Now Hiring

Three to five years of work experience in a related field required.

The lethal phrase mocks me from the very, very bottom of the webpage. Hastily, I scroll back to the top, wondering if I’d misread the job listing. I hadn’t: Junior Research Assistant, Entry Level, it claims.

A small groan escapes me as I close the webpage, yet another dead end. My computer’s fan is running audibly, struggling to support the three versions of a resume and four versions of a cover letter crowding my screen. USAJOBS, Indeed, and Glassdoor fight for dominance in my web browser.

“Still doing okay?” a hovering barista asks.

My fingers close around my long-cooled latte, purchased nearly two hours ago. “I’m fine, thank you.”

The barista’s pinched smile informs me that I am perilously close to being classified as a squatter. But if I can just make it another half hour, I can knock out one more application before my work shift. The point of diminishing returns on a second coffee purchase has long passed.

I open my notebook and take inventory: 52 job applications this month, 3 automatically generated rejection letters, 49 no-replies. A fairly standard turnout. From the corner of the cafe, a tv heralds the morning news to the roomful of half-listening patrons. The President’s familiar face alights on the screen, newly-elected enough to still be palatable.

“What we need now, as a country, are bright young minds,” says the president. “Across the intelligence community, there is a massive shortage of people with degrees in national security related fields: cybersecurity, counter-intelligence, counter-terrorism. There are hundreds of jobs waiting to be filled by those that take the time to study this field. What are you waiting for?”

I refresh the browser tab open to USAJOBS: No current openings for “Cybersecurity” or “Counter-intelligence”. Please try another search term. Sighing, I switch back to Indeed, hoping for something in a lower salary bracket.

My phone vibrates, skittering against the side of my laptop.

“Hello? Milo?”

“What are you doing?” demands my best friend’s voice.

“I’m at the cafe. Applying to jobs.”

He groans. “Is this going to be how you spend all your days off?”

“I’m not off today, I have the late shift.”

“In this weather? I thought everything was closed because of the blizzard.”

“Everything except the service industry,” I correct, watching one of the baristas lay down towels by the door to absorb the snowmelt. Outside, flurries batter the window with renewed force. “Aren’t you working the restaurant today?”

“No, Ari. I work the restaurant Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturday brunch. Today is Tuesday.”

“Right, right. Which means you’re…driving Uber?”

He gives me a longsuffering sigh. “No, that’s Saturday night and Sunday. Today’s Tuesday. I’m Queen Drama.”

“Ohhhhhh.” I glance outside. “The drag show isn’t canceled because of the blizzard?”

“Drag bars count as the service industry too, you know. Freddie’s Tuesday Night Show stops for nothing! And Queen Drama”—I hear the rustle of sequins—“isn’t afraid of a little snowstorm. Gotta hustle, it’s the only way to stay alive. Speaking of which, I got this new gig on Wednesdays…”

My attention falters, drifting back to the news broadcast. It’s switched to a special called: Content To Rent: Why Millennials Aren’t Buying Houses.

“Kids these days,” says the woman sitting one table over from me. She looks about in her mid-fifties, chatting with a friend over tea. She points to the tv screen. “They just don’t want to settle down. It’s the decay of family values, I tell you.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Helen,” her friend replies. “If they got off their asses and got an education like we did, they wouldn’t be whining about not being paid enough. It’s a drain on society.”

“Isn’t it sad?” Helen sighs. “I used to babysit in my neighborhood, and what did I do with that money? I saved it up to put myself through college! Of course, my parents helped, but so do everyone’s. That’s normal.”

“And then you met Dave,” her friend agrees, “and you’ve lived in the same house ever since!”

“Exactly! Easy as pie!” cries Helen, spreading her hands. “Speaking of which, Dave’s thinking of retiring. He’ll hand the firm down to one of our kids, just like his dad did for him back when we got married…”

“Ari, hello? Are you even listening to me?” Milo’s insistent voice yanks me out of my eavesdropping.

“Milo, you’re an econ major, right?”

“Why are you asking questions you know the answer to?” he replies.

“How much is a down payment on a house? Like, a little one. One bed, one bath.”

Milo barks a laugh. “More than you and I will make in ten years combined, honey.”

“What if we crashed with our parents and didn’t have rent payments?”

“Still.”

“What if we didn’t buy food?”

“Then we’d be dead. And then it would probably still take about five years, by the way. Speaking of making money, how’s the job hunt going?”

I stare at the Indeed listing pulled up on my browser. Customer Service Representative, Entry Level. Ability to work weekends required. Health insurance not provided. Three years of experience in the field preferred. Hourly pay, annual earnings approaching $30k.

“Not great,” I tell Milo.

“You could always take up my strategy instead,” he suggests.

“I have chronic back pain, Milo. I can’t handle four jobs at once.”

“Four little jobs are easier to get than one big job, though.”

“Sure, Drama Queen.” I stand to leave, avoiding the barista’s righteous stare. “Speaking of which, I have to get to my shift.”

“That’s Queen Drama, to you!”

I sleep in late the following day, compensating for a late night at the warehouse. My feet are too numb to be sore, a handy benefit of 9-hour shifts on concrete floors. When I first went to work at Cadabra Industries, I was told I’d be joining the most efficient company in the country, which sounded impressive at the time. Nowadays, I’ve begun to understand that efficiency is less a matter of corporate ingenuity than of cutting lunch breaks to fifteen minutes. On the plus side, though, the medical insurance is almost enough to cover my chiropractic bills.

I apply a perfunctory amount of makeup while my coffee brews, scowling at today’s square on my wall calendar. The dreaded Virtual Class of 2017 Reunion has arrived, which I am sorely tempted to skip. But a failure to show would feel tantamount to defeat. So I straighten the artwork on my apartment wall, tilt my webcam flatteringly, and dive into the abyss.

At first, it isn’t all that bad. There are enough people online that it’s easy for me to melt into the background, smiling at relevant moments without having to contribute. And then, horrifyingly, we are told to split into chatrooms according to our majors. I am left fumbling for the mute button as myself and three others are siphoned off into the Cybersecurity Theory and Strategy chatroom.

I am the only woman. I am the only one who wasn’t hired by a three-letter agency straight out of college. I am the only one without blond hair and blue eyes. While utterly unrelated, of course, I can’t help but feel crushed by all the different ways I am alone in this virtual room.

The four of us had approached the tipping point of our lives in the exact same way, and we’d all come out of it with the same diploma. We’d gotten handshakes from the same professors, who had promised to write all our letters of reference. In the end, they’d only remembered to write three out of four, for some reason.

Pleasantries are exchanged before the dreaded “what have you been up to since graduation” question gets kicked around. I am forced to admit to settling for a food service job at first, before settling again for a job at Cadabra Industries. I tell them my current title—Fulfillment Associate—which does exactly what it’s meant to: it makes me seem like a part of something, and hides the fact that I stack boxes in a frigid warehouse for a living.

I endure the pity. And then I listen to them talk to one another, forgetting me entirely:

“I’m having lunch with the Director and his wife next Thursday, you should join us! He’ll remember you from that internship, I’m sure.”

“How are housing prices in your area? I’m about ready for something more permanent, you know? I’ve got the down payment ready to go, thanks to my parents.”

“I’m gunning for a raise next month, my supervisor told me it’s all settled. Great guy—did you know he’s a good friend of my dad’s?”

I escape the usual way, faking a prior engagement and slipping into the ether of the offline world. A bottle of wine and four applications on USAJOBS later, I fall asleep on the couch in my dress shirt and sweatpants.

Hours later, my ringtone splits the silence, jolting life back into me.

“H-hello?”

“I’m outside your apartment,” says Milo’s voice.

I observe the clock, trying to remember which of his jobs happens at 4:12 on a Wednesday afternoon. “Are you driving? Do you have a pickup here, or something?”

A sigh. “I only do Uber Saturdays and Sundays, Ari. Today is Wednesday. Hurry up.”

Downstairs, I find Milo with a leash in each hand and a pair of Shih Tzus tangling around his ankles. His baseball cap—a hideously bright shade of green—bears a logo of a paw print.

“New gig!” he says brightly. “Twenty bucks per walk, can you believe it? People without time to spare will pay for anything!”

I frown at him. “I thought you hated dogs?”

“Oh, I do. And so do you. Come on!”

I rub my eyes. “I don’t want to come dog walking with you, Milo. My back hurts.”

“Some time outside will do you good,” he insists. “Just around the block and back. Let’s go!”

“I’m not in the mood,” I protest, but he’s already halfway down the sidewalk, and I find myself following.

“Wasn’t your class reunion today?” he asks after a moment.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Forget those losers.” He untangles the dogs, handing me the end of one of the leashes. “You should take a page out of my book instead.”

I yank my assigned Shih Tzu away from a passing squirrel. “I don’t want to work for minimum wage anymore. I got my degree, that should count for something.”

“Things only count when there’s someone there to count them. Not an algorithm on Indeed, or Glassdoor, or FreedomJobsRUs.”

“USAJOBS,” I correct, pulling my buzzing phone from my pocket.

“Algorithms don’t think, Ari, they just read. Hell, they don’t even do that, they just scan for buzzwords. And despite what our parents think, taking a paper resume door to door doesn’t cut it anymore. Underpaid receptionists throw that shit away on sight! All it does is waste paper and time. Are you listening?”

I lag behind, phone frozen in my hand. I reread the email notification thrice before daring to speak: “I have an interview tomorrow.”

The morning arrives full of promise, and at 10:55am, I find myself shaking the hand of Brad Bishop, Senior Director of Blackhawk Analytics. The rush of the interview rings in my ears, and I know beyond a doubt that I’ve put my best foot forward. I have the right degree. I have the right skill set. This could be it—a new tipping point, a new career.

Brad thanks me for my time. Steph, the Personnel Manager, assures me that I’ll be hearing from someone within the week. I depart the interview room in high spirits, before realizing I’ve left my hiring packet behind.

As I retrace my steps down the hall, I hear the voices of Steph and Brad still emanating from the interview room. I slow my pace to listen.

“Please tell me that’s the last one,” Brad groans.

“You know the rules,” says Steph. “We’re required to post the job opening externally, it’s the law.”

“More idiotic legal red tape! Everyone knows we’re just promoting Chris.”

“On that note: who’s going to answer the phones, now that Chris is getting a shiny new title?”

Brad gives a short laugh. “Are you kidding? Chris is! I’d hire a secretary part-time to fill in, but there’s no need. Chris was working food service before he got here, remember? Couldn’t get a job with a History degree. He’ll be thankful—desperate, even—to keep this job for another few years. And you know what that means?”

“No new salaries to pay,” Steph says. “No new benefits packages.”

“That’s right, Steph.” He snaps his fingers. “Any extra work we want off our plates? Give it to good old Chris! He’ll lap it up. And take that damned job posting down, will you? We’ve filled our quota.”

As I hurry back the way I came, I can feel the last vestiges of my optimism dissipating. Blood boiling, I pass the row of cubicles that had so recently looked like salvation, now dismal to my stinging eyes. Had I not eavesdropped, I might have held out hope for a rejection letter—maybe even one written by a person, not the auto-generated kind. But now I know to expect only silence.

I find a chair in the lobby to wait for my Uber. Absentminded, I clear the good-luck text notifications from my lockscreen: mom, dad, Milo, their optimism biting the dust one by one. I pull my notebook out of my purse, adjusting my tally: 52 job applications, 4 rejections, 48 no-replies.

“America’s need has never been greater!” croons the tv in the corner, and I look up. The newsfeed is of the President, speaking from a podium, surrounded by young people in caps and gowns. “There simply aren’t enough smart young people that have what it takes—the dedication, the drive, the passion to get their education. But you’ve done it, ladies and gentlemen! Now, there is no excuse, nothing left standing in the way of you changing the world!”

Outside, I shut the door to my Uber a little too firmly, already dialing Milo’s number.

“Hellooooo, you’ve reached Queen Drama!”

I frown. “Isn’t it Thursday? I thought today is restaurant day?”

“You remembered! I’m touched. But my shifts got swapped, so I’m serving tomorrow and today I’m—wait, are you out of your interview? How did it go? Tell me everything!”

I take a steadying breath. “Will you write me a letter of reference for the dog walking company? And maybe the restaurant, too?”

A long, commiserating pause. “Honey,” Milo says at last, “of course I will.”