“We’ve had many applicants, but I appreciate you being here today.”
It will become a poisoned mantra in the week following the third interview. Perhaps because of the timing, the downward lilt of the words filling an awkward silence after barely ten minutes, or the flash of an apologetic smile, the implication is clear.
I am not getting the job.
Trimmed goatee, broad vapid face of a haircut model. Brandon Chambers, HR Manager. An amiably prosaic name to inspire confidence, lower defenses, and pass from memory like a dream detail. Only I don’t forget the flutter in my chest when it popped into my inbox, anticipating our first meeting, grappling with the vulnerability of hope. Squint and you will perceive sinister undercurrents evoking incarceration, captivity. Branding. Chambers, cells, prison.
As he stares blandly across the coffee table from his beanbag chair, head cocked at an inquiring angle, I realize I’ve completely missed the question. I shift upright in my own loveseat like a baby kangaroo struggling from its mother’s pouch, adjusting my glasses, clearing my throat, stalling until Brandon prompts, “Did I lose you for a minute there?”
“No,” I assure him, “Just considering my answer. It’s a complex question.”
“I asked if you like our break room.”
“Right, I know.” We’re tucked in the corner of a spacious area that resembles a children’ s playspace more than a tech company lounge. Bright apricot walls, black and white checkered rugs, a lime green kidney bean of a sofa. Ping-pong and foosball tables near the snackbar, complete with espresso machine, vegan cookies, energy bars, and gluten free popcorn.
“It’s not your typical set-up,” Brandon says, “but SomNEO Solutions is not your typical data analytics company.”
“I prefer miserable fluorescent lights and drab cubicles,” I quip, “though I think I could make the adjustment.”
“That’s funny,” he chortles. “You’re a funny guy. We like that here.” Is that genuine warmth? Maybe I’m wrong to be so pessimistic.
He inches forward, pursing his lips and steepling his fingers (now it’s man to man, off the record). “There were a couple points I wanted to touch on, Lucien, about your last job with Data Mine.”
My antennae twitch. Tread lightly. The lure is drifting. Am I familiar with Python, proficient with pivot tables? Was I oriented on growth-centered analysis? Have I interacted with varied clientele, start-ups, mid-range to sizable organizations, arts, finance, public relations?
My answers all seem to pass muster. I am a well-rounded, active member of society with skills, academic credentials, personal charm. I am a jagged ghost trapped in a faulty, decaying conglomerate of meat and bone. I’m perfect for the job. I’m a disgrace.
“I see on your resume here you left that job in June 2022, almost a year ago.”
“Covid,” I blurt too quickly. “There were a lot of layoffs around then.” My throat is dry.
He nods, consulting the printout of my CV. “But you don’t list them as references.”
He can still contact them. Probably will, the sneak.
“I was let go.”
Deadly pause. “I see. Mind telling me why that was?”
Breathe, focus. You’ve rehearsed this. “My ideas weren’t in alignment with theirs.”
“You couldn’t reconcile those differences?”
“The CEO and senior analysts were all friends. I think it was political, if you know what I mean.”
“I appreciate your honesty.” Brandon crosses his arms and fixes me with a commiserating, arched eyebrow. I find myself mimicking his body language and my ears flush hot.
“Here’s what we do at SomNEO Solutions,” Brandon explains. “‘Somnio’ is the Latin word for dream. ‘Neo’ means new. New dream, get it? We aim to make our clients future-proof. Now more than ever we have seen that life is unpredictable.”
Sure, as long as you ignore the entire scientific community for decades.
“We use emerging technologies,” he continues, “block chain, the cloud, AI, to streamline innovation and predictive strategies. If we bring you on as Senior Data Analyst, you will be collating and interpreting large amounts of data to provide insights which will lead to revenue growth. That’s the bottom line. How we get there is up to you, but you must be willing to go above and beyond, think outside the box. That may mean nights and weekends.”
He waits ostentatiously. I swallow and say, “I understand,” cringing inwardly as my voice cracks. “Although I think with proper management work should be doable within work hours.”
Brandon’s brow furrows as he reclines and crosses his legs, displaying a spotless white Adidas. The performance is over. “We’re seeing a lot of people for this position,” he says briskly. “It’s never easy making these decisions, and whatever the outcome, obviously it’s not personal.”
“Obviously.”
His eyes flick to mine as his smile fades.
“Do you have any more questions for me?”
Resist. End this gracefully. There may be a chance.
“One question,” I say. “Why is the ‘neo’ in SomNEO capitalized? Is it an acronym? Am I supposed to shout it?”
He blinks at me for a moment. “It’s eye-catching.”
“Ah.”
The interview is over.
My room is warm and dark. The bed is soft. It’s past noon, judging by the blade of light stabbing through the edge of the blackout curtains. If I don’t look at my phone it won’t matter. Dazed and groggy after fitful sleep where in tangled dreams a forgotten suitcase led to compounding problems during foreign transit——airports, subways, taxis. A ticking clock.
Get up. Check email. Maybe SomNEO responded, good old Brandon swooping in with a life line. But don’t get your hopes up, it’s only been three days.
The floodgates burst, releasing the daily litany: rent due next week, Con Edison, internet and phone bills. Tax season begun. Student loans remain a six figure sum, creeping steadily as a fever. Social life floundering. Texts to Kara left on read.
My roommate’s mellifluous phone chatter carries from the kitchen. A high-pitched mechanical whine as the blender grinds, dices, liquifies.
My den reeks of stale laundry and my mouth tastes like sand. Rise and shine, another glorious day of unemployment (lower case that is, the well ran dry last October, talk about an eerie Halloween). Ouch, lower back. Shoulders stiff. I slither from my tousled sheets to the office chair, swivel to my cluttered desk and wake up my laptop.
The red email icon bears an ill omen——thirteen new messages. The cursor scurries rabidly but I hesitate. I will wait, delay gratification, or disappointment. I won’t let it define me. Instead I click open my notes for Peon Jungle, my point and click RPG. It’s still in the planning stage, though a few avatars and environments have been designed.
The premise of the game is simple. Initially it appears to be an office simulator, so mundanely detailed as to beg the question: is this really it? The pixelated protagonist is alone in the suite, with explicit instructions and clear limitations. Print copies. Send emails. Answer the phone. Interaction with most of the environment summons a text-box: “Nothing to see here.” No mention is made of the empty broom closet at the end of the long hallway, but if the player approaches it, the tepid background music fades. This is the only hint. By performing the action command at the tiny crack in the back wall, the adventure begins properly. Only intrepid players convinced there’s more than meets the eye will be rewarded by the full experience.
But what exactly is beyond the crack in the wall? Where does it lead?
I haven’t gotten there yet.
Morning ablutions and breakfast are leaden with a vague paralysis. This is what normal, unburdened people do, isn’t it?
Yes it is, god damn it. What happened to youthful confidence? Some people have real problems, you whiny milquetoast. For a moment my masochistic pep talk works. A fog clears as the percolator gurgles. My shelf of the fridge is barren but there are dried oatmeal packets in the cupboard. I can still get this day right without descending into internet limbo, the Big Scroll. Grub Hub for a bite. Indeed for a job. Hinge for a mate. All the mystery and wonder of life reduced to an online shopping network.
No!
I will live today.
In fact, thinking back on the interview I believe it went rather well. Why was I convinced otherwise? Brandon responded to my questions and jokes, even when I ribbed him at the end. Why the negativity? The percolator falls into blissful silence. Look at that, a pinch of creamer left in the back, days from expiration.
Back into my lair with coffee and oatmeal, sun-kissed with the curtains parted, nowhere near as bleak as it appeared upon waking. I’ll do laundry, tackle the clutter, eviscerate that pile of clothes and papers that keeps migrating from chair to bed to floor.
But first——check email. I have a feeling.
There it is, tucked between automatic notifications from job search sites (so many opportunities out there), congratulatory messages about my credit score milestones, Facebook notifications about my peers’ accomplishments:
Brandon Chambers – Subject: SomNEO Senior Analyst Position.
My hand trembles before I click. Is this comparable to the thrill of Russian roulette?
Scanning feverishly, the words blend. Dear Lucien Klein. Extremely impressed with your skills, experience. Wonderful meeting you. Many applicants for the position.
Unfortunately.
Decided.
Take another direction.
Grateful for your time and attention.
Wish you the best of luck.
Decided. Another direction. Best of luck. Unfortunately. Many applicants.
The coffee is cold, oatmeal a crusted mass. The angle of the sun rays has crept away from me across the bed.
I’ve reread it a dozen times, scrutinizing for hidden meanings between the lines. What casual cruelty swathed in safe, watered-down language.
Unfortunately. Subtext: luck has run out, fate has conspired against me.
Bullshit. This was no change of the wind, bad roll of the dice. This was someone’s decision. Not just anyone. Brandon fucking Chambers, HR manager. Functioning member of society.
I stand. I pace. I inhale and exhale slowly, deliberately.
My fist leaves an indentation in the cheap wood of my flimsy door. In the bathroom hydrogen peroxide stings my tattered knuckle. I rinse away the bright red blood, secure the loose flap of skin under a large band-aid.
Brandon’s little speech at the end asking me if I had the right stuff was pure sadism, as was holding the third round of interviews. My first impulse was right.
A storm cloud breaks and the future opens up before me: Checking depleted, Savings exhausted. The logistics of returning to Arthur “Call Me Dad” Klein’s bungalow in the suburbs of Canton, Ohio (mother dead). Tense silences over breakfast and the laminated name tag of the local electronics store hanging by the door. Arthur’s litany of repulsive one night stands groaning through thin walls, loitering with the lost souls who never escaped after high school, sleepwalking through a cul-de-sac life.
What had I done wrong? I’d prepared, I’d studied. Dressed smartly, asked pertinent questions based on careful research, even used the STAR method, that patronizing drivel scavenged online, to recount some of my innovations at Data Mine. Situation, task, action, result. Guaranteed to ace your interview.
My torn knuckle throbs. I squeeze my eyes shut against warm pricks of moisture. The desk is cool against my forehead, spine curved painfully in supplication to uncaring gods.
Eighty applications in six weeks. I can’t go back to the drawing board. I won’t. Then what? It’s the end of the road.
Unless.
My back cracks as I rise. Now, that’s interesting. Certainly thinking outside the box.
Brief preliminary research yields ideas.
Situation, task, action, result.
Not a bad system.
The digital age is in its infancy. One day historians will look back and marvel at the Wild West of the early 21st century, when technological advancements ran circles around gridlocked lawmakers, reduced to contestants on a grim reality show. This wave, bound to crash eventually, is what I’ll ride into my future, indistinguishable from other flotsam drifting through the arms of consequence.
Which is to say, I dust off the old Trojan key-logger from my Data Mine days and put it to work. It’s a lovely, devious little piece of spyware which monitors all activity on an account. Seductive as Mata Hari, silent and stealthy as a cat burglar. Back then I was tasked with detecting and preventing the goblins from slipping through, and found myself admiring their humble prowess, wondering if a day would come when I could employ them myself.
Now here I am. My aim is still nebulous, but the joyous certainty of inspiration motivates me. Lingering only briefly on the precipice, I take the plunge.
That same afternoon Brandon clicks a harmless PDF in a message concerning a $1,500 invoice for office supplies (ostensibly delivered to the wrong address), thus creating a back door. Accessing his work email from an unknown IP will trigger a warning, so for a couple hours I flood him with false log-in messages, hoping for a boy-who-cried-wolf effect. The password is changed, as anticipated, and I record his new one, praying his smug sense of security will chalk it up to a glitch.
The next morning I hold my breath before logging in the first time, dreading the verification code which will sink me.
No need. I’m in.
Twenty minutes of perusing uncovers a brief, compelling back-and-forth dated two months prior from a representative of Meridian Systems, Inc, further up the ladder than SomNEO and apparently something of a rival. It concerns a potential opening for HR Director.
Aha. Brandon you go-getter, I could kiss you.
To kick things off I flag some regularly appearing addresses, filtering these and other pertinent contacts directly into the Spam folder (now set to auto-delete).
Over the next several weeks I’m more focused than I’ve been in years, devoting myself to the project.
On April 27th, Brandon Chambers awakes with cheerful security (I imagine), enjoying the mild spring weather on his morning commute. Sparrows whistle, cumulus fluffs swim over sun beams.
Miles away, in a dim, cool room lit ghostly blue by a computer monitor, the dominos begin to fall. I maintain a light touch, allowing enough traffic to avoid suspicion and considering my moves carefully.
Correspondence from Wednesday, May 1st:
Mark.Murphy@SomNEO.org – Subject: Following up Re Marketing Strategies.
SheilaMonster88@SomNEO.org – Subject: Did you see my email?
Sorry, Mark. Patience, Sheila. Brandon’s a busy boy these days.
Delete!
Other messages deserve responses, which I keep curt and vague, emphasizing the utmost need for confidentiality, subtly threatening retaliatory action as a deterrent, expunging the evidence from Brandon’s inbox as I go. A manager of an engineering team has an interpersonal problem with two of his employees. “Brandon” blithely assures him it will sort itself out, again stressing silence.
At any moment it could blow up in my face, a sensation not entirely unpleasant. But HR is not typically in close daily contact with the general workforce, which plays to my advantage. After a few days of clandestine tampering I sense the onset of deeper destabilization. Time to cast a lure of my own. Studying the message from Meridian Systems, I create a convincing duplicate and reach out.
Dear Brandon,
Thank you for your patience regarding the open position for HR Director. After a personnel change an opportunity has opened up and we thought you would be perfect after our discussion in January. If you are still interested…
Et cetera. The rest is boilerplate but contains a hint of contrition and a healthy dose of earnest camaraderie. Two hours later he responds.
Absolutely interested. Flexible availability. Grateful to be considered.
Hook, line, and sinker.
Now think, consider the method. Proper preparation is going to require facetime, outside help. Cold calls are out of fashion in this era of spambots, but perhaps my phone-pas, committed out of the blue, is novel enough to puncture her armor.
“Hello?”
“Kara, it’s me.”
Heavy sigh. “We agreed to give each other space.”
“Just give me a minute. This isn’t about us. How’s the acting going?”
“There is no ‘us’.”
“I understand, will you just listen? I need your help.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Thirty minutes, that’s all. Anything you want in return.”
“What could you offer me in return, Lucien?”
“How about every streaming service? All of them, including Criterion. Plus a solemn vow to leave you alone from now on.”
“I’m not saying yes, but what do you want me to do?”
“Take part in some guerilla theater. I’ll write your lines, and you improv from there.”
A slight pause. “What’s the role?”
Brandon’s inbox from Thursday, May 9th, has assumed a sour, embittered atmosphere. Certain coworkers, whom I have spared from the abyss of the Spam folder, are disgruntled. Brandon’s flummoxed responses seem as dismissive as my own communiques composed in his voice. I’m grateful that his natural incompetence smoothes over some of the rougher edges of my plan, which is, now that I think of it, somewhat insane.
No. Remember the interview, how he twisted the knife. He won’t put it together because he doesn’t remember you, the speck in the rearview mirror, pulped insect smeared by the windshield wiper.
He doesn’t remember you, but he will.
Tuesday, May 21st:
Amari.Kenner@SomNEO.org – Subject: Hello???
Mark.Murphy@SomNEO.org – Subject: Urgent! Please Advise.
Seems you have a real HR problem on your hands, folks.
How his piggy eyes must light up when he sees the new message from Meridian Systems.
Dear Brandon,
Pardon our delay. Would you have time this week for an interview over Zoom?
He answers within minutes, an enthusiastic affirmative.
Brandon’s lunch hour on Friday, May 24th is spent in pleasant repartee with a chipper, red-haired girl with a glinting nostril stud catching the light in the outdoor seating area of a hip coffee shop. He’s bright, attentive, asks smart questions, comes off perhaps a tad desperate in his effort to match the interviewer’s perky energy. The girl consults her notes frequently, allowing Brandon to prattle on at length. After twenty minutes she’s satisfied, suggesting that barring any unexpected developments, the situation looks positive. They should be in touch by the end of next week.
“Great meeting you, Jan,” Brandon says, “I look forward to working with you!”
“Me too, Brandon,” she chirps. “Have a great day!” She signs off. The laptop lid and her smile fall in unison and she stares coolly across the table at me. “Well?”
I take a sip from my latte and join my fingers in a chef’s kiss. “Still got it, hon.”
“Don’t call me hon. What the hell was that? What are you involved in?”
“It was method acting for a creative project.”
She regards me with fatalistic pity, like a 19th century alienist.
“Now I’ll get my shows, right?”
“C’mon, it’s me.”
“That’s why I’m worried.”
“What happened to us, Kara?”
“Nope. Absolutely not. I’m done.” She stands, hefting her shoulder bag. “One last thing.”
“Yes?” Here it comes. I was wrong, you were right, we were meant to be.
“Where’d that name come from? Do I really look like a Jan?”
People at SomNEO are unhappy with Brandon Chambers. A request to adjust an employee’s salary has been shot down with shoddy reasoning. Deadlines have passed. Questions ignored. Confusion reigns. Several emails from higher up suggest that meetings are in order. Uh-oh– that could mean the imminent collapse of my house of cards.
The experiment is reaching a natural breaking point.
I know I’ve milked it long enough when Brandon (the real one) shoots a message to the Meridian Systems representative (yours truly) confirming his availability, all but begging for his final interview.
The message arrives at 1:39AM. Wonderful.
It’s time to meet.
Brandon’s early (not as early as me, of course). He glances nervously around the Midtown hotel lobby’s ostentatious decor as he enters. Marble columns separate the leather couches and modish swivel chairs of the lounge area. Power suits and briefcases stride to and fro amid harried bellhops wrestling luggage carts. Definitely a step up from the cafe.
He doesn’t notice me as he crosses the expansive room and settles on a short couch. Why should he? I’ve swapped my glasses for contacts and it’s amazing what throwing on a jacket and tie can accomplish– no one gives me a second glance.
I let the allotted time of 2PM arrive and pass, observing Brandon’s body language. Foot bouncing, checking his watch. Takes his phone out, puts it away, repeats in three minute cycles. Since it’s Tuesday afternoon he must be taking time off work to fit this in.
At 2:27 I rise from my seat across the lounge and stroll circuitously around, approaching him from behind.
“Brandon?” I say cheerfully, dodging to the left as he looks over his right shoulder, keeping my back to him as I sweep crumbs off the chair opposite and prepare to settle in.
“That’s me,” he replies brightly.
“I apologize for my tardiness,” I mutter, finally turning and relaxing into the chair. “We’ve had many applicants, but I appreciate you being here today.” First his eyebrows furrow, then his cheeks quiver as his smile falters. He squints, trying to place me. I lace my fingers and let him stew in awkward silence. Dark circles under his eyes and a week’s worth of stubble lend him a haggard appearance. Trouble at work, maybe?
He tilts his head and chews his lip, unsure how to proceed.
“Do I look familiar?” I ask nonchalantly.
He nods slowly, edging forward in his seat and squirming with discomfort, attempting a sheepish grin. “I can’t place it though, I’m sorry.”
“Really? Not ringing a bell?”
“You’re here for the interview, right? From Meridian?”
“No, that’s what you’re here for. I’m here for revenge.”
He scoffs in disbelief. “I’m not sure what’s——” He stops and recognition flattens his expression.
He points at me and says slowly, as if explaining it to himself. “I met you last month. You interviewed for the position at SomNEO.”
“Correct.”
“That’s so weird. You’re at Meridian now? Wait. How——”
“Listen to me. There is no job at Meridian.”
“What?”
“There never was. You were talking to me the whole time.”
He frowns. “What’s happening?”
“You wronged me, Brandon. You led me on, humiliated me, rejected me for no reason whatsoever. I was the best candidate for the job and you brought me back for three interviews just to toss me to the curb. I wanted you to feel that desperation, to get your hopes up only to dash them away.”
Outrage is slowly galvanizing his features. “Are you serious? What about my first interview? You set that up?”
“You shouldn’t toy with people’s lives. It’s a terrible, powerless feeling to be at the mercy of people like you. I applied to eighty jobs and heard back from exactly three. Does that seem fair to you?”
“Fair? None of that is my fault. It wasn’t even my decision who got the job at SomNEO.” He goggles at me and blinks rapidly. “You’re crazy. I could call the cops.”
“And tell them what,” I chuckle, “a story about being the victim of cyberstalking? How would you prove it? Who would they bring in, some crack squad of computer crime experts to trace my every move? I deleted everything when I was done. Do you know how hard it is to track spyware?”
“Hold on, you sent spyware to my computer?”
“I’m sure you’ve noticed some miscommunications at work recently.”
“What the fuck,” he almost shouts, then catches himself. A passing concierge appraises us warily then moves on, deciding it’s not worth his job. “You’re the one messing with my email,” he hisses.
At this point a curious hollow feeling is causing me consternation. What outcome was I expecting here? Somehow my righteous indignation has fled, replaced by a simpering soreness. Could it be guilt?
Brandon is steaming, practically twitching in his seat, near hyperventilation. Why am I unable to derive pleasure from it? With great effort he controls himself and growls through gritted teeth, “How did you know about the expense reports?”
“The what?”
“Don’t play dumb. You signed off on Mark’s expense reports before I could look at them.”
What is he getting at? “So I did,” I say drolly, vaguely recalling the email.
“He’s inflating his numbers. Do you understand? That’s fraud that I’m implicated in.”
With no idea what he’s talking about, but a burgeoning notion of what it means for me, I give a blase shrug. “So it is.”
“Okay, look,” he gestures towards me imploringly, biting his lip.
“Lucien,” I supply.
“Right, of course. Lucien, you can’t tell anyone about this, alright? No matter where they hear it from, that would mean my job.” His voice quavers. “I can’t afford to be unemployed now. I can’t start again.”
“Unfortunately we may have to take things in a different direction.”
“Please just tell me what you want.”
I’m a statue. The silence drones on and gradually his shoulders drop as light dawns. He massages his temple, looking nauseous. “No, Lucien. There’s no way at this point. It’s not going to happen.”
“Not with that attitude,” I say. “Have you ever heard of the STAR method?”
My desk is by a window. I can see most of a scrap yard where rusted yellow behemoths haul slabs of wood and metal, a green sliver of park near the water, the low rooftops of Greenpoint beyond.
The open floor layout of SomNEO’s Long Island City headquarters is equally welcoming and stifling. Sunlight, high ceilings, and nowhere to hide. The bean bag chairs in the employee lounge are growing on me and I end up sauntering over for an espresso almost every day. My ping pong skills are flourishing.
The company culture is decent. Long hours, micro-management, sluggish HR (though improving after a particularly rough patch). The gossip surrounding my predecessor and the salacious details of her firing for expense report fraud (my and Brandon’s first collaborative project) has quieted and it’s business as usual.
Brandon and I don’t have much cause for interaction, and he staunchly avoids eye contact during company meetings. I am a dedicated, efficient worker who keeps his head down and doesn’t rock the boat, so he has little reason to think of me. The rare occasions when I receive praise give me a muted satisfaction, typically lasting ten to fifteen minutes. When my ideas are ignored or overridden, or compounding work results in missed deadlines, my frustration simmers and fades in time.
My financial anxiety is gone. The student loans are being whittled down slowly but surely, the looming specter fading from my mind. I’m even saving a little bit each month. In place of that agony, such a close companion for so long though hard to vividly recall now, there is no concrete feeling of accomplishment, or belonging, or alleviation. I’m a normal, contributing member of society, doing what he’s supposed to be doing.
Sometimes I gaze out my window, letting the work languish, and long for my former freedom. Waking up with no schedule, no obligations, no definite course for the day other than the one I create. How could I have squandered that time in pits of self-indulgent misery?
I suppose I’m happy, if happiness is defined as a lack of existential dread. But I miss the thrill of monitoring Brandon’s emails, the fear of getting caught, punished.
Although I was never truly free, I miss unemployment.
Kai Lovelace is an Edgar Award-nominated writer and musician from New York City. His work has appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Murderous Ink Press’ Crimeucopia anthologies and The Mysterious Bookshop’s Best of 2024 compilation among other publications in the US and UK. His most recent fascination was the Tranby Croft affair, a royal baccarat-cheating scandal from the 19th century involving life-long ostracization for the pettiest imaginable reasons, showing that vengeance and conflict need not arise from dramatic circumstances and can be quite gratifying purely for their own sake.
