Lower CoSMOS-Suspended Armageddon Stories

An Interview At Velman

“Are you nervous, Mayta?”

His interviewee kept his rigid face with his eyes on his knees.

“Alright, says here you’re twenty?”

He nodded.

“You want to use some words here, so far this isn’t impressive.”

“Twenty,” he nodded again.

“Can you tell me a little about Velman?” the Interviewer said as he leaned his elbow on his desk to prop his head up and rest it on his fist, admiring the young man’s features.

“Why would I tell you something you already know?”

“Too well. It’s for compliance. Humor me.”

The interviewer smirked, chuckled, and sat up to pivot to the desk and made a few marks on a paper due to the prospective employee’s lack of interest. He restrained from staring at the young man again, the pleasant nature and charmed exterior of his person made him an affable attraction to the eyes. Weakness for attraction needed to hide in these circles of this industry for its time, so the interviewer kept the awe to himself.

“What’s our motto then? At least. The very least. Let’s hear it.”

The young man curled his lip and scratched at the ridges in the hard plastic orange chair out of anxiety. He wore a tan jumpsuit with the Velman logo on the right collar, a bright “V” with the points of the letter sparkling from two stars placed at the tips. They did not blind the viewer. It denoted the Velman suit operating in working order and indicated the occupant’s obedience to wearing it as an authentication.

“Never mind then, Mr. Baygus.”

The young man nodded and rocked a few times in the chair.

“How long do you think you have before the stuffers want you back glamor side, eh? I am surprised they allowed you entry back on this dreadful side.”

He shifted in his chair, and the interviewer turned his neck to gaze at him, keeping the brim of his brown cap level with the top of the young man’s head. Mayta’s eyes shifted as if in remembrance of how he came to be there at that moment. The interviewer mistook this as a panic.

            “Something wrong?”

The young man tilted his head and replayed the name “stuffers” for the second time he arrived. All that language slung around as slang insults lobbed at the world’s affluent.

“You are a handsome kid. And you want this life? In the dirt? You sure?” He waited for an answer, again noting the eyes. The young man glanced away. The interviewer sighed and continued to examine information about him at the desk. Father: Pastor. Mother: Homemaker.

“None of that religious nonsense around the people here, got it?”

“They don’t allow it. I know,” the young man said.

“That’s good then. That’s something.”

The interviewer pushed his documents further up to the top of his desk, affixed them to align in uniformity, and pivoted his hip to face the young man. He spotted the top of the first page to check the young man’s name.

“It’s none of my business, I know, Mayta, but this isn’t the place for you.” Mayta glared at the interviewer confused, considering Velman’s policy permitted entry to anyone willfully positioning themselves in a vulnerable place of self-harm, regardless of status. So long as you can breathe, it would mean eventual expendability anyway. Mother Earth always benefited from human expiration as they are told.

            “How’d you know about stuffers?” Mayta said. Grinning, the interviewer turned his head to the near-empty office area as if a great many others listened in. Surrounding him were no cubicles but an open space of endless chairs and desks. A few people may come and go but none the concern for Mayta’s preliminary examination into Velman.

            “I’ll tell you, young Baygus. If you tell me what this place runs. You have to answer one of these damn questions or else my job isn’t considered adequate,” the interviewer said.

            “Everything,” said Mayta.

            “Very good, much appreciated,” the interviewer grinned again and diverted his thought to Mayta’s near-perfect facial features, envying them and remembering his personal blemishes and off-center features. By measure they are negligible, but from where Mayta once resided with the privileged class of earth, Mayta was accepted by them based solely on outstanding physical condition not yet familiar with weight and strength training.

            “What made you leave that place? What was it? Too many perverts or something?”

            “Huh?”

            “Is that why you left?”

            Mayta lowered his head and pressed himself into silence.

            “You know some of the conditions of the interview is to tell me everything you can. They will get it from you regardless. This is their way of going easy. Appearing like they care.”

            “To whom?” said Mayta.

            In recollection, the interviewer paused, “That is a valid point.” He then directed his eyes back to Mayta.

            “An internal struggle of guilt maybe?”

            Mayta licked his dry bottom lip, “They have none.”

            The interviewer drew himself back in the chair.

            “Really? It’s true. I knew it! Thank you.”

            Mayta nodded but internalized how he perceived the interviewer as naive. The interviewer expected a smile, but Mayta’s head slipped into frames of countless memories where the wealthiest point twenty-five percent of the population resided. In his late teens, he settled there as a fixture of promotion. Mayta was a walking advertisement of the consolidated corporate power, displaying underwear, garments, and clothing of all varieties that would not make the old men running the world transform into young Mayta Baygus, but the enticement of the possibility was sufficient to keep him employed. He was considered by others the fortunate one out of millions of others based on genetic appeal. His eyes burned from recalling the parties, nudity, debauchery, flesh pressed against other skin against any skin regardless of social status, heredity, species, blood flow or absence, and more. Each time he kept from participating, refraining, and faking a sickness or forcing himself to leave situations they invited him to; the suspicion of him fostered curiosity. At these state gatherings, there were always two or three, maybe ten familiar faces on and off. Sometimes new people. Fresh eager young ingenues, inexperienced studs, and innocent workers on an endless circuit of pleasure; caught up in the game of pleasing the wealthy. Months passed and the parties ceased but ran up again to keep the specter of boredom at bay for the aristocracy. He didn’t realize he spoke of these things to the interviewer as the memories transpired.

            “That’s amazing, Mayta,” he said.

            “What of it is?” said Mayta, “What is your name?”

            The Interviewer paused. The conversation went over a line he never should have crossed. Again the Interviewer checked his environment and smirked. He swung his hips to move his chair closer to the young man. It was a delight to him to hear of the salacious activities. His heart dropped to his stomach and he sat up straight.

            “What is a woman like Mayta?” he said.

            Mayta squinted and showed his teeth in disgust.

            “No. No. Not in a demeaning way, young man. But, how do they feel? Like they look?”

            “Are there more questions that are directed to me, about me?” Mayta said. With the letdown of Mayta’s answer, the Interviewer passed another border in professional etiquette.

            “I am sorry,” The interviewer stood up, embarrassed, grabbed the metal arm of his rolling chair, and pushed it toward the desk.

            “You were married. That is why I asked and it was uncalled for. I apologize. It is one of the perks they have over there young man and my wondering about it. Well…I am sorry.”

            A communicator embedded into the left side of the desk shelf caught the Interviewer’s eye. He pressed a small black button

            “He’s a go.”

            Mayta closed his eyes, relieved to have the interview finished.

            “Velman confirmation of ST-Mayta Baygus, Inquisitor?” it said.

            The interviewer leaned in to press the button again.

            “Yes. The records should be there…” The Interviewer stared at the notes on his documents, vanishing over time.

            “… never mind.”

            The Interviewer moved to sit again, upright, facing the desk, staring at the blank white wall ahead of him.

            “Thank you, Mr. Baygus.”

            Mayta stood and began his steps away from the man, but understanding for the man’s question concerning women crawled up his spine until it fought itself from exiting Mayta’s mouth. Mayta shook his head, jealous of people who possessed the inherent ability to lack empathy because he would have walked out by now. He paused and turned to face the Interviewer a final time.

            “Heaven is in the imagination of what someone dreams it would be. I guess it is different for all people. The ancients described it the way they wanted. To me it was her. The only one I knew, Sir. So to me. That is heaven. So. They feel like heaven.”

            Mayta started his steps again through what was an endless static collage of unused office furniture around a clear path out.

            “Baygus?” the interviewer said, “I am Gregory.”

            Mayta stopped his movement and turned to the older man. He dipped his head in acknowledgment.

            “Don’t waste your life here, Baygus. Go back, and give yourself a break from whatever it is that is gnawing at you. Go back. Sure we live here, but the stories I hear from the other side. That is living.”

            Mayta shook his head and continued his pace.

            “Kid, they will send you where you want, you know that?”

            “I hope so,” Mayta said.