The Application
A really short, short story. With this in particular I'd be interested in some constructive criticism, so if you've got the time and interest, I'd love to know what you think!
I found an old job application yesterday. It was crumpled on the floor of my closet, reshaped into abstraction by the tidal forces of daily humdrum. I unfolded it, unsure of what it was at first, and found it was half filled out- I had stopped mid-sentence while explaining what my previous work at a fast food joint entailed. Though the firmly set creases obscured some of the letters, I could still make out most of the words as I squinted with fascination. I could tell that this was from my high school years even before my gaze had reached the education section, because of the handwriting. Was it really that bad? The similarities are too many to deny that it could be anyone but me, but really? The letters are squeezed together tightly, jumbled in all directions, inconsistent in their appearances.
Looking at it now I feel the same as I did yesterday- amused and a little sad. It’s a strange combination, amusement and sadness. Perhaps the word I’m looking for is nostalgia, a collection of syllables stolen from the Greeks that roughly translates to “pain for home”. It surprised me, I’ll say that. I’ve never missed high school in the slightest- those years were some of the most banal and frustrating that I can remember. Self-righteousness and arrogance stampeded through the halls of Middleton High School eight hours a day. To miss it, or to pain for those times, was new and…surprising.
I hadn’t even bothered to look at what the application was for- hold on, I forget even now…it was Wallace Brothers’ Unfinished Furniture. In retrospect, stocking wooden furniture doesn’t sound too bad given that I ended up working at a diner as a fry cook during my senior year. I burned my hands so badly from all that hot oil, but for better or worse it became the norm and I got used to it. The tiny round scars it left on my hands are just starting to fade years later. Lifting wooden furniture around would have been nicer.
Looking down at the paper now, I don’t have that same reaction as yesterday. The nostalgia is gone, whisked away after so much contemplation in the wake of its discovery. Then there’s- wait, what’s that? Down near where my signature should have been, a small, yellowish, translucent blot stands front and center. I know exactly what this is, having seen it so many times my senior year: a grease stain. I don’t know how I didn’t notice this earlier…the nostalgia blinded me. I must have already been working as a fry cook when I filled this out- already burning and scarring my hands, the air saturated with the filthy reek of hot oil. Why did I stop? Why was I filling it out at the very place where I was working? And WHY did I STOP? I was always a pretty complacent kid, but this, this is embarrassing. I can feel nostalgia’s melancholy sister trickling from my shoulders down into my chest: regret has come for me in full swing. I’m not like this still, am I? Am I still so complacent that I'd throw aside opportunity to prolong what was essentially the daily burning of my flesh? I was a stupid kid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I just hope I’m not soaking up a new kind of grease now, filing papers for some accounting firm. Perhaps one day I’ll see my life now just as I see this job application, and look upon the new scars that I could be making as I speak. Deeper scars, far worse and far more crippling than the dermal indentations from my youth. Scars on my back when I ease myself into a corner and then refuse to move, convinced that I can see any opponent in my stagnant outpost. This is my fear, this is who I am. Only time will be the judge of whether these terrible scars come into fruition, and whether I’ll ever be able to see them if they do.
I found an old job application yesterday. It was crumpled on the floor of my closet, reshaped into abstraction by the tidal forces of daily humdrum. I unfolded it, unsure of what it was at first, and found it was half filled out- I had stopped mid-sentence while explaining what my previous work at a fast food joint entailed. Though the firmly set creases obscured some of the letters, I could still make out most of the words as I squinted with fascination. I could tell that this was from my high school years even before my gaze had reached the education section, because of the handwriting. Was it really that bad? The similarities are too many to deny that it could be anyone but me, but really? The letters are squeezed together tightly, jumbled in all directions, inconsistent in their appearances.
Looking at it now I feel the same as I did yesterday- amused and a little sad. It’s a strange combination, amusement and sadness. Perhaps the word I’m looking for is nostalgia, a collection of syllables stolen from the Greeks that roughly translates to “pain for home”. It surprised me, I’ll say that. I’ve never missed high school in the slightest- those years were some of the most banal and frustrating that I can remember. Self-righteousness and arrogance stampeded through the halls of Middleton High School eight hours a day. To miss it, or to pain for those times, was new and…surprising.
I hadn’t even bothered to look at what the application was for- hold on, I forget even now…it was Wallace Brothers’ Unfinished Furniture. In retrospect, stocking wooden furniture doesn’t sound too bad given that I ended up working at a diner as a fry cook during my senior year. I burned my hands so badly from all that hot oil, but for better or worse it became the norm and I got used to it. The tiny round scars it left on my hands are just starting to fade years later. Lifting wooden furniture around would have been nicer.
Looking down at the paper now, I don’t have that same reaction as yesterday. The nostalgia is gone, whisked away after so much contemplation in the wake of its discovery. Then there’s- wait, what’s that? Down near where my signature should have been, a small, yellowish, translucent blot stands front and center. I know exactly what this is, having seen it so many times my senior year: a grease stain. I don’t know how I didn’t notice this earlier…the nostalgia blinded me. I must have already been working as a fry cook when I filled this out- already burning and scarring my hands, the air saturated with the filthy reek of hot oil. Why did I stop? Why was I filling it out at the very place where I was working? And WHY did I STOP? I was always a pretty complacent kid, but this, this is embarrassing. I can feel nostalgia’s melancholy sister trickling from my shoulders down into my chest: regret has come for me in full swing. I’m not like this still, am I? Am I still so complacent that I'd throw aside opportunity to prolong what was essentially the daily burning of my flesh? I was a stupid kid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I just hope I’m not soaking up a new kind of grease now, filing papers for some accounting firm. Perhaps one day I’ll see my life now just as I see this job application, and look upon the new scars that I could be making as I speak. Deeper scars, far worse and far more crippling than the dermal indentations from my youth. Scars on my back when I ease myself into a corner and then refuse to move, convinced that I can see any opponent in my stagnant outpost. This is my fear, this is who I am. Only time will be the judge of whether these terrible scars come into fruition, and whether I’ll ever be able to see them if they do.
