In Dark Places

by Darryl J Keck

  “Wait here for a moment,” Carolyn instructs. “I need to show your application to my manager. He may be interested in talking with you directly.” She stands up and walks quickly to the door. Before exiting, she shoots a glance that has more than a stamp of mistrust attached to it.

  Did the interview just go south? Life has taught me to be cautious of negative gestures. The shift in her eyes might not be of any concern, but the energy in the room transmuted. Could she have detected the insincerity in one of my replies? I wonder if she is one of those behavioral experts able to evaluate the shortcomings of a job candidate based on their body movements. I didn’t put anything on my application that should have been a red flag. Without question, this woman wouldn’t make it as far as Ray’s gravel parking lot before regurgitating from the level of incorrectness. From the “brag-worthy” accomplishments mounted on the wall, she has never stumbled that far into the sewer.

  I search for any evidence to back my suspicions. While scanning the room, a circular object is mounted in the upper back corner above the bookshelf. These gadgets have the appearance of smoke alarms or radon detectors but are cleverly-disguised micro cameras. As I wait for Carolyn’s dilatory return, my actions are undoubtedly being observed and possibly recorded. Wow, talk about being paranoid. Although I didn’t list everything on the application, I have many reasons to be nervous. Almost all of us harbor dark secrets; some of us have a few too many indelicate details to list on a single sheet of paper. Trying to leave behind one of these “undisclosed activities” is why I applied for this job in the first place.

  As I mentioned, Ray’s Tavern doesn’t cover all of my bills. To supplement my deficient income, my other mode of revenue is operating a webcam from the time I return home from the bar until just before the sun cracks. Out of financial desperation, I started up this private web-based business nearly a year ago following a horrific breakup. I had a heap of bills with few opportunities to keep up with the minimum monthly payments.

  Some women can rack up some coin on a webcam with Tarot cards, counseling, or even giving cooking lessons. I’m not that fortunate or talented. My customers pay to see me get naked and perform sexual acts to myself. Luckily, the scar from being stabbed over a year ago hasn’t hurt my earning potential. The wound is located in a place on my body that isn’t generally a moneymaker. It surprises me what men can ignore and what they can’t. The defacement on my back will keep me from ever appearing in a men’s magazine, but in Webcamland, it has not been a financial detractor. Hey, if they want to spend the $1.39 per minute admission looking me over, I’m more than willing to earn easy money. For the record, I refuse to feel like a tramp because I fulfill online fantasies for lonely men in search of a sexual outlet.

  I probably don’t sound much different than the corrupt customers I serve at the tavern, but what I’m doing online is very much legal. Unfortunately, it’s also a very congested enterprise. There are thousands of webcams offering the same type of service. I keep my prices low to keep my customers logged on longer and coming back for more. I don’t offer everything because I have to draw the line somewhere to maintain a little dignity. After performing nudie shows for close to a year, very little respectability remains.

  It would seem as if I pocket quite a bit of cash between the two jobs, but I used to drink too much wine and buy too many designer clothes on impulse. I’ve built up a trove of debt along the way! On top of being in arrears to MasterCard, I owe the government for my student loans. I am three semesters short of earning a bachelor’s degree. I’m known in most circles as a college washout. Even though my ACT scores were less-than-gratifying, my skills at volleyball attracted scouts from two state colleges. Neither offered much concerning financial assistance or scholarships, but one saintly scout let me enroll at his school as long as volleyball was in my immediate plans.

  Volleyball was a therapeutic way to dislodge the aggression that had built up over the years at the hands of my dysfunctional family. I had a powerhouse serve that terrified any opponent. Nearby teams were afraid of our little high school because we went undefeated—mostly because of my industrial-strength serve. When I got to college, I discovered that I enjoyed slamming shots more than spiking volleyballs. I messed up a few pivotal games while nursing brutal hangovers. I went from being the athlete to watch during freshman year to being reduced mostly to second string the next. After two and a half years of messing up in the classroom and on the volleyball court, the school decided the only option left was expulsion. The college gave me plenty of time to booze it up and skip classes before they no longer wished to accept my hefty tuition.

  The college experience became a way to drown my sorrows. When I wore a revealing blouse showing off the goods, most bartenders didn’t look too closely at my bogus ID. When that didn’t work, I could always locate a party. Because of my provocative outward appearance ten years ago, plenty of guys were willing to pass me a plastic cup full of beer or wine—and occasionally a little pill they’d slip inside. I saw plenty of frat rooms and skipped my fair share of morning classes.

  Flunking out of college was a hard reality to face. What they don’t tell you when applying for a student loan is that you still have to pay it off—with or without the degree. I am still forking over the cash for that uninspired college experience. Believe me, campus life looked much brighter in the pamphlets. Who knew that one day I’d be refunding my educational escapades by flashing my crotch in front of a webcam? Dumb choices carry some harsh consequences.

  I am only able to operate the webcam in the darkest hours of the night because I live with my nosy grandma. Keeping late night hours is the only way to assure that Trudy doesn’t hear any of my filthy wordplay with my high-minded customers. Certain juicy sentences stand no chance of mirroring normal conversation.

  I’m not complaining, but performing online is often a thankless line of work. My customers—96% men—come to my website and eagerly fork over their “per minute” admission because I’m risk-free and pro-sex. They can’t get that at the local bar without putting forth a lot of effort and facing a load of rejection. Conversely, performing random sex acts can be a bit unnerving because it’s as if they’re looking through a window into my inhibitions. In turn, I get to see through the well-guarded doorway that reveals their most hidden sexual desires, so it balances out. If I learned anything in college, it was how to seize an excellent opportunity.

  At the moment, I’m quite concerned about this opportunity slipping right through my fingers because of Carolyn’s unbearably extended absence. I’ve spent enough alone time in this office to redecorate the damn room. That little camera is causing its share of unease. I don’t mind being looked at when I’m in control of the audience, but there’s a slight possibility that I could be recognized from my online profile. I can hide the hair, but I can’t camouflage my face, no matter how much foundation and powder I smear on.

  The silence is seriously getting the best of me. Before I crack up from worry, Carolyn returns to her desk. She sits down in her oversized plush chair, takes a deep breath, and sets my application amongst the pile of crap covering the top of her desk.

  “After careful consideration,” Carolyn says somberly, “we don’t feel that you meet the qualifications we are presently seeking.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, willing to contend for any of the entry-level positions. I’m quickly losing my sanguine veneer. “Which qualifications am I lacking? I’m more than willing to train myself on my own time. There is not much I’d be unable to learn.”

  “It’s nothing personal,” she says, suspiciously. “The publicity director is looking for someone with a little more experience. We are sorry that you made a special trip here.”

  “The online advertisement showed five available positions,” I say, removing the folded printout of their job postings from my purse. It is essential to have as many props handy when making a less-than-hopeful case. “I was in the lobby less than five minutes after you opened fo
r business. Considering I was the only applicant in the lobby, the other four positions could not have been filled since my arrival.”

  Carolyn hesitates, searching for a credible answer. She has underestimated this girl. I’m not leaving until she gives me an answer I’m willing to accept. I’ve been given the shaft enough times during interviews, and this is not about to be another one. “I don’t feel that you would be right for any of those positions either.”

  “How entry-level can these positions be if two years of college and ten years of work experience isn’t enough to secure a position?” I ask. My temper is beginning to flare, but I’m keeping it under control and civil, for the time being. “I might not have worked in publishing, but I’ve dealt with customers and am able to fill an order. All I am asking for is a chance to prove what I can do. A company this size must have a 90-day evaluation period.”

  Carolyn wants to dismiss my inquiry. She has nothing in her arsenal ready to fire back. “When someone is hired, he or she is given a three-month evaluation, yes,” she states. “I’m sorry, but there isn’t anything more I can say. Not every applicant is guaranteed employment with us. We do appreciate your interest in Leighton.”

  “Will you at least keep my application on file?” This is beginning to feel like a very personal spurn. Her answer will indicate whether this is a brush-off or not.

  “We are not a storage facility, so we do not keep résumés and applications on file. Our hiring decision is based on the criteria you wrote on your application. This interview is over, young lady. That’s all I have left to say. We would like you to leave now.”

  I’m too much of a fighter to accept her decision to discard my application. Management shouldn’t give absolute hiring power to an insensitive woman like this.

  “Who is this ‘we’ you are talking about?” I ask. “Can I speak with one of them because I’m not getting anywhere with you? What is it specifically about me that don’t you care for?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Cut the innocent act. Are you threatened by my looks? Do I resemble a girl from the magazine you found tucked under the mattress on your husband’s side of the bed?”

  “There is no reason to make an accusation like that,” Carolyn expresses, taking a deep breath to get her composure. I’m beginning to wear down the pretentious bitch!

  “Why? Because it’s true, right? It’s as if you are trying to get even with any girl that might still turn a few heads and fill a bra.”

  “I’m not entertaining any allegations of that nature!”

  “If it isn’t that, then please be forthcoming with the reason.” I can feel my eyes swelling up, but I’m not giving her the satisfaction of letting a single salty tear dislodge and glide down my cheek.

  “I’ve already given you what I feel is an adequate explanation.”

  “You haven’t given me shit,” I state insistently. “I’m not exactly ‘over-the-moon’ with your answer. I’m not getting up from this chair until you offer something tangible. What you’re doing would be considered blatant profiling. It seems that I’m not getting considered for a job at this company because I didn’t walk in here with a pixie cut and boring shoes. Expressing femininity in an interview is far from a crime. Growing out your hair might be a good move if you want to keep that husband happy for a few more years.”

  Carolyn is stunned. Regardless of the bait, she’s not responding to my goading. She picks up the phone and presses a button. “Please send Todd to my office. Yes, right away.”

  “Oh, that is real mature. All I asked for was the definitive reason that I’m not being given a chance, and you refuse to be straight with me. Doesn’t that pole up your ass get uncomfortable when you sit?” By being truculent, I’ll exit with some self-respect since there is no way in hell I’ll ever be offered a job here.

  She leans back in her chair refusing to offer any additional interplay. Her hands are trembling. A few seconds later, she glances at the door.

  “Is there a problem here, Carolyn?” A gigantic security guard is standing in the entryway, sporting a crew cut, huge biceps, and beady eyes. He has a stocky neck made for V-necks. When I glance at his waist, an obstructed Taser is attached to his belt.

  “This interviewee refuses to leave my office,” Carolyn states. “We do not wish to conduct any further business with this young lady.”

  “Hiding behind his muscles. Nice play! Well, I’m more than ready to go.” I only cooperate because the guard is not my issue. “No point grabbing my arm or some other forceful gesture unless you want a harassment lawsuit dropped on this place. I am capable of walking alongside you.”

  “Come with me, please.”

  I do not look back at Carolyn; she isn’t worth a second glance, not even a sneer. Most of the over-educated are protected from the rules the rest of us are forced to follow. They don’t care how tough it can be for those less fortunate as long as it doesn’t converge with their lives.

  I’m escorted down the hallway like an unruly child being led to the principal’s office. As combative as I was in her office, it catches up to me in the form of acid reflux. Just short of reaching the doorway leading to the lobby, I stop and cradle my stomach.

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” I inform the security guard. “I’m not kidding.”

  “I can’t help that, ma’am. You’ll need to follow me.”

  “This light brown carpet is going to look very colorful when I excrete chunks all over it. I had a bowl of Lucky Charms this morning.” A belly full of good fortune didn’t help increase my odds of landing this position. “Unless you want the stench of marshmallow vomit wafting up the hallway all morning, you better find me a restroom, pronto.”

  “The closest latrine is to the right of the lobby.” Only a former military boy uses a word like ‘latrine’ to describe the shitter. “I can grab a garbage can out of an office if you can’t make it.”

  “I can make it that far, but let’s pick up the pace.” I’m not sure if I can keep it in for much longer.

  I feel more nauseous with each galloping step. A few feet from the entrance to the lobby, the women’s restroom comes into view.

  “You are to leave by way of the front door as soon as you’ve completed your business in there,” he instructs, firmly. “Don’t give Katie any lip on your way out. If I’m summoned to deal with you again, you will be arrested for trespassing. This is not an empty threat. Are we clear?”

  “100 percent!” I’m quite certain this no-nonsense boy is not playing around. “I am just as eager to leave this place. Excuse me.” Something tells me that a company this monstrous has some influence over lawyers, judges, and members of law enforcement.

  I rush into the stall, bend over, and try to heave. After several unsuccessful attempts, I pick myself from the tiled floor and climb onto the toilet. I pull my knees to my chest, lean back, and suck in deep breaths to calm down the upheaval in my gut. Before the first tear trickles, the outer door opens. I’m about to tell the security guard to bite my ass, but the clicking of pointed heels indicates that two women have entered my temporary sanctuary.

  “What is so secretive that you pulled me all the way down here? I shouldn’t be away from my desk for too long,” whispers the first unseen woman.

  “You are not going to believe what I’m about to tell you,” says the other woman as she bends down to look for feet under the stalls. Mine are resting on the edge of the toilet seat, so they have no idea I’m here. Without question, the second woman is Carolyn. Her sanctimonious tone will haunt me for the next week. “Take a guess who was just in my office.”

  “John Grisham?”

  “Get serious,” Carolyn says. “It wasn’t an author and Grisham isn’t even one of ours. I had a job applicant that thought she could slither under the radar.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Mandi McAllister. Have you heard of her?”

  “Sorry. The name escapes me. Should I know her?”

  “H
er uncle is Willie McAllister,” Carolyn says.

  God dammit! I can never escape the family curse, not even being 40 miles from home. Willie McAllister is the reason I’m unable to gain decent employment in Wilkinson Creek. After this revelation, I’m apparently banned from Bluff Ridge too. There are specific actions that are deemed unforgivable—no matter how long of a timeline.

  “I need to crack open a newspaper more often. Who is Willie McAllister?”

  “He was that creep from Wilkinson Creek that murdered at least a dozen people about two decades back.”

  “Oh, I do remember that,” the other woman recalls. “Wasn’t he the maniac that shot his victims in the back of the head, forcing them to watch their deaths in the mirror? That must have been grisly.”

  “It sure was,” Carolyn confirms. “I didn’t live here back then, but I’ve heard all the stories when first arriving. Once I determined that she was his niece, I couldn’t get her yanked from my office fast enough.”

  One murder spree and everyone feels the need to taunt and discriminate against the relatives of the convicted madman. Imagine being a ‘Dahmer’ living in Milwaukee after that crazed madman ate a bunch of people. Tell me that dropping that name wouldn’t hinder a few employment opportunities as well as your chances of getting a decent table at a restaurant. This burden has followed me around since shortly after my fourth birthday. She is acting like this just happened, but it took place 25 years ago. Get over it already!

  And just for the record, Willie murdered seven people, not a dozen. He wasn’t violent-by-nature; he snapped due to a series of successive downfalls. Within 24 hours, he lost his factory job and discovered that his girlfriend was doing the nasty with some big city dude looking for strange. Unbeknown to him, Tonya was quite the whore. To make matter worse, Willie was jumped by two assholes on his way home from a bar and was beaten severely. He might not have gone all “wacko” if those events didn’t occur in that sequence. I’m not saying that Willie wasn’t scum. Before that day, he was just his own worst enemy rather than a black spot on society.