The Failing Game (standard:Satire, 1991 words)
Author: FlutterWrites	Added: Dec 08 2013	Views/Reads: 8726/2734	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A unnamed witty protagonist recounts the ordeal of a job interview, comparing it to playing a boss in a video game.

The Failing Game 

Corn Silk. Or maybe Honey blonde. It's a close call. Whatever the exact
shade may be, one thing is certain. It came square from a bottle, not 
from nature's bounty. His roots were not born with that color, no 
siree. But, it's not something you'll be calling out in front of him. 

Especially not now, as he happens to be holding your resumé in his
hands. For it is in those well-groomed cuticles that he holds your 
fate. His crisp, premium linen shirt, custom-made of course, stares at 
you with contempt. Mocking the cotton-poly blend fibers of the peasant 
outfit you chose to wear before the gatekeeper. 

It matters not that you ironed your best garment into submission,
starching the cuffs and collars until they thought themselves a potato 
dish. A pair of titanium cufflinks peek from beneath a luxury wool 
suit. Among themselves they gossip disparagingly about the mortified  
cubic zirconias trying so hard to shrink back into your ring. 

The battle has yet to reach its highlight, and you've failed its' first
checkpoint. Will full entry be denied? 

No! The round isn't over until the sweater-vested,
country-club-tennis-playing manager shakes your hand, thanking you for 
your time. 

Naturally, though, you put forth your best poker face. Despite knowing
full well the only card game you ever won in your life was Go Fish. 
With your senile grandmother. 

You are not without a few tricks up your sleeve. After all, you did
manage to pass the phone interview without passing out in your cramped 
studio apartment. Having spent the previous days doing serious 
reconnaissance about their company, you were prepared. You recited 
their all-important company values of integrity, honesty and 
commitment. All the more appropriate since the federal investigation on 
them has since been lifted, due to a mysterious disappearance of 
evidence. 

After pretending to care that the founding father grew up in a log cabin
in Minnesota, the phone interviewer asked the one question you'd been 
dying to hear. 

“When can we meet in person?” 

“Let me check.” You take a small dramatic pause, pretending to be so
booked and in demand, it necessitates searching your smart phone for 
the next available opening. When really, you take a moment to launch 
into a self-choreographed happy dance, humming to a few bars of a 
hero's overtures, overjoyed at the prospect at being unemployed no 
longer. If you only you had some confetti for the occasion. 

Controlling yourself for a moment, you gather your wits together. In the
most nonchalant, professional voice you can muster, you respond.  “Yes, 
thank you. I have a free spot on Wednesday and Friday afternoons around 
2 o' clock.” 

The truth is you're free every afternoon. And evening. In fact, pretty
much every workday is free, considering you have none. Of course, they 
wouldn't hire you if they knew you needed this job. Who on purposely 
hires someone willing to work? The crassness! 

Of course, winning the phone interview can't be considered a real
triumph. The practice round is over and now the boss round has begun. 
The rotating door, proudly bearing the name of the company stands as 
the start of a new game environment the plucky hero must conquer. 

Armed with your faux leather notebook cover and false confidence you
take your first steps into the valley of death. 

The floors glitter like an enchanted road in a fantasy-role playing
game. Hordes of walking black suits and skirts rush past like packs of 
vicious monsters itching to eat at your health bar until it flashes 
red. As a defense, you take a swig of a discretely packed energy drink. 
 Beep Bo Beep. Power up! Health bar is now at full capacity, as is your 


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