couldn’t really accept was two days ago now. What was going on?
~//~
Kaylie sighed. She pulled out her phone and started to search for brokers in New Harmon. She had to get the money the next day because she did not want to start this deal off in the red. She searched for a list of common terms such as “oddity broker” or “antique collector.” There were a couple of places that might have been something, but she wouldn’t know for sure until she visited the physical location.
She sat up and grabbed her bag. It was a little special. When she opened it, there were two pockets on the inside. One was perfectly normal—that was where she kept her spirit box and phone. The other, behind the normal one, was large enough that she could fit a body or more. This was where she kept pretty much everything else that she owned. She reached inside, holding open her hand. She thought about the pajamas that she wanted to wear, and they quickly flew up into her open hand.
She sat on her bed and pulled her legs close to her body, wrapping her arms around her knees. The light outside of the window was bright, and she was in a strange new place. On top of that, she wasn’t really tired. She considered that she was lucky to have a warm place to sleep that wasn’t the front seat of a borrowed car.
Chapter 05: Job Hunt
At six in the morning, after less than three hours in bed, Waylon woke less than refreshed. Yet again, he had not placed his phone down properly on the wireless charger the night before, so it did not charge, which was becoming too much of a constant thing. He pulled the cable out of the wireless charger and plugged it directly into the phone.
“Try and not charge now, punk,” he said.
Waylon threw his blanket off and stretched the crappy sleep away. He got out of bed and disappeared into his bathroom to complete his morning routine—take a piss, brush his teeth, ponder the meaning of life, and determine if he wanted to keep going. He made it through the self-test and left the mirror.
His mind was made up. He was going to find a job. It was imperative that he didn’t let the events of the past few days get him down. He told himself that the blackouts were caused by stress and a poor work environment, and now that he was free of that place, he shouldn’t have anything to worry about.
When Waylon passed by Kaylie’s room on his way to the kitchen for a nice refreshing cup of coffee, he noticed that she had left the door open. Kaylie was nowhere to be seen, but she had moved some things into the room. There were a couple of bags of clothes in the corner. A fish tank sat on top of the dresser, and on the floor next to the wall, there was a large stack of books.
In the kitchen, Waylon found a steaming pot of coffee already made. Next to it was a mug with a note.
Thank you for letting me stay here. I made special coffee. I hope you like it. I will have the rent by tonight.
I promise.
Kaylie
Waylon picked up the mug and poured some of the steaming nectar of the gods. He blew on the rim before taking a sip. It was very good. In fact, it was the best coffee that he had had in a long time. There was a minty taste that seemed familiar to him. He sipped down the entire mug before rinsing it out and setting it in the sink.
After that, he felt like he was going to have a great day. He knew for sure that he was going to find a job, and everything was going to get much better in the days to come. The blackouts were nothing to worry about.
His first interview was instrumental in completely crushing the “on top of the world” feeling that he’d gotten from the mug of coffee. Waylon had to force himself to take deep calming breaths to keep himself from losing control as he sat in the office of a Mr. Tallond.
“We contacted your previous employer, and he informed us of your work ethic. He was particularly forthcoming with an incident before you were let go, where you were late for work, and then you vanished during your shift for ten hours.” The fat asshole of a man stared down his nose at Waylon. He had made up his mind before Waylon had even arrived for the interview.
“It wasn’t like that,” Waylon started but was sharply cut off.
“Don’t bother,” Mr. Tallond said, waving a dismissive hand at Waylon. “I personally know Mr. Hicks, and I know that he would not lie to me. You. I don’t know you from Adam. I cannot say the same about your integrity.”
“I was doing my work.” Waylon gripped the arm of the chair.
“That will be quite enough. Please see yourself out,” Mr. Tallond said, waving again.
Waylon wanted to snap the hand right off his wrist. He huffed in irritation and stood up from the chair, thinking for a moment about attempting to argue his case more but figured that it was a waste of time. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the office.
Standing on a street corner, Waylon pulled his phone out of his pocket. His car was parked in a garage a few blocks away, and the parking pass was good for a few more hours. He could make it to another firm that was a few blocks uptown, but he wondered if it was going to be more of the same. He already had the appointment, so he figured it wouldn’t hurt anything but his pride to get another rejection. With a deep sigh, he started the walk to the next appointment.
He wanted lunch more than anything. The last time that he had eaten was a little hazy in his mind. Trying not to be one of the inattentive assholes that walked the streets staring down at the device in their hand, he put his phone back in his pocket. He would simply have to find something to eat on the way, or his stomach would cost him the next interview.
The streets were shoulder to shoulder with people, just how Waylon did not like things. The weather was starting to get cold, and before long, the snow would start to cover everything. Winter was always the longest and harshest of the seasons in New Harmon. Waylon wasn’t usually bothered by the weather because he chose to work inside.
The first quick and simple food that he came across was a hot
dog vendor. Despite the fact that he knew that he would regret it, it was cheap, and he could eat it on the move. He stood in line for a minute and held up one finger when the man selling the hot dogs grunted at him. There was no such thing as conversation on the street. Just grunts and hand gestures, most often the one involving the middle finger.
He gave the man two dollars and picked up a packet of mustard to go with his meal. Waylon ducked into an alcove for a moment while he applied the condiment. As if every one of the fates was against him, when Waylon took the first bite of his meal, mustard dropped down onto his nice dress shirt.
“Damn it!” he yelled, trying to clean the spot off with the crappy one-ply napkin that came with it. It was no good. The stain just spread around, and the napkin disintegrated under the pressure of his fingers.
He finished the food in three bites. He didn’t want to chance a repeat of the incident. He tossed the wrapper in a bin and found a water fountain. He managed to clean most of the yellow stain, but it was painfully obvious that he had spilt something.
Waylon stopped and looked at his reflection in the glass window outside of the skyscraper where he was to have his next interview. He looked tired. On the upside, it had been several hours without a blackout. He smiled, slightly refueled by this thought.
The cute receptionist hardly acknowledged his existence as he walked up to the tall desk in the center of the lobby. She merely pointed at a clipboard for him to sign in to the building. He wrote his name and slid the board back to her.
“Go to the sixth floor and check in there as well,” the woman said. Never once during their interaction did she look up from her phone.
“Thanks,” Waylon said cheerfully, despite feeling like garbage after her treatment.
She did not reply.
The elevator ride was rather uneventful. He watched the people getting on and off at each floor, noting their perfect clothes with no stains and becoming increasingly more self-conscious about his mustard stain. It was as though the smell of mustard was filling the small elevator.
Waylon shook it off and cleared his throat. He had to go into this interview with confidence. These people could smell fear, and they would feed on him if he was weak.
The sixth floor of the building was human resources for a company called NextCell. They had run an ad for an IT manager that Waylon had responded to. The reception area was on the opposite side of the hallway across from the landing for the elevators.
He walked inside a glass box lined with uncomfortable-looking chairs and approached the receptionist, who seemed to care even less about his presence than the girl in the lobby. He couldn’t understand how people like them could keep their jobs, while he was out on the street for something that he did not do.
“Excuse me, I have an interview in ten minutes,” Waylon said politely, trying to get the girl’s attention. She pointed to a board similar to the one downstairs for him to sign in, but she didn’t look up from her paperwork.
Waylon wrote his name down and his arrival time. He crossed the room to an empty chair and sat down on the hard plastic. A TV in the corner was on, but the volume was muted, and the closed captioning was turned off. The news was playing, but there was no telling what in the world was going on.
As he waited patiently, his appointment time came and went. He tried very hard to stay off his phone, but he kept catching himself checking the time or scrolling through some social network. Once, he scolded himself for opening a game. It was not the time for games.
Almost an hour passed, and by then he had decided a half dozen times that he was going to get up and leave. Finally, a few minutes later, someone came into the room and said his name. He stood up and indicated that it was he that she was looking for.
“Please follow me.” She scoffed and turned and walked out of the room.
Waylon didn’t say a word. He just followed her. Close enough to keep up but far enough to run away if he so chose. He stuck with it, though. His daddy didn’t raise no quitter. Well, his daddy didn’t raise him at all, but he liked saying it in his head.
The tall blonde woman led him into an office on the far end of the building and sat him down in front of a big executive-style desk.
“Mr. Boardwell will be with you in a moment.” She sighed.
“Thank you,” Waylon said with an awkward wave.
The woman left the room without another word, closing the door behind her. He was left alone in the room, and in the back of his mind, he was telling himself that it was all a test. They were watching him or something, making sure that he wouldn’t do anything. It didn’t help that he had always been paranoid.
The door reopened about ten minutes later, and a large man built like a brick house walked into the room. Waylon wondered why he was working in a suit job and not as a football player or wrestler. The man’s head was shaved, and he had a thick black beard and mustache. He hardly acknowledged Waylon as he crossed the room and sat down behind the desk.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Boardwell,” Waylon said, clearing his throat.
Mr. Boardwell did not reply. He opened a folder that was sitting on his desk in front of him. It was at least an inch thick, and on the first page was a picture of Waylon. He only just caught a glimpse as Mr. Boardwell flipped the pages.
They sat in a deafening awkward silence. Waylon tried not to shift in his seat, but the whole situation was making him horribly uncomfortable. He tried not to chew on his thumb, but he kept catching himself.
“Do you know what this is?” Mr. Boardwell lifted the file and dropped it back onto the desk.
“No, sir,” Waylon said, shaking his head.
“This file is everything that could be collected on you in the time since you requested your interview,” he said, opening it up again to peruse the information.
“Your HR department must be incredibly efficient, sir,” Waylon said.
“I’ve had a moment to skim over what they found. There is a lot of good work in here. Years of expectance, training, and you have all the certifications that we require someone to have in the job that you have applied for,” Mr. Boardwell said, keeping his eyes on the file and never looking up at Waylon.
For a moment, Waylon’s spirits lifted. A wave of relief flooded over his body.
“However, Mr. Hicks from Glesm Industries has made some very clear claims about your most recent work ethic. These claims we hear we do not take lightly,” he said, shaking his head. His gaze moved up slowly from the file to look into Waylon’s eyes.
“If I could just explain—” Waylon was cut off with a simple wave of Mr. Boardwell’s hand.
“Son, I’ve seen it a dozen times before. The stress can make you do things, take things to keep up. Here, we have a zero-tolerance policy,” Mr. Boardwell said with a loud sigh.
“I swear it is nothing like that. I will take as many drug tests as you can give me. I need to work,” Waylon pleaded.
“No, you aren’t going to be working for us. I hate to have to be the one to tell you this, but with a black mark like the report from Mr. Hicks, there aren’t any large corporations that are going to hire you.”
“I can’t believe this.” Waylon groaned and dropped back into the chair. He abandoned all professional posture.
“Mr. Hicks is far too connected in this district.” He sighed. “He can ruin people. That’s what he’s done to you.” Mr. Boardwell crossed his arms over his chest. “You may need to start looking for a job flipping burgers.”
“Can I go now?” Waylon asked.
“Please.” Mr. Boardwell pressed a button on his desk. There was a pause, then the door to his office opened. Two men in security uniforms walked into the room, stood on either side of the door, and folded their hands in front of them.
The two men wouldn’t leave Waylon until he was on the street. Before they left the lobby, they took his picture like he was some kind of criminal. Even after he was outside of the building, one of the two men watched him from the stairs l
ike Waylon was going to turn around and shoot the place up at any second.
Waylon left the cluster of tall buildings and walked back to his car. Surprisingly, he had made it back with enough time to get out of the garage before his parking pass expired. But when he got to his car, he found the driver’s-side door tagged in graffiti.
“Of course!” he yelled and kicked the door as hard as he could. This action did nothing more than hurt his toes.
The traffic leaving the garage was fairly light for the middle of the week. He was able to pull into the line of cars after only waiting for fifteen minutes. With no clue what to do or where he needed to go, he was determined to stick with his proclamation from earlier in the day. He was not going home until he had a new job, whatever that may be.
While aimlessly driving around, the hours fell away from the clock. He stopped at any kind of tech store or repair shop he came across, but most of them were not hiring. A couple told him that he was way overqualified to work for them, and they were afraid he would just leave as soon as he was offered a better opportunity.
It was dark when he came across a small computer shop at the edge of town. It was closer to his house, and he had never seen it before, despite the fact that it looked like it had been there for decades. The shop was called Ivan Bytes.
He parked his car out front and took a deep breath. He was convinced that this was his last chance before he had to go to flipping burgers or washing cars. He did consider for a moment that there were a few factories on the other end of town, but that was work that Waylon just didn’t feel suited for. He was a computer guy!
When the door opened, there was a loud chime from the back room. He browsed around the showroom for a few moments, looking at all of the computer components that were for sale. There were some really good pieces of hardware, but there were also some really old pieces of crap.
“How may I help you?” A man came from the back, holding in his hands what looked like a computer power supply. He spoke with a heavy foreign accent. He was tall and wore a woolen hat that had flaps down over the ears. His shirt was nothing more than a plain white T-shirt. Both the shirt and his pants were filthy.
