At the other twelve clothing stores, the pet store, the luggage emporium, and six places in the food court, Scotty had handed over his resume without saying a word. Here, when he handed over the second-last resume in his bag, he had muttered "Need a job, so..." and gotten an interview. He had no idea if speaking up had really made any difference, but as he saw his chance at employment slipping away he decided to suck it up and see how far being truly pathetic could get him.
"I know I don't have the kind of, like, experience and stuff you guys usually want," he muttered, staring down at his hands. "Before, I sorta planned on volunteering this summer to get, you know, experience..." Which was a lie. But Scotty followed it up with the truth: "But my dad and mum both worked at Mack's Hardware 'til it closed and now we don't have anything coming—"
"Is it bothering you yet?"
Surprised the manager would interrupt him in the middle of confessing that his family was among the nouveau poor, Scotty finally met her gaze. He was also surprised by the discomfort, the downright pain in her face. Maybe his story had struck home.
"It's kind of stressful, 'cause I know we won't have any savings for college or anything. And I haven't been sleeping all that well. But I guess the part that bothers me the most is that my parents can't decide if they want to be snippy or mopey about it. I just wish I knew what to expect when I come in the door, you know?" said Scotty, keeping the truth train rolling. He hadn't talked about any of that, with anyone.
"Most adults can't handle it long enough to shop here, much less work here."
That's when Scotty began to suspect the manager hadn't heard any of what he'd said, or at least hadn't heard him clearly.
"It's really not bothering you?" she asked, gesturing vaguely upwards.
Scotty looked around the Harness stockroom again. He wasn't sure what the problem was supposed to be. Sure, the clothes out on the floor were overpriced and pretty garish, but in the stockroom half of the stuff was still in boxes, and the rest was folded up and piled deep on the rows of metal shelves that lined the room. The air was a little stale; was he supposed to be bothered by that? Or was it the height of the shelves? They did loom a little, and certainly could have been more stable. The top of each one rattled and shook in time with the techno beat. The very loud techno beat.
"Are you talking about the music?" said Scotty, and the manager spit out a desperate, joyful laugh.
"Music he calls it!" She was beaming now. "Most people I interview refer to it as 'noise' or they just walk out. But it's company policy. I'm not allowed to do anything about it."
Now that he paid attention, Scotty decided the music was pretty loud. He'd adjusted without thinking about it, yelling back his answers at the manager who'd been yelling her questions at him.
Scotty shrugged again. Maybe it was because he had to play all of his first-person shooters with headphones on so his mother wouldn't hear. Maybe it was just the games themselves, which hit him with a constant barrage of popping gunfire and rumbling explosions. Also, he liked techno. And he liked it loud.
"It just doesn't bother me," he said finally. And with that, the manager put a big checkmark on his not-really-a-resume. Then she slipped two bright orange foam earplugs out of her pocket and back into her ears. "You're hired," she yelled. "Be back at 10 am tomorrow for training."
~~
The journalist glanced at her digital voice recorder to make sure it was running. It was.
"Blaring techno," she said. "Is that why you're telling me all this?"
Scotty shrugged, his eyes on the table. He hadn't made eye contact again since he'd targeted her from across the room. The journalist noticed his scarred hand was wrapped firmly around the still-steaming coffee she had brought him. She wrapped her hand around her own paper cup and, as she suspected, within a few seconds her brain was urging her to let go. She did, but Scotty's hand stayed where it was.
"Would you mind if I took some photos while we talk?" the journalist asked. "We prefer candids now."
"I thought you were a writer," said Scotty with a note of panic. "I need a writer."
"Of course, of course. I am a writer," the journalist said with a firm but soothing voice she'd used on drug lords in the past. "But publishers usually want photos, too. It's the only way they'll run the story." She included the word 'usually' so she could tell herself it wasn't a lie. In this case, they'd run whatever she gave them. This was, after all, an exclusive first interview with The Great Scott.
"No photos," said Scotty.
"No photos," the journalist agreed.
YOU ARE READING
Model Citizen
Short StoryAll Scotty wanted was a job at the mall. How did he get stuck leading the resistance against alien invaders? (Model Citizen was first published in the YA speculative fiction magazine Inaccurate Realities. It appears in Volume One: Fear, which was re...
Model Citizen, Part 1
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