Mark and his new client sat on opposite sides of the desk. Mark scanned the man’s application.
“Well, what can we do
for you Mister... I’m sorry. I can’t make out your handwriting on the
application.”
“Very well. Ishmael it
is then.” Mark wrote Ishmael at the
top of the application. “I understand you’d like to work in fiction.”
“Yes,
sir.”
Mark looked closer at the application. The handwriting was so poor that
he could barely make out any letters, let alone entire words, in the whole
thing. “So,” he said, forging ahead. “What is it that you do?”
Ishmael was perched nervously on the edge of the chair. “I’m a
fisherman,” he said.
“A fisherman?”
“Yes.”
“There seem to be a lot
of you running about these days. The man who just left was a fisherman, too.”
“That old man with the
dark tan?”
“That’s the one. Fella
from Cuba. The only English words he knew were Joe and DiMaggio.” Mark
chuckled.
“Joe
DiMaggio?” Ishmael said.
“Yes,” Mark answered.
“He’s a baseball player?”
Ishmael stared back blankly.
“New York Yankees?” Mark
tried.
Ishmael shrugged.
“Never mind. It’s not
important. So what kind of fishing do you do?”
“What kind?” Ishmael
echoed.
“Yes. Mister Santiago
was particularly apt at marlin fishing. Is that the kind of fishing you do?”
Mark executed a search for fisherman
on his computer, only half-listening to Ishmael’s response.
“Oh,
yes. Well, I can catch marlins, too. And bigger fish as well.”
Mark’s search had turned up half a dozen results, some with promise.
Izaak Walton was always on the lookout for fishermen, but Norman Maclean and
Paul Torday both had positions they wanted to fill.
“Bigger fish?” Mark
asked. “Like what?”
“Oh, um,” Ishmael
spluttered. “Like, um, mackerel?”
“Mackerel? Aren’t those
usually smaller than marlin?”
“Oh. Well. Some of them.
But I fish for the big ones. And they get, you know, pretty large. Larger than
a marlin, anyway.” Ishmael, for some reason, seemed unable to make direct eye
contact with Mark. “Those are just the smaller fish that I, um, fish for.”
“Okay,” said Mark. “What
else, then?”
“How about, uh, killer
whales? They’re pretty large, right?”
“I would think so,” Mark
said.
“Yeah. Killer whales.
All types of whales, really. Let’s see. There’s, um, blue whales. And sperm
whales. And, uh, killer whales.”
“Yes, you said that
already.”
“Right. Yes, well. To be
honest, I’m not so much a fisherman as a whaler. Doesn’t it mention that on my
application?”
Mark glanced at the scribbles in the Skills and Talents section of the
application. One of the scribbles looked like it ended in an -er, and it might have started with a w.
“So, a
whaler, then?” Mark said.
“Yes, sir.”
Mark cleared the screen of his previous search results and tried whaler. It returned only one result. “It
looks like you’re in luck, Ishmael. One of our more prolific authors is looking
for a whaler at the moment.”
“Wonderful!”
Ishmael replied.
Mark scanned his computer screen. “Oh, this might be quite lucrative as
well. Seems Mister Melville is looking for a whole crew of whalers, and one of
those lucky crew will be the story’s narrator, though not its main character.
Play your cards right and this could set you for life.”
“Outstanding! I could
really use an income boost right now.” This last he said as if he were speaking
to himself. When he noticed the quizzical look on Mark’s face, he smiled widely and said, “I’ll
get that top spot, believe me!” Ishmael wagged a finger in the air to punctuate
his confidence.
Mark filled out a contact card. “I’m sure you will. Here is Mister
Melville’s contact information. Take this card with you when you meet him.”
“I will!” Ishmael
exclaimed, taking the card and shaking Mark’s hand. He turned to the door and
opened it, but paused.
“Is there something else
I could help you with?” Mark asked.
“Yes. Is there a library
around here? I’d like to do a little, uh, research this afternoon.”
“Research? About what?”
Ishmael glanced at the contact card in his hand. “N-Never mind. I’ll find
it. Thanks again.”
He had disappeared from the doorway before Mark could say you’re welcome.
Through
the office door, Mark could see a rather unkempt, greasy-haired man bent over
Janice’s desk. The man looked up, locked eyes with Mark, and made a beeline for
his office. Seeming not to notice the secretary’s pleas of “you can’t go in
there!” he swept into Mark’s office, swung the door closed, and plopped into
the seat opposite Mark’s desk.
“I need a job,” the man
said.
The man seemed small in the chair, hunched over, and he stared at the
wall when he spoke. Not the wall behind Mark with the motivational “hang in
there” poster, but the wall to his right, which was completely empty.
“Well, fictional job
placement is what we do here. Do you have an appointment?” Mark asked.
“No.”
“That’s quite all right.
We get a lot of walk-ins here. If you could just fill out one of our
applications, then we could start the process of placing you in a good story.”
Mark held out a blank application. The man took it in one hand, glanced
at it, and set it down on Mark’s desk. “I would prefer not to,” he said.
Mark was perplexed. “I’m sorry?”
“I would prefer not to,”
the man repeated.
“Well, Mister uh...”
“Bartleby.”
“Well, Mister Bartleby—”
“No. Just Bartleby.”
“All right. Bartleby,
then. We really need you to fill out an application so we can match up your
specific skills and talents to the needs of our authors.”
“I would prefer not to.”
Not since Edmund Pevensie had he dealt with someone so unhelpful, but he
had successfully found a place for him. This Bartleby character would be a
challenge, but Mark liked challenges.
“All right, Mister
Bartleby—”
“Just Bartleby.”
“Bartleby, yes. What
kinds of things do you do, Bartleby?”
“Mostly just office
work. Filing, copying, that sort of thing.”
“Are you interested in
expanding from those skills into something more, I don’t know, exciting?”
“I would prefer not to.”
“Okay. Why don’t you
tell me what kind of role you’re looking for?”
“I don’t know. Your job
looks rather nice.”
Mark’s heart thumped.“My job?”
“Yes,” Bartleby stared
at the blank wall. “You have a nice desk. A nice office. Nice walls. Is your
job difficult?”
“Oh, well,” Mark
sputtered. His stomach turned at the sudden detour the interview had taken.
“We don’t have any open positions at the moment. Besides, you’re a fictional
character. You need a fictional job.” Hoping to get Bartleby out of his office,
Mark added, “You might try one of the silver-screen placement firms.”
“I would prefer not to.
I would rather work here, in print fiction.”
“But you wouldn’t really
be working in fiction. You would be
working outside of fiction.”
“If you
say so.”
“Oh.”
Moments passed in silence. Bartleby continued to stare at the wall, while
the tension in Mark’s stomach grew like a hungry badger.
“Look, Bartleby, my
position isn’t available. If you aren’t interested in finding a place in
fiction, there isn’t a lot I can do for you. I would like you to leave now.”
“I would prefer not to,”
Bartleby replied.
“You would pref—? Look,
man, I want you out of my office now!” Mark rose to his feet as his voice rose
in volume. He pointed at the door, but Bartleby remained unmoved. It seemed the
only way to get Bartleby out of his office was to either find him a job or
drag him out bodily.
Mark sat back down and collected himself. “Now that I think about,” he
said, “I think I have just the job for you. Would you be interested?”
“Yes,” Bartleby said
dully.
“Perfect!” Instead of a
contact card, Mark pulled a blank notepad from his desk drawer and quickly
scribbled down the contact information that was still on the screen. He tore the
sheet off the top and handed it to Bartleby, who took it with excessive amounts
of apathy. “Contact Mister Melville at your earliest convenience. He is, uh,
looking for someone just like you. He can certainly find a position for you!”
Bartleby took the paper and slipped it into his pocket. Without saying a
word, he stood, opened the door, and left the office.
Mark sat back in his chair and took slow breaths, trying to calm himself.
Janice popped her head in. “Who was
that guy?”
“I
don’t really know.”
“Did you find him a
role?”
“Not exactly, no. He
wanted my role. My job. Can you believe it?!” Mark shook his head. “Hell, let
Melville deal with him.”
“I’m
heading out the Atlas Chugged for some lunch. You wanna join me?” Janice asked.
“You sound like you could use a drink.”
“I’d prefer not to. Thanks.”