Auto-Rejected - Fiction

 I sit at my computer with my eyes glued to the keyboard. Small glimmers of white light shine behind the keys. Dust illuminated by the subtlety. My fingernail cannot reach it. Where can I buy compressed air? Chat GPT says Staples, one kilometre away, they are open until nine. On a Sunday? Who needs Staples at nine on a Sunday? 

Reddit feed has been excessively dry and there’s been no notifications in over a week. This is my fault. I have not been interacting, commenting, posting, nothing. I scroll. Upvote something I didn’t read that already has twenty upvotes- must be good- then I close it and find myself aimlessly looking on local job boards for jobs although I am employed. Financially I’m fine enough to continue at the rate I’m at but there’s always room for growth. I click on insurance jobs, low-level bank jobs, marketing jobs, jobs that require little physical strain and minimal qualifications. Desk Clerk Fourteen-Month Term strikes my fancy. Inbound clients, responsibilities include accessing accounts, deposits, withdrawals, and end of day cashouts. It is an entry level position at a credit union and yet they require a cover letter, a resume, four references, a background check, and a video interview where they, the employer, the people who have an HR department, require me, the over-qualified, to record myself answering questions like “What is your biggest flaw” and “Who do you know in this town.”

I don’t know anybody really, and that is the flaw they pick as a reason to not hire me. I have applied four times. 

And while most people would give up after the first or second rejection, I find myself more and more hopeful each time I press submit. Once a month, they say no. And again, the listing goes up and I press submit. My fiancé also applied for this position but she got the job. Then she turned it down on account of it paying a dollar above minimum wage. 

So when they find someone, some schmuck, me, to work there, I look forward to taking the offer, walking into the office, getting all the way up to the finish line, and saying, you know what? Never mind. 

Once I submit again I close my laptop and get up. An hour ago I started soaking a bowl of dry rice for half an hour, and in the heat of the moment I forgot to drain it and now it’s soggy and probably will make for a bad batch of rice. But I boil the water anyways and light an incense stick called “Cherry Rose Dreams” which smells closer to cigarettes than anything else. Then I spit in the sink and sit on the floor until I hear the bubbles above my head. Rice in, transferred, spoon stirred, back to the couch to my laptop. One email in the box. 

Auto-rejected. 

The dust is killing me. My jeans are in a clump under my bed with the belt and underwear still looped over the legs. They go on with some effort and the shirt I wore this morning while I made a pot of coffee slips onto my torso in reverse. Keys jangle as I go down the steps to my car. The streets are bare, it’s noon, people are at church, and I pull into the Staples parking lot and sit in the heat before ripping my keys out of the ignition and heading inside. My reflection on the sliding door is fleeting and horrific, I did not check my hair. Matted up one side, helmeted down the other side, Astroboy. 

The can of air is in aisle three, next to the keyboards on a stand by itself because it must be a common occurrence to have a dirty keyboard. I press the cold can to my wrist before placing it on the counter. Checkout is quick, the girl with the septum ring and black hair staring at her hands the whole time. Maroon shirt, tight at places, loose at others, complimented her skin and as I sat back in my oven of a car, I realized I am the problem. I was gawking and she knew. Fuck. I press the can to my forehead as I drive home on the heatwaves. 

My thighs burn as I climb back up to the apartment to find the kitchen filled with smoke. My rice is burned. My incense stick is finished. I have wasted so much time. 

*