Molecular mingling of caffeine dance with the firing of nervous synapses. Everyone everywhere is unprepared for a job interview to some extent. Cliche or curve ball questions, expect the unexpected and try to cover all the bases. Resist the urge to steal Mitch Hedburg’s jokes when they ask you where you see yourself in five years. (Celebrating the fifth year anniversary of you asking me this question) Recite the invisible script while maintaining a fresh improvised tone. A man who can think on his feet would be an asset to this organization so it would seem. Creative solutions come from a place that isn’t afraid to drift away from protocol. Think outside the box, the box is confining you, restraining your true potential. You’re a grown man, you look ridiculous trapped inside that cardboard box.
Rows of youth sat all around him an eerie silence pervaded the large hall, echos of empty nothing. The collective decibel force of feet shuffling, occasional coughing nervous fidgeting amplified through sheer number. The vast population of applicants stared vacantly eyes periodically and methodically twitching, blinking, navigating their Sensory Mobile Units (SMU) Wet eyeball noises audible only through vast quantity.
An entry level position filing pre-millenial analog data at Data Corp. wasn’t exactly a glamorous gig, but considering the aimless juncture he currently found himself in, it fit. Institutionalized learning always seemed like a gratuitous expense, that undervalued so called “real world” experience. Besides landing a job at the data center would allow him access to wide range of esoterica both government sanctioned and potentially not. The exclusivity of information prohibited by the power structure granted accessible to him through this job provided yet another anterior motive.
Reflecting back on his recent experience visiting the local learning institute, he found more validation in his life choice. The campus tour kicked off with a performance art piece drum circle critiquing hippie cultural appropriation of traditional African rhythm. Given the fact all members of the ensemble were white Clarents quietly questioned the sincerity of the gesture.
Students basked in the lush sunny quad conducting artificial arguments that revolved around the same page. A blank slate of a page, uninformed by experience yet with all the confidence and self- assurance that follows.
The tour guide was a young woman who looked like she bought all her clothes through a catalog from the future that could predict style trends in advance. Chirpy and chipper with an idealistic enthusiasm, she radiated positive vibes dude.
“We’ve found that most of our students thrive in a comfortable environment where their minds are free to regress, and uninhibited by structural curriculum. For example here we have the post-structuralist ball pit where our students learn about the unstable foundations of western literature through play and frolic. They struggle to grasp slippery concepts as they swim through the signifying waters.”
The tour continued past several finger painting stations as she the guide continued her spiel. “This bouncy castle represents the futility of modernism by drawing a parallel between antiquated monarchy and white centric ideology. Inhabiting a simulated post modernity the students cannot bounce high enough to reach the lofty unobtainable ideal, bouncing and bouncing in a perpetual cycle of collapsed hierarchy.”
Clarents was not convinced, though many other perspective students seemed smitten at the time. His mind reverted back to the present situation at hand.
He gazed down at the number pinned on his shirt. 42. Reduced to a number or at the very least unformed clay to be shaped through the rigors of work experience. His mind drifted and wandered into the “useless trivia for pseudo intellectual posturing” encyclopedic archives of his SMU to escape the tedium of waiting. 42…the ultimate answer to everything according to the droll absurdist humor of Douglas Adams… 42… The atomic number of molybdenum…42… the jersey number of Jackie Robinson, retired for all eternity…
A giant spherical tumbler of balls rattled around in the middle of the cast room shattering the tension with nerve wracking background ambiance. The numbers picked at random like a giant lottery with the self esteem of hundreds of youths hanging in the balance. Clarents suspected this ridiculous presentation served a dual purpose of humbling the applicants symbolizing them as mere numbers in a game, in addition to entertaining the night crew janitorial staff. At this early morning hour they celebrated graveyard shift’s end with a stiff drink and a round of bingo.
The suspense became overwhelming, anxious anticipation brewing with restless boredom. The SMU provided a distraction to some degree that stretched thinner and thinner. Staring vacantly into an ocular projection was somehow more socially acceptable than staring off into empty space despite the fact to two were nearly indistinguishable. He almost reached an acceptance of the frazzled state of mind when suddenly his number announced over the intercom forcing him to face a new immediate reality.
“Number 42, 42. It’s your turn in the hot seat. Come on down! You’re the next contestant!”
“Ohhh Price is Right references, how topically relevant.” The girl sitting next to him snidely muttered automatically.
Late 20th century cultural references (pop and otherwise) are cloudy these days at best. Ever since the great glitch and the subsequent mobile data restoration and recovery, factual historical accuracy from that era is difficult to obtain. A new history written from collective memory individually extracted from the data ether perhaps summarized best in the misquoted words of Alaska senator Ted Stevens: “The internet is a series of dudes.”
Approaching the office door with a stride intended to give a sense of confidence to himself more than cultivating an illusion Clarents stepped into the chamber. The door gently pulled itself shut behind him under some type of pressurized vacuum. Minister of information Reginald P. Griff filled the room with an authoritative presence. A statuesque posture even whilst sitting. A coffee mug reading “I put the fun in functional” provided a forced levity and tacitly encouraged benign worker individuality. A song full of not so subtle sexual innuendo played discretely in the distance.
Beside him a svelte woman with a pronounced jaw stood as if ready to leave at a moments notice.
“Welcome Mr. Tenderhook, please take a seat.”
Clarents picked up the chair and began to walk out the door.
“Whoa there buster, what do you think you’re doing?”
“With all due respect sir you told me to take a seat, I’m grateful for your generosity.”
“Figure of speech my boy not to be taken literally”
“I know sir, when I’m nervous I make stupid jokes.”
“Relax my boy, your anxiety is completely normal and if nothing else tells me you care enough about this career prospect to feel such emotion.”
“Yes… right… of course…”
So lets get down to brass tacks. Why does the field of data compiling capture your fancy?
The preservation of of information is an important subject for me. Its our most valuable resource, our collective history.” (Tone it back a bit buddy you’re trying too hard)
Well, your attitude is certainly refreshing, you’d be surprised how many applicants listed zombie apocalypse skills on their resume”
“Thank you for noticing sir, I mean not noticing, sorry…”
“Boy you’re so tightly wound you’re like a coiled spring, this job demands flexibility, elasticity. I need you to be like this.”
He reached into a drawer of office supplies and pulled out a rubber band, stretched it in front of his face.
“Bends! Does not break.”
Clarents responded with a blank stare.
The entry level position you are applying for is transcription stenographer. What do you feel qualifies you for this?
“Well sir, I’m really quick on the draw when it comes to shooting words at people.”
“You and everyone else your age. We’re looking for a different set of qualifications that are transferable to analogue applications. How much experience do have with typewriters?
“Typewriters? One time I got locked in my Grandma’s attic as punishment for being too futuristic. I developed a strong rapport with one during that time. I passed the time pretending I was high on Adderall writing the next great American road novel.
“Mmm, not bad.”
Clarents couldn’t remember the last time he saw someone impressed in such a blase manner.
“Well, you certainly have potential. Lets run some preliminary tests to see what you’re really made of. Miss Blithington will show you to the evaluation facility, follow her.”
With a briskness that seemed almost military in origin, Miss Blithington beckoned, promptly turned and began to walk out a side door. Clarents quickly arose from his chair and took long strides walking to catch up and keep pace. His eyes drifted toward her ass automatically yet surreptitiously, more voluminous than expected from the front. As she turned her head to speak his gaze darted up, narrowly avoiding getting caught in the ogling act.
She lead him into a room filled with fellow candidates for the position.
“We’ll begin with an preliminary exercise in familiar territory to loosen you up. You will be confronted with a variety of scenarios and you must create an appropriate acronym to react. You will be judged on the following categories: snappy wit, brevity, and realism.
Say your friend is trying to reach you and you’re busy hanging out networking with more important people of a higher social caliber. You need to supply an transparently artificial excuse that will make him or her laugh providing a lighthearted distraction away from the fact you are avoiding them. Please submit your answer in the form of an acronym. You may begin…..now.”
Clarents pondered for a few moments and a flash of insight appeared from out of nowhere, that unknowable place where creativity springs forth. He quickly punched a response into the data monitor.
IATNIYNTOTJKPISOOA
I am totes not ignoring you I need to organize these Jedi kitten pictures in sequential order of adorableness
#prioritiesbiatch
The following warm up tests involved a series of the following:
-Bypassing auto correct traps while deliberately misspelling various expressions for comedic effect.
-Deftly utilizing double entendres through the use of pheel-symbols
Eventually all the elaborate prelude led to the final test, a race transcribing verbatim the contents of a digital encyclopedia, everything encompassing the letter G. This daunting task performed on an obsolete piece of equipment known one time as a typewriter, demanded stamina and attention. Clarents was all thumbs at first, struggling with transcribing the medical vernacular of the gallbladder entry accurately, but within a matter of hours managed to readily adapt to the cognitive rhythm of muscle motor memory. Upon reaching a thoroughly detailed entry explaining the mechanical intricacies of the gyroscope, Clarents felt fully adept, a master in control of his machine. The letter arms clicked and tapped in an evasive dance, skilled fingers summoning each strike to the page.
Upon finishing the arduous test a bell rang snapping him out his tunnel vision trance, as the surrounding reality seeped back into perspective. Miss Blithington beckoned to him from across the room.
“Come with me Mr. Tenderhook, Mr. Griff would like to have a word with you.”
An ambiguous tone yet slightly auspicious gave Clarents a sense of relief as he recovered from the ordeal.
The booming voice of Reginald P. Griff greeted him as the office door opened.
“Congratulations my boy! You crushed the competition! I don’t often use the word overqualified, but here I am using
it right now because I must I simply have no choice! No other word shall suffice! You are going places m’lad!”
Clarents stuttered in an attempt to reply
“Uh, um… Thank you sir…It just .. sort of came naturally to me I guess…”
“Spare me your modesty! Hold your head high son! Be proud!”
The landing of the job blindsided him, giving him pause to question whether he was happy or daunted by the career opportunities stretching out before him into the horizon. The fear of commitment echoing all too true so they say about the generation of today. With some pep in his step he jaunted onward and upward. The pavement bounced as he walked home.