*
I had quit my last job years before because I thought several of my co-workers were plotting to put a tracking chip in me while I was napping on break, but I still had substantial savings because for the most part I had been too paranoid about buying any new products and most of my lifetime earnings sat in the bank for years collecting interest. Nearly everything in my house had been there for ten years or more. If something broke, I repaired it myself, and if I couldn’t repair it then I’d do my best to find something to replace it from a charity store or antique store.
I knew that my savings wouldn’t last forever though, especially now that I wasn’t paranoid and would be able to buy things like a new toaster even if most new toasters these days are manufactured with RFID tags for warehousing and retail loss-control purposes. Perhaps I’d even get one of the hi-tech ones that allows for precision selection between perfectly delicate shades of toasting, each shade more delicate than the last. And since my savings wouldn’t be lasting forever, I’d need to get a job. That thought fluttered into my mind, light and airy like a butterfly[24], and it hit me again how different my thought process had become after just a few weeks of Psylocybin. Months ago, if any part of my mind had suggested getting a new job my whole existence would have been filled with a nameless dread[25] and I would have imagined a million fearful reasons for huddling in a corner with the lights out instead.
The next day I took my Psylocybin and fetched a newspaper, then spent all morning poring over the want ads, glorying in each new job I read about, jobs that I wouldn’t feel terrified about having, that I’d be able to go to each weekday, jobs sitting at desks where I could have conversations with co-workers about things like Last Night’s Big Game, jobs standing at counters serving customers and not worrying that the money they were handing me was being handed by a master assassin and at just such an angle so as to cause paper cuts[26], jobs at zoos, jobs as salesmen, jobs doing plenty of things that I could – would – do.
Of all the ads on the page, one job ad in particular stood out. It seemed to have been printed just for me:
Need motivated self-starter for stay-at-home job
Technical writer, need previous training/exp
Be your own boss, work your own hours
Med/dental after 60 days - 2 wk pd vction/yr
I’d taken one course of technical writing in high school, which probably wasn’t as much training or experience as they wanted (more than I had as a zookeeper, though), but I did pretty well in that course and I thought I could be convincing enough to get my foot or hand or some other body part in the door far enough that they couldn’t close it, and then I’d have them. The thing that drew my eye to the ad most was that you could work from home and set your own hours. It wasn’t the most socially forward of jobs, but it would be a good first step, and after all, there was no need to test myself in every paranoia-inducing situation just yet because I’d been discharged from a mental hospital less than twenty-four hours before. I figured I’d probably be interacting with a boss and probably a few co-workers over the phone, through e-mails and instant messaging, which was a good way to just dip my toe into the social waters without getting soaked or drowned or eaten by a shark[27].
I called for more information and they said they had an interview slot open in an hour because they’d just had a cancellation. I leapt into action, into my car, and across town to Global Partners & Associates, which was not as grand a location in appearance as in name. They were located in a rentable storage unit (the kind with the roll-up door), and while I’m pretty sure it isn’t legal to run a business out of a storage unit, I’m not a lawyer, so I wasn’t going to question their business methods. Also, “they” is a generous term, because it was just one filing cabinet which was behind a guy who was behind a desk. I guess everyone has to start somewhere, and perhaps this guy was like Jim (except worse – at least Mr. Hodge had a pulse) and considered the filing cabinet and desk to be his associates. So as not to offend him, I started off by saying “Hello, gentlemen,” and nodding around the room. He opened the file cabinet and got a drink for himself and me from it, and the interview then opened with the usual questions.
“How many rooms are in your house, Mr. Well? Which room would you work in, were you to receive this position?” This, to know if I’d be distracted, say, by working in the living room near my fish tank. Or, if they gave me any expensive equipment to use at home, would I take it into the bath with me and possibly drop it in while scrubbing my toes.
“Do you have any moles, birth marks, or other distinguishing features?” In case of an industrial accident, if my face were mutilated they’d still be able to identify me.
“Are you worried that if you take this position we’ll read your emails, know your whereabouts, and generally monitor your every move, even knowing your heart rate while you’re asleep and how many times each day you urinate?” Weeding out the crazies; I knew that all successful companies did the same sort of micromanagement of your biological functions[28], so of course I wasn’t worried, and I told him so.
“Alright, everything’s fine with him,” he said, to nobody; I even looked behind me to be sure, which confirmed my suspicion that his associates (and I write this while doing air quotes with my fingers) were the desk and filing cabinet. I didn’t want to screw up the interview though, so I said nothing and kept a smile in front of my face; I could always bring it up later, once they had hired me and employee protection laws covered me.
“You’re hired, Oscar,” he said, “I think you’re just perfect for the position we have in mind.” He took a picture of me, took my fingerprints, had me look into a machine to scan my retinas, took a blood sample, and took a few strands of my hair as well, “for security reasons.” It was a hassle, but of course I wanted to be secure.
He opened a different drawer of the file cabinet and took out a laptop computer, a phone, and a set of business cards that already had my name on them. I wondered if the file cabinet actually had any files in it at all, but I supposed there was no rule against using a file cabinet for general storage. When I left, I turned around and watched him roll down the door of the storage unit. With the door shut, it looked just like all the other storage units, and I wondered if any of the other storage units there held small businesses with large names. As I walked away, I heard a file cabinet clattering to the floor, but it wasn’t my business to interfere with a disagreement between partners.