I'm running late to my job interview at Weston Enterprises and Logistics, leading name in technology and my dream job, because of a sales bot.
The 16th Street Mall in downtown Denver is crawling with the fast walking, sweet talking commercials that are programmed to advertise their owner's wares. I've successfully avoided them all day and thought I was in the clear, but I must have made the barest amount of eye contact with this one as I got off the CT. The tricky thing about sales bots is while they can't actually touch a person—an injured, innocent citizen armed with a million dollar lawsuit made sure of that—they are allowed to follow a person around until the person loses them, which is rare, or stands still and waits out their spiel.
I have to wait, just like Steven had warned me I would, as the ID card declaring who I am and what my education is (KIRK HAWTHORNE, DECKERMAN METHOD) gets slippery in my hand. The dull pink line that I've been walking on my entire life goes right underneath the sales bot. I'm not moving until the bot does.
Somebody taps my should and I twist to face them, keeping my hips square with the bot. An older man is keeping his eyes carefully trained on me. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I say. The sales bot starts to talk louder, knowing that I'm distracted.
"What were you looking at?"
I can't say, "The line that predestines my entire life." I promised Mama that I wouldn't tell before she left me at the orphanage and this man, like everybody else I've met, can't see the lines anyways. His is a creamy light brown and trails to a bookstore across the street. He'll be visiting there once he's done talking with me.
"I was looking at anything other than this," I reply, gesturing at the bot, because it's an easy excuse and I really don't care about the latest and greatest way to discretely transport feminine hygiene products. The man grimaces and nods sharply once before moving on.
I roll my shoulders back as I look forward once again. Can't go through a sales bot, can't go around a sales bot, can't go under a sales bot, got to wait the damn thing out. This Interview Day hasn't been going very well for me. I'm an independently educated person in a job market full of publicly educated people and that puts me at a disadvantage, even with the highest independent education available under my belt. I've been to four interviews today and I've been politely kicked to the curb at all of them due to, presumably, said independent education. Given that my interview success has been shit so far, I'm trying not to get my hopes up when it comes to getting my dream job.
The sales bot finally tips its aluminum alloy hat at me. "Good day," it says as it moves out of my way, and as soon as it's clear of my lie I start to speed walk down 16th Street, weaving in and out of the after work shopping crowd.
I don't look at the sidewalk as I travel; normal people don't need to look at their lines to know where they're going, and I've got the map from online burned into my memory. I'm careful not to make direct eye contact with anybody, especially with another sales bot, because I don't have the time to spare. This could be the first day of a really spectacular future—if I get to my interview on time. It's my last shot; if I blow it, not only will I have to wait until next year to get a job but I definitely won't get another interview with Weston Enterprises and Logistics. They only interview once, and they're famous for it.
In the small square in front of the main entrance to Weston Enterprises and Logistics, about halfway down the Mall, there are scattered holographic entertainers and living statues. People that don't need to get anywhere fast are drawn to them, and while there are small groups around the holographic entertainers it's the living statues that are getting the bigger crowds. Some things are too classic to ignore in favor of technology, I suppose; even though these holographic entertainers are some of the most talented I've seen, there's nothing quite like a statue suddenly grabbing someone's hand and pulling it over their head.
There are so many lines running on the ground in front of Weston that the actual color of the pavement is only visible in streaks here and there. It's a myriad of colors consisting of all different tints and shades, and my dull pink blends in between a pastel yellow line and an orangey red line. I follow it up the staircase that's spanning the front of the building and, after stuttering to a stop because of the sheer enormity of the moment, I continue through the doors.
The atrium is large enough that the sound of shoes clicking on the floor is louder than the murmur of late afternoon conversation. A man and a woman are sitting at the desk that spans across the back wall in between four sets of quicklifts, WESTON ENTERPRISES AND LOGISTICS emblazoned in large platinum letters on the wall above it. My shoes sound louder against the tile floor than anybody else's do, but the lady behind the desk doesn't notice my approach. I clear my throat.
"Oh!" she says, jolting to attention. "Sorry. Are you the four-thirty interview?"
There's a badge on the desk that has my name on it. It has no neighbors. "Yes."
Her face warms as she smiles brightly. "Alright. I'll need to see some ID, and then you can go right on up."
My ID is still slippery with sweat as I show it to her, and she nods once before typing something into the computer. I slide my card carefully into my wallet, and then I glance at my timepiece. I have three minutes to spare. "Do you know who'll be conducting my interview?"
I swear I come within two seconds of having an actual heart attack when she slides my badge over to me and says, "Mr. Weston will be."
Mr. Weston. Mr. Turner Weston, founder of Weston Enterprises and Logistics. Mr. Turner Weston, founder of Weston Enterprises and Logistics, who tested out of the highest level of public education possible—Tier 7—when he was fourteen.
Holy shit.
I think I stutter some sort of a response as I take the badge from her, or at least I hope I do, because I'm seeing the world through tunnel vision and everything sounds like it's underwater. I barely hear the, "Just go on up to the top floor," that she says as I walk away. My eyes catch and focus on my dull pink line, clutching to the unfortunate familiarity of it, and I walk it like a balance beam as I follow it to the quicklifts to the right of the desk. I don't think I could walk in a straight line right now without it.
The quicklift is large and blessedly empty. I lean against the wall as the doors close and the quicklift begins its smooth glide up, taking deep breaths and trying really, really hard not to give in and call Jan and tell her that I can't do this.
Kirk, a voice that sounds a lot like Janice says, you can do this. You're doing great in school and you'll be nothing but excited at the prospect of working for him. Excitement is key in job interviews.
Yeah, until I get overexcited and hyperventilate and he has to call an ambulance.
Kirk, Jan-in-my-head says, stop over-exaggerating. You'll be fine.
How can you be so sure?
Because I'm your mother.
Well, technically—
The quicklift's stopped, baby boy, she says, and I ignore her warning in favor of saying, "Not your baby boy," under my breath as the doors open. The waiting room is empty, which means my voice carries all the way to the man that's sitting behind the desk on the opposite side of the room. He raises an eyebrow and says, "You're right. Have a seat, Mr. Hawthorne. Mr. Weston will be with you momentarily."
Momentarily is subjective. It can mean anywhere from five minutes to half an hour to, sorry, it appears that your interview has been cancelled. Resigned to the wait I settle into one of the chairs that he gestured to, which is hard and plastic and unforgiving. Weston's unimpressed secretary is typing away on his computer and pretending that I don't exist, so I turn my attention to the muted screen in the corner above his head. One of the news channels is playing, and as soon as it cuts from the newsroom to bomb wreckage from somewhere down south—Florida, I think—I look away.
I have a couple thumb wars with myself, but I stop after my left hand refuses to lose.
I practice my breathing, because every now and then my brain decides to cordially remind me that I am in Turner Weston's waiting room what the hell.
I drum my hands lightly on my thighs. It sounds like rain.
After five minutes Weston's unimpressed secretary says, sounding relieved, "Mr. Hawthorne, Mr. Weston will see you now."
I stand up, rub my palms against my thighs and straighten my tie out. I don't look down at my line. What would my chances of success be if I fainted in the middle of the interview?
Jan-in-my-head says, Kirk, stop being an idiot. Get the hell in there before he decides not to hire you because you're taking too long.
Jan's always been great with words, whether it be my personal, fictionalized version of her or in real life. I ignore the way that Weston's unimpressed secretary—E. Cahill, the badge on his desk says—looks at me like I'm a freak as I walk through the open door.
It slides shut quietly behind me. There's a tell-tale click of a lock.
Mr. Turner Weston, CEO of Weston Enterprises and Logistics, looks like he jumped right out of the cover of this month's Latest in Logistics magazine that's on my desk at home. His hair is cut close to his head and his suit puts the suit I'm wearing to shame. Where the Weston on the magazine cover is looking aimlessly ahead, however, this Weston is looking directly at me. He also speaks. "What method were you schooled with?"
I glance at the floor. My dull pink line goes right to the chair in front of Weston's desk, so at least I get that far, but I don't know when. "Pardon, sir?"
"What curriculum have you been schooled with? You don't have a district or building named on your application, so I'm presuming that you were independently educated." He peers above his glasses at me. "Unless you weren't schooled—"
My tongue unsticks from where it had frozen, stubbornly immobile. "Yes. I mean—I'm an independent. With the Deckerman Method."
Mr. Weston's smile is sudden and bright and it crinkles his entire face. "Excellent. I think we'll be able to work something out, Mr. Hawthorne."
I've been in this office for less than five minutes. He cannot possibly be implying what I think he is. Not this soon. Not—me. "Sir?"
"Have a seat."
It's relieving to follow my line. The chair is soft, very different from the unforgiving chairs in the waiting area. My line disappears through a door I never would've noticed over Mr. Weston's shoulder, but Weston speaks before I can psyche myself out thinking about it.
"Mr. Hawthorne, if I'm honest with you, I was relieved when I saw your name come across my desk."
"You were?" I cough. "Sir."
"Yes. You see, it's rare that we get an independent learner coming through here, especially one that has flourished under Deckerman. Did you know that it's the most advanced independent learning method available?"
He looks at me expectantly, smile firmly anchored on his face, and I'm floundering in my disbelief so much I don't realize for a long time that he's actually expecting a reply. "I—uh. I don't find it to be that hard, sir."
Weston chuckles. The sun shining through the floor to ceiling windows in his office glints off his pepper gray hair. "I could already tell that from your grades."
Of course, damn it, Kirk.
"Every year," Weston continues, "here at Weston Enterprises and Logistics, we get many applications. Most of the time they are from publicly educated people, from as low as Tier 2 and all the way up to Tier 7. The Deckerman Method, though, is much more in depth than even Tier 7. It is currently the highest level of education available, public or independent. You can understand then, I'm sure, why you're such a pleasant surprise."
I nod once, even though I don't really understand at all. I resist the urge to look at my timepiece, wishing that Weston would cut the crap and let me know if I have a job or not. Or, at least, let me know if it's a decent job. I'll take anything, of course, and people get jobs below their level of education all the time, but by the way he's talking—
"We want you in our Tech Department, Kirk. Double the regular entry level salary, full benefits, contracted vacation and sick days. We'll take care of you here."
My chest grows tight. My vision is getting spotty and I struggle to keep my breathing steady and even. Of all of the things I was expecting it certainly wasn't that, not right away, and apparently it's shocking enough to make me check my verbal filter at the door because, "I'm an indy," is what comes out of my mouth next.
"I know," Mr. Weston replies.
"Nobody else—" No, Kirk, don't say that. "It's hard to believe is all, sir."
"Totally understandable." He gets out of his chair and stretches. "Follow me and we can get most of the paperwork done, and I have a little bit of time to show you around. If you accept, that is."
"Of course I accept," I blurt, slapping a hand over my mouth after the words are out because damn it. "I mean. Thank you for the offer, sir. I'm happy to accept."
He steps out from behind his desk and holds out a hand for me to shake. He's anchored on a sandy yellow line, one that runs next to my own out that door. "Welcome to the family, Kirk."
I shake his hand and I don't look at the ground again. It's better to pretend that the lines don't exist as I follow him from his office to the territory beyond.
It's hard, but it's better.