The Road and Other Stories
By Douglas T. Vale
Copyright 2012 Douglas T. Vale
Cover art courtesy of Eprom / StockFreeImages.com
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Table of Contents
1 - Maynard
3 - Lord Rajan
4 - The Tightrope
5 - Marge
8 - The Road
###
Maynard fidgeted under the harsh fluorescents, squinting and blinking across the desk at the tall lean balding interviewer tilted back in his ergonomic chair. The interviewer's desk was littered with untidy piles of paper. A large ceramic green Buddha anchored one pile, but the others threatened to tumble off the edge of the desk at the slightest disturbance. From deeper inside the warehouse something screeched, and Maynard winced and fiddled his thumbs. He alternated between rubbing his palms on his jeans and wrapping his fingers in the lower edge of his t-shirt.
“Are you feeling okay?” The interviewer asked. “You seem kind of disoriented.”
“Oh. No. I'm fine. Really. Just nervous.” Maynard thought to himself: 'Damn it, disoriented? Does he think I'm high or something?'
“Are you sure you're feeling alright? You seem to be blinking a lot, and swaying around.”
“No, no, I'm just nervous, like I said before.”
“Nervous. Okay. Do you have some balance issues perhaps? You've got to have good balance in a warehouse. It can be really dangerous in there.”
“I think I have good balance,” Maynard said.
“Okay. I'd appreciate it if you do some walking for me on the floor there, then. Try to walk in a straight line, like you were on a narrow beam. Would you do that for me, Maynard?”
“Well... Alright,” Maynard said, rising from his chair. He had to salvage the interview somehow, since the interviewer must think he was on drugs. He picked out a stretch of the office and crept along, one foot in front of the other, his hands out to the sides. So far so good. Then, about halfway, disaster. He careened to the right, stumbled, and fell into the wall. The interviewer came around the desk and helped him stand upright.
“You said you had good balance.”
“I do! Comparatively speaking...”
“Really. Look, why don't you sit down a while? We'll try again in a minute. Come on, sit down, please.”
“Alright,” Maynard said. They took their old places, and the interviewer sifted through some papers.
“So, you went to college? And you have... How many degrees?”
“Four, I think.”
“What degrees, again?”
“Let's see...An associate's degree of English, an associate's of art, an associates of science, and a bachelor's of English.” Maynard counted them on his fingers. He lifted a hand with his thumb tucked in for reference. “Four, see?”
“Yes, I see that.” The interviewer coughed into his hand. “Why are you applying for a warehouse job with so many degrees? Isn't this a little... I don't know, out of your area of expertise? Isn't there some job that's a better fit?”
“Well...” Maynard thought: 'All the employers I thought were a better fit wouldn't have me. Wouldn't touch me with a mile-long pole. So I had to go down a step on the job ladder. All the folks I tried there wouldn't have me either. So I kept going down until, what do you know, here I am on the bottom! And so far nobody on the bottom wants me. So I'm pretty desperate, sir. I'll take anything I can get.' Maynard kept his thoughts to himself. “Well, sir, the economy isn't doing so well these days, so it's harder to get a job.”
“That's true. It is pretty bad out there. Which, to be honest, is why I'm reluctant to hire someone who isn't a good fit for the job. You seem like you'd do better in an office, or maybe teaching. I don't know that warehouse work is right for you. But I always try to be fair to the applicants, so tell me. Why should I hire you?”
“Well... Because I'd try my best, and I'd show up on time, and I'd just do the best I could.”
“Okay. Would you like to say anything more?”
“Umm... No, I think that covers it,” Maynard said. He always felt he should say more, that he should gush for twenty minutes about his own virtues. But he was never a good liar. Whenever he tried to stretch the truth he ended by feeling ridiculous. Perhaps that was his problem. He wasn't good enough at lying.
The interviewer scribbled some notes. “Okay, Maynard, would you mind trying to walk in a straight line again? You don't have to, but I'd appreciate it if you would.”
“Okay,” Maynard said. He stood and went to his starting place again. The interviewer rose and waited at the edge of his desk. Maynard stepped forward, and again, and another step. So far so good. He passed the middle of the room, then wobbled and tumbled to his left. He nearly smashed his head against the desk, but the Interviewer caught him at the last moment.
“Thank you for doing that again. You've been very helpful, and I appreciate that.”
“No problem.” Maynard's heart slouched somewhere in the pit of his stomach.
“Well, I think that about covers all the questions I've got. Have you got any questions for me, Maynard?”
“Umm, well, how do you think I did?”
The interviewer laughed. “Look, it's honestly too soon to say. I've got a lot of applicants, and it's hard to judge sometimes. I can't really say yet. Oh. One other thing. I'd like to take a picture of you, if you don't mind. It helps me keep all the applicants straight. Otherwise they run together. Is that alright?”
“Yeah, that's fine,” Maynard said. The interviewer brought out a Polaroid camera, aimed.
“Smile,” The interviewer said. But Maynard couldn't smile, not with despair nipping his ankles. The Polaroid flashed, and the interviewer took out the photo. “Okay. That's all, Maynard, so you're free to go now. Nice meeting you.” They shook hands, and Maynard plodded out.
Gray clouds dimmed the sky. As he pushed open the narrow glass door and dragged himself along the cement parking lot towards his car, he laughed uncontrollably and clutched his head. Though later he might hope to get this particular job, just then he wrote it off with complete certainty. And he laughed, and laughed. He got in his car and leaned back in his seat, laughing until he cried.
What would become of him, he wondered? He didn't want to live with his parents forever. Say he couldn't get a job, ever. Say the world refused to accept him in any capacity. Then what? Go on welfare? No. If he despised being dependent on his parents, why would he choose to become dependent on the government? That was merely switching one devil for another.
The worst thing was, he understood why the interviewer wouldn't give him a job. Maynard wouldn't have hired himself under the circumstances. He knew how worthless he looked to the world. He knew how little he fit in. He just wished there was some little crack he could squeeze into. It didn't have to be much. Just enough to survive, and a little more.
But he might not even get that, if things stayed the same. His eyes darkened as he stared into a future he didn't like, and apparently couldn't avoid. Then he laughed again. Laughed at the absurdity of life. Why couldn't he have been born an idiot, so he wouldn't be able to see the ridiculousness of his own situation? Why had God cursed him with awareness?
Just then, a flash of sun blinded him. He shaded his eyes with a hand, stared out the windshield. It had been cloudy all day, and now look. The sun! Maynard squinted out until he could barely see straight. After a while he laughed again.
“Ah shit, maybe I'm stabbing myself in the foot, eh?” He leaned against the steering wheel, and twisted his neck so he could stare up at the sky through the glass. “Okay, God. Good one. Thanks for the nudge, I guess. I'll try to do better next time, okay?”
There was no answer, but that was normal. Maynard didn't even believe in God really, though that never stopped him from talking to Him. Friends were friends, imaginary or not.
He turned his car on, and drove away. The sun kept shining till he arrived home.
###
Waiting to be God made Jim terribly impatient. He sat in the waiting room with the bare creamy white walls and the little swaying lamp hung from the ceiling by a black cord. To his left glared the clear glass door he'd entered by, the green sunny world outside slightly distorted by the glass. To his left stood a glass door leading into blackness and, within the blackness, godhood.
At least, that's what they'd told him after he won the contest. He'd get to spend a week or two in a new virtual reality in which he controlled almost every aspect. In the simulation he would be like a god, able to make or break mountains at will or do whatever else pleased him.
“You will spend a couple hours in the waiting room,” they told him. “But you mustn't rush into the black room immediately. The system is completely automated now. You need to give the waiting room several hours to acquaint itself with your brain patterns, so the interface is smooth. Have patience. Just a couple hours, and then you will experience some of the greatest wonders ever. You will be in a waking dream, a dream you can control. You can make love every day, or every minute if you prefer, and you can command your body never to tire. You could drink wine and vodka and beer constantly without getting sick, you could wish away drunkenness in an instant, you could do so many things. But only if you wait.”
Wait, they'd said. So for the first fifteen minutes after he entered the room he waited in good faith. He scratched behind his ears and fiddled with the thin silver chains hung from the piercings in his earlobes, or he smoothed down the folds of his black t-shirt. The t-shirt with the animated form of Rockstar Loader Boy on it. Jim hadn't really liked Cruising for Crisis, the latest RLB album, but the first two were gold. He still listened to Damaging Distress and Abysmal Ache at least three times a week. What a shame that Rockstar Loader Boy spoiled after the first two great albums. But so it goes. The animation woven into his t-shirt began undoing its belt and pawing around inside its pants.