Collective Bargaining

           “How did I get here?”

           “Give it a moment and you’ll remember.”

           “Oh, right. I remember now.”

           “Good. I’ll have you start paperwork and we’ll see what you qualify for.”

           Jerry nodded. He watched the clerk behind the desk get out a folder with his name on it from a long line of filing cabinets. The placement agency was a warm white and cleaner than any agency Jerry’s seen before. A single green door was behind the clerk.

           “I have my resume,” Jerry said to the clerk.

           “So do we. A bit more complete than yours, I’m afraid. When you apply for a government job, details tend to matter a bit more.”

           “Will I be able to make a case for myself?”

           “Always.”

           “Are there only two options?”

           “In a way, yes; in a way, no. Whether it was the position you were hoping for or not, everyone gets placed.”

           “I see.”

           “Please have a seat over there, Mr. Hobson and we’ll be with you shortly.”

           Jerry left the front desk and took a seat against the wall opposite. There were windows in the agency, but the light outside was so bright, Jerry couldn’t see through them. Jerry followed the front desk to its end, and to the far right he could see only two elevators.

           He focused on what he was going to say in his interview. He’s been in this rodeo before. Although, it didn’t feel like it was going to quite the same kind of interview like he’s had in the past.

           There was a loud beep followed by muffled conversation. The clerk was talking to someone over the intercom, Jerry figured. A rustle and sorting of papers followed by the definitive placing of the metal pen on plastic desktop. He heard the clerk clear his throat.

           “We’ll see you now, Mr. Hobson.”

***

           Jerry stepped through the green doorway behind the desk. He was greeted with an empty white room with a chair in the middle of it.

           “Have a seat, Mr. Hobson,” a voice said from the walls.

           Jerry took to the unyielding black metal frame chair. It wasn’t comfortable.

           “Jerry Hobson, age 51, father of two, resident of Rossville, IN. You lived in the yellow house at the end of Quarry Lane, correct?”

           “Yes, that is correct.”

           “Drowned a bird on accident when you were six, stole over $2,670 dollars from your mother’s purse over the course of three years, and cheated on your wife 33 times over the period of 11 years. Also correct?”

           Jerry swallowed the toad in his throat. “Yes, that is also correct.”

           “Mr. Hobson, could you please recollect what events occurred on May 13^th, 1973 to the best of your ability?”

           Jerry was stunned by the question. He was four at the time. How could he remember? Jerry’s mind felt strange and then, in a burst of light, he could see it all from start to finish in his mind’s eye like a television show.

           His mother and father were having a fight in the kitchen of their small ranch. It was something about money. Just as his father was about to make his point, his father collapsed on the ground, seizing. His mother ran for the telephone, but his father was dead before the medics arrived.

           “Very good, Mr. Hobson.” Jerry’s ears flashed burning red. The movie playing in his mind’s eye receded and Jerry could feel a multitude of eyes watching from an unseen audience. 

            “But, I haven’t said—”

           “There is no need for that. We only would like to hear when asked directly. Now, how did that event make you feel? Can you recall?”

           “I was confused, mainly. My father was usually working, and I only remember glimpses from when we spent time together. I was mostly sad for my mother, who blamed herself for his death. But—” Jerry paused. He massaged his head with both his hands hoping to mix his emotions into words that pour out of his open mouth.

           “Continue.”

           Jerry felt the urge to be honest, but afraid of its consequences. He thought of his girls and of the answer they’d prefer. He clenched his chair and spoke.

           “I—I was afraid for myself. My father died young and I was afraid I was going to leave my future family like he did, and it bothered me.”

           The voice from the walls was silent, as if contemplating.

           “Mr. Hobson, could you please recall the events of June 2^nd, 1986?”

***

           Jerry came out of the plain room exhausted. His hair was undone, his shirt half-tucked, and he sweated more than he thought possible. Panting and shaking, he felt like he had been turned inside out for all the world to see.

           “Mr. Hobson, if you would please.” The clerk motioned towards the sitting area. Jerry obliged. “There is water in the cooler, if you would like.”

           Jerry saw in the sitting area a water cooler. He didn’t remember that being there before. He took a couple of deep drinks from the frigid tap, pausing between gulps. The clerk worked silently behind the desk, except for the occasional audible pen stroke. Jerry melted in a seat. There was nothing left for him to do but wait.

           The intercom buzzed again. More muffled voices. Jerry jolted upright. The clerk appeared to be disagreeing with the voices coming in. He listened; he couldn’t make out anything definitive. The voices ceased and the intercom buzzed off.

           The clerk rustled papers and fit everything into an envelope. Whatever was finished was finished. He put his metal pen down on the desk.

           “Mr. Hobson,” the pause between words felt like an eternity. “If you would, please.”

           Jerry quaked as he walked to the desk, his legs jelly on the high seas.

           The clerk handed him the papers and pointed to the elevators. Jerry turned and started to sob quietly. Tears blurred his vision as he approached the elevators. The elevators stood ominous, like sentinels with flaming swords instead of steel with glowing orange numbers. He pressed the down arrow.

           “That is incorrect, Mr. Hobson,” the clerk called without looking up from his desk. Jerry was confused. “Didn’t you read the packet? Top floor, Mr. Hobson.”

           Jerry cracked a trembling smile, but the tears didn’t stop as he pressed and held the button for the top floor, awaiting the doors to open.