Creativity is great, but plagiarism is faster

Sweat pooled in the crook of her chocolate knees as she pressed the top of her dress again, smoothing out invisible wrinkles, avoiding the eyes that bore into her existence.

“Can you give me a list of your past employers” the voice said dryly. One glance up from the hem caught his incisive gaze and held it, a split-second longer than necessary, before fixing her eyes on the wilting Peace Lily drooping six inches to the left of his receding hairline,

“Well, you see,” she squeaked, “I’ve had a lot of jobs and I’ve never really liked any of them, well, some of them I could bear, but there were all sorts of things that I didn’t like, and I’m not usually fussy, but I couldn’t stand what I was doing all day and…” she trailed off, her throat bobbing up and down rapidly. “I’ve been trying to enjoy all the fruits of my labor, but nothing’s lasted.”

She heard the tap-clatter sound as he placed one side of his pen down carefully before letting the other end fall freely. A gasp of fear caught in the pit of her stomach; nausea swept all the way up through her eyeballs, looping back down to the bottom of her trachea. “Oh, no, no, no, not again, lord, please not again.”

An almost-imperceptible sigh of annoyance escaped his pursed lips.

“Ms. Collins, Charity, can I call you Charity? I’m not asking for your satisfaction with previous employment, I just need to know what kind of experience you’ve had.” His condescending tone was of a father to a confused daughter in need of paternal advice.

“I-I don’t know why I can’t tell you, I just know that none of them were for me, and-and, this is what I need to be doing.” Her frizzy, black hair, which had stood at attention when she walked in, was now deserting at an alarming rate. “I work hard and I got thick skin, and I can work weekends if need be.”

This time the sigh was a groan: “Tell me where you worked. Why can’t you tell me? Are you ashamed? What’s the matter?” His pale face flushed red with frustration. “We’re not asking much, we want you to work for us; we’ve made arrangements to give the position to you if you want it; is it so much to ask in return that you cooperate with our interviewing process?”

A pause settled over the room—like silt falling back to the ocean floor. Her soft, brown eyes remained focused on the cracks running impulsively over the decrepit tiles that separated the first floor from the basement.

“I’m sorry; I don’t mean to be short with you. It’s just… It’s just that we really have gone to bat for you: A lot of qualified candidates have come through, and we’ve turned them down because we see something…” he paused raising his eyes and massaging his temples, “unique, yes, unique in you, and as I said, we’re committed to you, as long as you can satisfy our basic requirements. I can see you’re nervous, don’t worry, that’s normal, everyone’s nervous.”

Slowly, she raised her chin; her teeth rattled violently as she drew her head completely erect, until she was staring straight into his beady, blue eyes. She met those eyes and held them unflinchingly. Astonishment registered clearly on his face, but there was something more—fear.

“Well, mm… you must, you must be ready to move on to something else by now.” He stuttered—shuffling his papers and glancing furtively to both sides like a caged animal.

“Mr. Smith, can you tell me exactly why you all have made such an effort to give me this job?” She asked evenly. Her shoulders were drawn back proudly, and her head was cocked to one side, waiting with a hint of impatience for him to speak. Her appearance was that of misplaced royalty.

None of his pompous air remained. Sweat glistened on his brow, reflecting off the blotches of angry red spots which speckled his pallid face.

“Listen,” he started, “we feel like you are a unique candidate and…” He trailed off.

“You said that. Everyone is unique; tell me what makes me better than the others.”

“Ms. Collins” he began, chuckling disarmingly; but one fierce look silenced him.

“You want to know where I worked before this? I’ll tell you exactly where I worked: I worked for a man, a woman, even a kid just like you. Sure, I did all different kinds of work, but each job was the same. Each job I got hired for the same reason and you know why I didn’t want to tell you? You know why I was afraid? Because for some stupid reason I got it in my head that this one would be different; I let myself think I could get work for being a hard worker and doing what I’m told.” Her voice rose and fell from a yell to a whimper.

“You know,” he said bitterly, “this might not mean much, but I hate them for forcing me to do this. I hope you understand my job’s at risk if I don’t follow all their requirements. They say I can hire the best candidate, but sometimes they make it clear to me who the best candidate is before a single application gets filed.”

The sound of bustling shoppers filtered into the small space, restoring a sense of normality. She exhaled deeply, covering her face with one limp, clammy hand and slumping back in her chair, the other glued to the armrest. They both sat in silence for two minutes. The trite wall clock ticked off the seconds as they passed—each one longer than the first.

“Can I get you something to drink?” He finally ventured, fawningly.

A nod was all he got in return; he bounced energetically out of his seat, walking briskly through a pair of double doors, before returning—slavishly—with a glass of water in hand.

She feigned an appreciative smile, and drained the glass before a single drop of sweat fell to the table. He resumed his seat, gathered himself, and spoke.

“Before you choose, know that to everyone else, you’ll be exactly what you were in your last jobs; gossip and jealousy will be commonplace, and you’ll be resented for no fault of your own. To my bosses, you’ll be a fulfillment of a quota, and they’ll pat me on the back and joke about your interview; they’ll ask me one question, and one question only. You know what that question will be. Can you handle the position you’ll be placed in? Will you crack under the weight of constant scrutiny and criticism?”

She smoothed the top of her dress, looking up into his eyes before she spoke. Her voice was firm, her lips were set.

“It’s nothing new. We’re both stuck in what we do, but what else can be done? We’re both the oppressed and the oppressor.”