The Job Interview
Outside, fog fell like a curtain, stealing sight and sound. Half visible shapes in the grayness might have been gravestones or angels cast in marble. The well-dressed man held a clipboard and a fountain pen poised inches over the paper. Across from him sat another man, not dressed as well but much younger–although that was not obvious.
“So,” the well-dressed man began, “I see from your résumé you have tried your hand at many professions. Never stuck to one thing for long. Any reason for that, Mr. Grey?”
The younger man, Mr. Grey, squirmed as the well-dressed man’s eyes punctuated that question. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
“I just never found something that really…enthralled me, that gave me the feeling that I needed to get up every morning or I’d miss something important.”
The well-dressed man sniffed as if that helped him smell lies. He appeared satisfied though, making a few notes on his clipboard in elaborate handwriting, of the sort you don’t see too often these days, while the ghost of a smile passed over his face. “So you hated what you did?” he asked.
“Oh no, not at all. Though I must say, the smell in the hospice was rather unpleasant,” Mr. Grey said, looking at his old, dirty shoes.
“I see. Perfectly understandable, too. People decaying in their own shit and puke; I have been in places like that myself, and there are nicer ways to spend your time. The little time you have left, in particular.” He brushed at the sleeve of his immaculately tailored suit, though there was nothing on it that needed brushing away. “But you understand that if you sign up with us, you will not be able to choose your assignments, yes?”
Mr. Grey’s head jerked upward. “Of course.”
And again the pen flew over the paper. “Good. As long as that is clear…How was your time in the war?”
Mr. Grey rubbed his hands together. “Well, I signed on as a medic.”
“And?”
“And there was a lot to do.”
“Like what, Mr. Grey?”
“Like clamping arteries when someone’s arm or leg got blown off. Giving out morphine so people could sleep at night and the others wouldn’t be bothered by the moaning. Patching them up although I knew it was no good. Telling them they’d be okay although I knew they wouldn’t be. Sometimes we’d just have to cut bullets out, and that was easiest. Easier than shrapnel at least.”
The sound of the pen again. “I see. Let’s talk about the morphine. About the dosage.”
“A fair dosage, always, I would say.”
“Ah.” The well-dressed man looked up, eyes shining at Mr. Grey. “But there is fair and then there is fair. What I want to know is: did they beg you for the pain to end and did you give them a fair dosage then? Did you think you were doing something merciful but never dared tell anyone that you had done it? Did you, Mr. Grey?”
Mr. Grey fidgeted. He looked left and right, but the well-dressed man’s eyes focused on him like those of a watchdog ready to make him bleed.
“Yes. Yes, I might have done that,” he finally admitted.
“More than once?”
“More than once,” Mr. Grey confirmed.
“And were you also fair to the decaying wretches in the hospice, Mr. Grey?”
“I cannot deny that I was.”
“Just a little sting, yes?”
“Very little. Minute.”
The fog thickened around them. The fountain pen continued to scratch marks on paper.
“And you worked as a butcher?”
“I did.”
“What did you prefer, cattle or pigs?”
“Pardon me?”
“Cattle or pigs, Mr. Grey?”
“Actually, I mostly did lambs.”
“Ah, lambs. Tells you much about anatomy, butchering, yes?”
“Yes. Quick kill, the organs, how to drain a body, all that.”
“Shouldn’t you be saying ‘carcass’, Mr. Grey?”
“Didn’t I?”
“No. You said body, Mr. Grey. Not at all objectionable, just an observation.”
“I see. What I did mean was carcass though. You learn how to bleed a carcass and cut it up into pieces, you know.”
“I certainly do.” A delicate yet intense smile spread over the well-dressed man’s face. “Why didn’t you stick with butchering? Certainly not the smell?”
Mr. Grey waved his hand as if to shoo the fog away, but it only grew thicker, if anything. “No, the smell was fine. I didn’t like the customers. Picking out this and that and smiling as they did. Dead bodies…I mean to say, carcasses, and they were feeding on them like vultures. Do you find that very weird?” He looked at the well-dressed man as if for approval.
“I can assure you, I do not find it weird, Mr. Grey. I can relate perfectly. Tell me about work as an undertaker.”
“I liked it. I did a brief stint in the morgue before, but embalming, that was really like a passion. So very quiet, and the smell was not at all as bad as people often think. I have to admit, I came to like it quite a bit.”
“Ah, yes. Nothing smells like a fresh corpse now, does it? Again, I can relate perfectly, Mr. Grey, perfectly.”
“And they didn’t ask me to cut them up, just drain and embalm, drain and embalm. I think that’s as dignified as it gets, don’t you?”
Scratch-scratch.
“Quite so, Mr. Grey. But you are aware that with us, you might have to cut them up quite a bit sometimes, yes?”
“Of course, I understand.”
“Splendid,” said the well-dressed man, putting the fountain pen in his inside pocket. “I think we’re done here. Please sign on the dotted line.”
“So you’ll hire me?”
“Why, of course. You seem to be a perfect fit for our team, Mr. Grey, just perfect. The dotted line please.”
“Of course. May I borrow your pen? I don’t have one on me.”
The well-dressed man chuckled. “With your blood, Mr. Grey, your blood, not ink. See that broken stained-glass window showing you The Savior? It will do just nicely.”
Mr. Grey turned and brushed his hand over the glass indicated. He could just make out the outlines in the fog. Red beads of blood shone on his fingers, bubbling up like boiling water. He traced his name on the dotted line.
“Why, we are pleased to have you, Mr. Grey, so very pleased. When can you start?”
Mr. Grey licked the blood from his fingers. He made a sucking noise before he replied, “I don’t see why I couldn’t start right away.”
“That’s the spirit, Mr. Grey, the true spirit! Don’t forget your angelic wings then, we consider them a trademark. And remember, we don’t offer salvation, but sometimes mercy. And we do not accept checks, only cash. Have you got this down, Mr. Grey?”
“Yes, sir. I certainly do,” he said, shaking hands with the well-dressed man and returning his smile.
Alexandra Seidel writes poems and stories of the ominous, the macabre, the mythical and every so often, the comical. She swears, sometimes ideas come to her all fancy dressed with painted masks of scarlet and azure, silver and gold. Thanks to some strangely good fortune, her work is (or soon will be) Out There: Bull Spec, Strange Horizons, Cabinet des Fées, Poe Little Thing and others. Being a writer, Alexandra keeps a mangy blog right here: http://tigerinthematchstickbox.blogspot.com/
© 2011 All rights reserved Alexandra Seidel
I enjoyed this greatly. Well done.
Interesting! I wanted to learn what happened next when Mr. Grey actually started the job. Love the idea of turning a job interview into a story. Nicely done.