Chapter Two

I didn't think about the call or the questionnaire for several days. Chalked it up to some marketing crap or a crank.

I needed a damn job. Everything was going to hell, and fast. Out of money, and no prospects. Congress needed to extend unemployment benefits or I was toast. Chicago laws made it hard as hell to evict people; I didn't want to get into that fight, but my other option was the street. No health insurance, obviously. I had some bargain-basement policy with my last job, but there was no way I could afford to pay COBRA. So nothing. If I found a big tumor on my nutsack, I'd have no choice but to watch it grow, or maybe try to cut it off myself, which seemed problematic.

Fuck me.

One of the worst things about not having a job is the feeling that you're dumber than all of the people who are working. You walk around and see some of the dipshits on their way to or from work, and you think you must be one dumb motherfucker to not have a job when they do. Then you literally start cursing the day you were born, every math and science test you didn't study for enough, every damn stupid decision you ever made that got you to this point. You start thinking about jumping off a tall building: it'll put an end to everything, and on the way down, for just a few seconds, you'll feel like you're flying.

So to avoid seeing all of those pinheads who would just make me feel worse about myself, I quit going out, which wasn't that hard because I was pretty much a recluse anyway. And of course being a recluse and introvert don't help you get a job.

I hated extroverts. They were like white people; they didn't understand that someone might be different from them. You go to a conference or seminar and a fucking extrovert always makes you do an icebreaker. Write down two truths and one lie about yourself. Maybe I don't want to write down two truths, motherfucker, how about that? Maybe I don't want to be deinhibited. Maybe I want to kick your ass. How about you get on with imparting whatever information I paid for you to fucking impart to me?

At first I thought the Internet was an introvert revolution. You could travel the world and never leave your room. Make your name based on your skills and not where you bought your clothes or how you cut your hair. But the fucking extroverts were doing their best to ruin the Internet too. I was supposed to get on there and advertise everything about myself. Get on the fucking Facebook and tell everyone everything about me. The five albums that have made the most difference in my life. My five favorite foods. I'm supposed to join lots of groups and make videos of myself. What a bunch of shit.

But I tried. I updated my resume (a damn depressing enterprise) on all of those annoying extrovert networking sites that you're supposed to be on. Then I started applying. And I got some interviews. I knew some shit. I know how to not be a moron on paper, and I can do some decent design work. But I could tell from the moment I walked into those places that I was screwed. Oh. You're old. We didn't want someone old. We'd expect someone old to know more shit. Get back under whatever rock you crawled out from, old dude.

A lot of the design firms that sprang up in the original dot.com boom, back when I first came to Chicago, had long since vanished--the ultra-cool ones with all the brick and the venting painted vivid colors and the pool tables and the refrigerators full of imported beer and the fucking perfect chicks everywhere you turned. Long gone. Most places, the ones where I got interviews anyway, were looking pretty shabby, like the last couple of places I'd worked. But that just meant there that many fewer positions available, for a steady stream of college grads with skills that were leaving mine in the dust. Even if the economy wasn't in the shitter, I'd have had a hell of a time.

Back when the economy was still okay, I'd always figured I could get a job at a bookstore if I had to. There was a Borders right across from the Water Tower that always had hot chicks in it. But that was when I was less old and bald and out of shape. Now I'd be lucky to get a job making Meximelts or bagging groceries, and even if I did get a job at the hot chick bookstore, it wouldn't cover the rent for my crummy studio apartment or my other bills.

There was freelance. Working for yourself. But freelance was a nightmare. I'd done freelance before, years ago. One decent client. The guy was a saint. He actually paid more than I asked, believe it or not. Everyone else: assholes. They don't explain what it is they want. Or they don't pay. Or both. A lot of both. I don't see how the hell you can make it as a freelancer if you're not living in your mom's basement. At the very least, you have to hustle. You have to be an extrovert. Or have mad skills. I didn't have any of that.

I thought Chicago would be the promised land. Endless possibilities. But it turned out to just be a magnet for a bunch of assholes who were better than me. Now I was screwed.

I wasn't like some dude in Somalia with a distended stomach from starvation. It hadn't gotten that bad yet. But soon enough I was going to be lining up in the soup kitchen line, and even if there was some Joan Collins wanting to help me, Spock would make sure that Kirk and McCoy didn't save her from getting run over, or else there'd be Nazis in space and shit.

Plus I was starting to get weird. You hang out long enough by yourself all day, you start getting weird. Letting yourself go, even worse than before. That was another reason why I couldn't do freelance, and why I couldn't ever completely retreat into introvert hermit paradise. They put prisoners in isolation as punishment, after all.

When I lost the last job, I realized I had no friends. I had hung out with some people at various jobs, but once I moved on, I never saw those people again. I never talked to anybody in your apartment building or anything like that, and people were always moving on anyway. Jorge was the only person I ever talked to outside of work. Fucking Jorge, the death metal torturer, was the person I knew most in all of Chicago, and I never saw him anymore either, though I still heard him plenty.

With my parents gone, my last resort would be calling my sister, but I hadn't talked to her in a couple of years, and I wasn't even sure where she was anymore. I didn't know if I could bring myself to ask her for help. Jumping off a building seemed the better option.

And then my phone rang again.

I was in the middle of making an old favorite, canned spaghetti and meatballs covered with finely grated cheddar. Made it all the time in college. My ex-wife used to give me all kinds of shit about it, which just made me enjoy it even more.

"You're not supposed to put CHEDDAR on spaghetti and meatballs! What's WRONG with you?"

Eat shit and die, bitch. First of all, it's canned. Second, my dad used to put slices of cheddar on spaghetti. Third, I can do what I want. Fourth, fuck you.

Plus, I couldn't afford much else. The cheese was actually an indulgence. And the spag was actually store brand, not the superior Boyardee.

This time I checked the number before answering--Chicago, but I didn't remember it. I had just finished heating the spag in the microwave to the right temperature and was applying the big-ass pile of grated cheese; the optimum time to consume was immediately after preparation, when some of the cheese remained unmelted, resulting in an ideal texture. If you waited, the cheese turned to goo.

I answered.

"Mr. Zaley, how are you? We spoke a few days ago, regarding a position with our company, Protagon?"

"Oh. Yeah."

"After reviewing your answers to our questionnaire, we'd like you to come in for an interview."

"Really."

"Yes, that's correct."

I didn't say anything. Just listened, to see if she was laughing. Didn't sound like it. But the last unmelted gratings of bargain-basement cheddar had begun to merge with their brethren.

"Look, what's the fucking deal here?"

"Mr. Zaley--"

"This is bullshit. You know it and I know it."

"Mr. Zaley--"

"What about my answers would possibly indicate I was the right fit for a position?"

"Mr. Zaley. Do you not think it possible that we might be looking for creativity of response?"

I had to hand it to her. She maintained the same neutral, friendly tone. And no, I had not considered "creativity of response" as a criterion. But there was still something too weird about it all. Reality TV show was still a good working theory.

"I guess I think it possible," I said. "But how did you come up with me in the first place?"

"We'd very much like for you to come in for an interview, and we can explain more then," she said. "Can I schedule you for an hour at the beginning of next week?"

I could have hung up, maybe ended it there. But even a crazy option was better than no option at all. I told her okay. Beginning of next week. Sure.

The cheese was all goo. But it'd be worth it, I told myself, if this really turned into something.

Because you've paid for entertainment far worse than this.

Chapter One

When the phone rang, I was lying in bed, wallowing in misery, staring at the ceiling in my Chicago studio apartment, running my fingers along the frayed satin edging of my blanket like a goddamn baby.

It was late morning, and my 40th birthday.

The ringing was such a rarity that I reached down to the floor, dug the cellphone out of my pants, and mumbled a hello before it occurred to me that it was probably the landlord or another bill collector. I checked the number--Chicago area code.

"May I speak to Jasper Zaley?" a woman asked.

"You are."

"Mr. Zaley, I represent a company called Protagon Ventures. We've reviewed a vast number of resumes online, and yours is one that fit the profile for a new position at our company."

Name like that I should have remembered, but I didn't. "And what was the position?" Goddamn it, I thought. I shouldn't have said that. Don't act like you don't remember applying.

"The position title is undecided at the moment. The person filling it would have a wide variety of responsibilities."

What? "So this isn't something I applied for?"

"We haven't advertised the position," she said.

"And how did you get my name?"

"Your resume is available on a number of job sites, correct?"

Yeah, a number. Monster and Dice and every other site I could find. But that made my bullshit detector go off. "Can you tell me a little about the job?"

"As I indicated, your skill set matched the requirements for the position."

"And what are the requirements?"

"I'm not at liberty to go into detail at the moment. We'd like to invite you to complete an online questionnaire so we can further narrow our search."

Hmm. "I don't think so," I said.

"Excuse me?"

"You really think I would go to some company's website I never heard of and give you personal information?"

"If you're concerned about providing financial information, let me assure you--"

"I'm not interested in telemarketing, and I'm not interested in earning thousands working at home," I said.

"Mr. Zaley."

"Is this some kind of marketing research thing?"

"Mr. Zaley. You're currently unemployed, correct?"

Had I put that on those sites? I guess I had. That didn't mean I would just do anything.

"The position about which I'm calling comes with a generous salary, does not involve telemarketing, and is not a scam," she said. "Perhaps I could give you the website address, and you could examine the questionnaire before you make up your mind?"

What the hell. I took down the url. Just a numerical IP address, which was interesting. She said they'd be calling people for interviews in a week, so I only had a few days. She said more, but then Jorge in the apartment below started in on his death metal and I couldn't hear anything. "Okay, okay, thanks," I said, and hung up.

Fucking Jorge. He worked a warehouse late shift so he played his death metal shit during the day when everyone was at work, except now for my unemployed ass. He played it some at night too, but he'd bribed everyone with weed so they didn't complain. I thought it was a dangerous gambit, myself; if someone got sick enough of the noise, they could just turn him in. But it'd worked so far.

The music was awful shit. I had friends in high school who were into Black Flag, the Misfits, hardcore stuff like that, but those groups sounded like Peter, Paul and Mary compared to this. And it pulsed through the floor so you couldn't hear yourself think. iPod, headphones, mostly useless. But the weed was really good.

I typed in the site address while I waited for the noise to abate. No harm in checking it out, I figured, so long as I didn't pick up a virus. And sure enough, it was just a questionnaire, but it was one of those where you couldn't see all the questions to begin with, which annoyed me. No information about the company, either. I opened another browser window and looked up the IP address. Private registration. Nothing necessarily sinister about that, but I would have preferred to know more. Searching for company name gave me an address, somewhere on Halstead. Nothing more.

I decided I'd fill out the questionnaire until I got a question I didn't like.

Started out as basic stuff. Address, contact information. Job history. U.S. citizen. No military service, thank god. Education. Auburn University, BA and MA. War Fucking Eagle. Where have I lived? Okay. Whatever. Birmingham. Auburn. New Orleans. Corvallis. Kansas City. Owensboro. Chicago. Travel to foreign countries? Not dick. Criminal activity? Nothing that should be illegal, anyway. Well, maybe a few things, but fuck if I'd type them in. Skills: web design, editing and shit. Organizations: hate all organizations. Then:

Q: Have you experienced night terrors?

Weird.

A: No.

Q: Have you developed lucid dreaming skills?

What. The. Fuck.

A: Once I dreamed I was eating a giant marshmallow, and when I woke up, my pillow was gone.

Q: Have you ever been unsure which was real, your dream or the world you found yourself in when you awoke?

Maybe the "job" was part of some science experiment, I thought. I'd be game to some extent; I was already contemplating selling plasma and volunteering to try out experimental drugs and stuff. Maybe I'd get to take a psychotropic drug from the Amazon and wig out in an isolation chamber. I'd always wanted to do that.

A: I'm unsure right now.

Q: Are you sensitive to uncommon odors?

A: Bad ones.

Q: Have you ever lost your sense of taste for an extended period of time?
For a moment I thought, had I? The pounding bass from below had partially addled me into considering the question. Then I gathered my wits and realized someone was fucking with me. Someone I knew? The site was a little too much effort for a simple prank. But someone was definitely fucking with me. Ah well. I had no job, I couldn't think straight until the death metal ceased, and I was momentarily amused.

A: What is 'sense of taste'?

Q: Can you perceive colors via other senses than sight?

A: I used to be able to taste them, before I lost that sense.

Q: Have you ever experienced altered awareness and/or glandular changes coincident with the lunar cycle?

A: What am I, a woman?

Q: Are you aware of ever personally encountering a cryptoid?

A: Every fucking day, man. Every fucking day.

Maybe it was for a reality tv show. These people were screening for a reality tv show. Did I want to be on one? Of course, if I got paid and there were hot chicks.

Q: Are you unsettled by persons of tremendous or wee proportions?

A: Played D&D, accustomed to both.

Q: Which disturbs you more: dark, confined spaces or vast, empty expanses?

A: Both major turn-ons.

Q: Do you believe in free will, predestination, or both?

A: When my uncle was serving in Europe during World War II, he found himself in a thunderstorm, out of ammunition while being chased across a field by two Nazi soldiers. He was exhausted and knew he couldn't outrun them, so he turned to face his attackers rather than be shot in the back. The Nazis stopped and aimed their guns, and his life began to flash before his eyes. Suddenly a bolt of lightning struck my uncle, and somehow, he never knew how, perhaps from sheer will to live, he raised his arms and directed the lightning out of his body and at the two Nazis, striking them dead. And now, whenever he takes a photo with a flash, it always comes out a picture of two dead Nazis.

I was pleased that there seemed to be no character limit for responses, though disappointed that I had not noticed this before.

Q: Do you feel you were meant for something better?

Hmm. A good one. I sat back and thought about that a while. Took me a few minutes to even realize the music had stopped.

A: Not anymore.

Thank you for submitting.

No, thank you. Thank you for a momentary bullshit diversion.

Probably should do some job hunting, I thought.

Probably would be best to do it later, I decided.

I lay back down on my futon and pulled my blanky over me.

Because you've paid for entertainment far worse than this.