Almost Honest (334 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 1 on 2 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by FuckTheArmy (View user info) at 2005-07-25 05:04:49 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
The receptionist held the phone in one hand and waved Charles through with the other. He looked across from the front desk to the waiting area; blank white walls, with a couple of posters and cheap mass-produced chairs. They were the sort that comes in strings of five or so, with plastic armrests between each seat, the ones you often find in airports.
He sat down on the end of a row, and slouched a little. It was a cheap suit anyway, just enough to get him an interview for a low-end job. Something honest; or at least almost honest.
A round clock hung on the wall, again a common, mass-produced type, like the ones in every public building. "Wow, someone's gone all out with the decor", he thought sarcastically.
On a television screen, a politician. Instantly recognisable by the demeanour; they all looked much the same these days. Even the so-called ethnic ones held that certain quality that separates 'us' from 'them', so even if they professed to be 'ordinary', they never were.
"...And I promise to improve the economy for all this country's citizens. By making big business more competitive with individual contracts, we all stand to benefit..." Some neo-conservative drivel. So close to the truth, but conveniently ignoring that the consequences were so often such that the people who were supposedly being represented were the ones to lose out.
Well, he might have thought that, if he'd been more articulate, but he'd never really stopped to think through the arguments beyond "bullshit!" which was pretty serious political development where he came from.
Around the corner came a fat woman who looked like she was walking on sunshine. As if, by some serendipity, she had met the one guy in town who "didn't care about stereotypes" and liked her "for her personality". Yeah, her double-D-cup personality. Or maybe she just found a good vibrator recently.
At any rate, she seemed pretty happy, and he hoped she was the interviewer. Cheery people seem to be better at giving you a job, and it certainly wasn't the sort of cheery that comes from a million dollar bonus for screwing people over. Charles could always see that one coming, and had actually walked out of an interview once because of it.
She took him into the interview room, offered a seat, and started asking questions, basic ones at first. She seemed like she would be pretty straightforward.
Unfortunately the interview process was not. Or rather, it was, but in a very subtly discriminating way. Questions you shouldn't be allowed to ask, like 'have you ever been associated with a terrorist', or 'do you resent highly-paid business executives', but there were too many skilled applicants as it was. You didn't get brownie points for sticking to little things like 'the law'. "That's just unpatriotic, they'll tell me", he thought.
Truth be told, it was unpatriotic, but not in a bad way. On one hand, patriotism to one's country is seen as such a good thing, but at the same time, the respect for an undeserving person who has usurped the role of father-figure was never large. Not that anyone expressed that very clearly either.
Mind you, he was almost honest about the answers he gave.
"Have you ever been publicly known as a Communist or an Anarchist?"
"No", came his prompt reply, but that was more that he wasn't actually very well known when he'd been in college. Also, it didn't count anyway, since he had, like any true anarchist, refused to identify as one. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but he couldn't explain it very well, which was why he'd dropped out of those circles.
"Are you married or in a marriage-like relationship?"
There was explanation, and then there was Sam. She had been the one trying to persuade Charles that he would be happier with a decent middle-class job, and two kids, and a house in the suburbs, and as soon as she got that she ran off with the neighbour's brother. So no, he wasn't married, just paying child support. Hell, why else did he need a job? He had been inches away from dropping out of normal life entirely and becoming a professional gambler.
"Have you ever had an addictive substance abuse problem?"
No, not substances, only poker. Apparently the rest of the questions were fairly mundane; previous experience, job references, attitudes to work, leadership qualities. They were all top-level categories for him, especially leadership; captain of the high-school football team.
Both a serious leader and perfectly capable of taking orders from the coach, and in a winning season too. Mind you, he'd had the coach fired and replaced with one who would listen to him, but they didn't have to know that.
"What do you imagine you will get out of working for us?"
Charles was glad he'd rehearsed that question. To be brief, a waffle of oily management psycho-babble flowed forth from his lips like so much scum floating down an industrial waste water channel, greasing the corporate ego without sounding too much like a suck-up.
"Okay Mr. Wilson, well you're at the top of our list so far, and quite frankly I feel like taking a four-day weekend, so I'm going to offer you the position."
"Thankyou very much ma'am, only one more thing, when would you like me to start?" Charles wanted to be clear about the basics; the rest could be sorted out later.
"If you sign the contract in the next three minutes, you can have the next shift and I'll be on my way. You know how to do your job, you're familiar with the software, and the contract is industry standard."
He picked up the pen and signed it, eager to catch a seemingly good job.
She was almost honest; the contract had a 3-month lock-in, health benefits, legal representation and waivers, all industry standard, except for one thing - instead of twenty an hour, he was getting minimum wage.
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