Cellar Door

"If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"

æ

This bench is incredibly uncomfortable. The wood is hard, and I can feel it piercing my right butt cheek. For forty-five minutes, I've been shifting my position, tortured by the tiny bench...AND the dense air of this waiting room. This "doctor's" office looked quite aged but held a hidden elegance under its fading colors—very old elegance. A fan in the corner blows air in alternating streams, whirring away.

My eye jump to the glass coffee table. Several battered and outdated magazines lay askew. I grab the nearest one. On this one, a famous actor beams from the front page. The title stands out with its capital, yellow font:

50 TIPS TO LOSE WEIGHT AND LOOK INCREDIBLE

50 tips? Fifty-goddamn tips? Surely there aren't 50 tips in the universe of weight loss—heck, fifty tips for anything really. Fifty minutes waiting in this room... BUT there most certainly are ten tips? Maybe ten? Twelve. Yes. Twelve tips—

I'm irritated. The waiting—more like the anticipation—is killing me.

See, I used to have a job working customer service. Not retail, just phone calls. It was dull, but I got by. Up to there, all good. My life was uneventful but peaceful. However, quite unfortunately, after several "restructurings" and movements at the company, they fired me along with the rest of my colleagues. Surplus, they said. SURPLUS. Tsk. From night to day, I got a letter that appreciated me for my work, bid me farewell, and then kindly told me to fuck off.

Looking back at the magazine, I notice that something was off about the actor's face that I hadn't noticed earlier. Was it bad Photoshop? Bad plastic surgery? I look closer at the cover. Surely this person looks different than what I remember. Their eyes seem unnaturally off-center, as if lopsided. The eyes of the actor suddenly pierce into mine. It becomes physically uncomfortable to look at their face. I try to look away, but my eyes are tense, locked onto the actor's eyes. I force myself to blink twice. Eyes still lopsided, now even more pronounced. I close my eyes, feeling the edges of my hairline slightly fill with sweat, I repeat to myself "It's just your imagination".

I open my eyes and squint at the cover. The actor's face had returned to normal and now seems to look more as I remember. I turn the magazine over and back, trying to see if it feels different somehow. Maybe the page has a crease, or maybe I had a bit of a daydream.

"I wonder if he read the fifty tips," I mutter, feeling a bit of unease.

I throw the magazine aside and begin tapping my knee nervously with my fingers. I've been waiting for more than an hour, and nothing has happened. Apart from the interaction with the person at the desk, who is too small to see over the counter, I haven't seen or heard anybody else. Surely more applicants have come. Maybe the time slots are set up as such.

I shift in my seat, placing my spine at an unnatural angle, but feeling a bit more comfortable. I look at my watch. It is half-past two. I arrived at one o'clock, give or take.

The whole freakin' reason I am here is because I used to have a job, and they fired me. I thought we liked each other. Damn it.

Now when I say that I used to work for this company, this only goes so far. Truth be told, I have been unemployed for over six months. The money from my compensation has been naturally disappearing, little by little, as I obviously and depressively ate right through it. Rightfully so? Maybe. Smart? Not really—planning and execution are key. After careful analysis this last Sunday morning, while eating a giant bowl of cereal, I realized that my compensation was not self-replenishing. I needed a job, particularly because of the amount of cereal that I was inhaling. After sending many resumes and not receiving even one call back, the situation became dire, and as a result, I became desperate.

So I stole a newspaper from a park bench last Friday. Petty crime is now my thing.

The classified section had all sorts of odd jobs, here and there, but none that stood out. In any case, I needed some income, and anything temporary would do. Many of them were jobs that I couldn't do, like mechanical stuff and computer thingies. However, within the odd jobs, there was quite a peculiar ad:

APPLY NOW

Candidates that are ambitious

and have a great attitude.

$900-1400 per session.

On-premise housing during the duration of employment.

Meals (all breakfast served!), medical insurance,

employee benefits, and more!

To schedule an interview for candidacy, call: 887-866-8721

All candidates are subject to screening.

On-premise housing? If this didn't seem like the sketchiest ad ever... ugh...

...I guess it'll do. Reluctantly, but to hell with it, I'll call. A rush of confidence and some squirts of adrenaline filled me. I place my cereal to the side and call the number. A few rings and a woman answers.

"Hello?"

"Yes, hello. I am calling in regard to the ad, for the job ad...thing." Why did I say "thing"?

"Absolutely, would you be interested in applying?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Sure, let me just take down some of your information. One second."

I hear her shuffling around papers. I wait in anticipation wondering what the screening process is. I didn't actually prepare for this call at all. Should I hang up? Wait. She is still shuffling the papers around—maybe too many papers? The sound of the ruffling intensifies and seems rhythmic, as if keeping a certain pace. Are those papers? The sound abruptly stops, and she comes back on the phone.

"OK, what would your name be?"

"Otto Salas."

Some scribbling. The scribbles are comically all over the place, as if she is not writing, merely wildly scribbling on a piece of paper.

"Your best contact number would be the one you are calling from?"

"Yeah, sure. Do you need it?"

"No problem, we got it. Now you do understand that there is an on-premise requirement policy? Housing and all amenities will be provided. There will be more information if selected and you accept the terms.

"Yes?" A pause. "Yes." Confidence is key in an interview.

"OK, now we could set up a meeting on either Monday or Wednesday. Your choice."

"Umm... Monday would be fine." I disguise my desperation.

"OK, so we have that all set up. Are there any questions that you may have?"

"Yeah, I read on the paper...on the ad... that a screening... or selection process is needed. What kind of process is this? I haven't really any experience in that, to be honest."

"Experience is not required for the application. This role is merely related to observational studies. For the selection, we will look into your basic, publicly available, medical history and a minor psychological review is conducted—similar to a medical checkup, only that you talk to a psychologist as well."

"...and if I decide not to like...be a part of this?" I am not convinced. That sounds unnerving as fuck.

"No harm done. The work is slightly confidential, so we can't discuss certain details, only if selected, but I can assure you that it's quite harmless work, and the data—or research—is used for many positive and impactful causes—"

"Causes? What causes?" I interrupt.

A pause. "Well, our parent company is a worldwide leader in medical technology, development, and research, and holds ongoing relationships with multiple global healthcare facilities, biological and environmental research, and NGOs."

That seems reassuring, but I feel like I need to wait until they explain a little more, until I am able to say yes...more like until they say yes to my screening. Anyway, it can't hurt to check. Besides, they said that I can walk if I don't like it.

"I understand. Thank you for the opportunity... I'll see you then."

"Absolutely. So we have everything scheduled on our side, and we will be hoping you come in!" she says, clearly beaming.

"Thank you. One last thing. At what time do I come in?"

A pause, and then I hear her weird paper shuffle.

"Would one o'clock work for you?" she asks quickly.

"Sure. That would be fine."

"OK, see you then." The call clicks, and she is gone. I take another spoonful of cereal. It tastes better than before.

And as easy as six months later, I had scheduled an interview. At that time, I breathed easy and felt a wave of relief. It is in fact, a small and somewhat strange opportunity, but it was incredibly reassuring to know that all wasn't lost. However, now, I feel uneasy again. The day of the interview has finally arrived, and I am still sitting on that fucking hard-ass bench, waiting for somebody to tell me something.

I scan the room again. There's a beautiful saltwater fish tank near the reception. Inside of it, was a beautiful artificial reef structure that homed dozens of multicolored fish of all shapes and sizes. Even fish I have never seen before...ever...like ever-ever. Some have unusual shapes. Some seem oddly triangular and have strangely shaped fins. They must be expensive and exotic...or rescues. Do people actually find abandoned fish? It seems that whoever pays the bills is a very wealthy person or business. Strange that on the outside the building seemed quite ordinary... The woman I spoke to mentioned that they had a parent comp—

"Mr. Salas," said the voice from the phone behind the counter, breaking the silence. I had been trailing off and was startled. The receptionist peeked over the counter and gestured towards a door that was right next to me.

I had not noticed the beautiful metallic door. It was decorated with ornate steel patterns and had a beautiful dark chrome finish. I suddenly noticed a slight smell of oxidized metal.

"Yes!" I said a little too loudly. Finally.

"Dr. Navan is ready for you." The door beside me opened. I looked back at the reception, and he gestured me to go in.

"Good luck!" He said.

Luck? Luck is a split second from a blessing and a disaster.