1 The Beginning

I am Gabriel Necatus

I hate sitting still. As a matter of fact, I cannot sit still. I have to fidget: twirl a pencil, tap my foot, twist my fingers together, something. If I try to control it, then I start twitching. It’s not just me - we all do it. It’s a part of who we are. I find it quite ironic, considering what we do causes the most still stillness ever known to mankind, but then it has to have some humor right?

My lips twitch upwards at this thought, but the flash of a smile disappears the second later as a girl with fiery-red hair comes out the door I’m sitting across from. She closes it softly behind her and nods in acknowledgment at me. I unbutton and re-button my black dress shirt. The grey door in front of me doesn’t move. It’s drab grey color blends in with the drab grey walls and drab grey seats that feel like mutilated metal trying to be comfortable and failing splendidly.

I reposition myself and finger my tie. It’s a dark green, which I’ve been told compliments my eyes, which are supposedly a pine-tree kind of green. I don’t really understand how a tie  can make my eyes look better, but then I’m also told that I'm practically a fashion criminal, so I can’t talk.

I’m starting to pick at my calluses when the door handle moves and the door is swung open.

‘Mr. Necatus?’ A woman in a bright red shirt and tight black skirt says. I get up and tangle my fingers together.

‘This way, please.’ She steps aside to let me in, closing the door behind me, her shoes clicking on the drab grey floor. If it weren’t for her outfit, I’d think these people were color-blind. Compared to the gray-soaked  hallway she leads me down, I wonder how she’s remained immune to the lack of color. She turns down another (drab grey) hallway, and keeps walking. I watch her shoes, which are so tall that her toes must be aching. Surely women break some toes wearing such ridiculously vertical shoes. The girl in front of me, however, does not show any sign of discomfort. I wonder fleetingly if maybe women get their feet surgically adjusted for high-heels as she leads me into an office.

‘Mr. Kerdan will be with you shortly.’ She give me a smile and closes the door as she leaves. This office (Thank, Thanatos) is not grey. Instead it is lined with mahogany cabinets and carpeted in a charcoal-colored material that is about as warm and comfortable as a block of ice.

I sit down in a dark red client chair on one side of the large mahogany desk, which is covered in stacks of organized objects and papers. I trace the outline of the chair as I sit, and then move onto beating my fingers to the beat of a funeral march. I’m nearly finished when the door opens and closes behinds me rapidly and a short man - maybe 5’8” - marches behind the desk, and deposits himself in the rolling chair on the other side. His grey hair is military short, his eyes a dark brown, his mouth and chin somewhat weak, and his mustache neatly trimmed to line his upper lip.

‘Gabriel.’ He says in a surprisingly strong, snappy voice, ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Victor Kerdan. I’m sorry to keep you waiting for such a long time.’

He stands up abruptly, to a cabinet drawer to his right. ‘I’ll just pull up your file and then we can discuss further education and internship, locations, preferences, and the like.’

He says this all so fast I almost forget to fidget. He is silent for a minute as he goes through a line of folders, then jerks one out and shoves the drawer closed. He opens the folder on his desk and glances at the contents as he sits down.

‘Right. So you took a lot of night classes.’ He comments. I nod. He looks at the pages some more then closes the file with a snap and fishes out a pen from his shirt pocket. He opens a drawer in his desk, and pulls out a pad of forms and writes my name and the date at the top.

‘So tell me, Gabriel, what you wish to achieve in your future education and or internship.’

‘I hope to apply my knowledge in a realistic situation and deal with decisions rather than theories. At the moment, I am not certain which pathway I wish to proceed upon, however, I am eager to explore them both.’ I say by rote.

Kerdan doesn’t write my words down and I’m fairly certain he could recite my answer, he’s hear it so many other times, though he nods  and fixes me with an interested gaze as if I’ve discovered a new galaxy.

‘And what times do you prefer to work?’

I know he’s expecting to hear the usual ‘day shift’ response, but I don’t give it. ‘Night shift.’

His eyes flicker from his page up to me for a second in surprise and he writes this down.

‘Is this preference developed from the night school?’ I want to shrug, but shrugging is considered indecision and it looses you points. Instead I respond, ‘Partially. I also find that I simply have a nocturnal nature.’

‘And is there a specific location you have in mind? Hospitals? Homes? Streets?’

‘No, sir.’

Kerdan checks off a box at the bottom of the page.

‘So I suppose there isn’t a special school you’d prefer above others to attend?’

‘No, thank you.’ I tell him politely even though I feel as if this would’ve been a lot simpler and quicker if I’d just been asked to fill out a form to turn in and not had to deal with this meaningless interview.

Kerdan flips the page over and rips it off the pad. He signs on a line and then slides the page and pen to me.

‘If you could sing on the line please.’ He points and I sign.

‘Thank you.’ He says, folding the page. He dials a number on the desk phone and the vertical-shoes woman is back.

‘Carla, if you could please take this.’ He hands her the slip. He stands up and I follow suit. We shake hands while Kerdan tells me what a pleasure it was to meet me for all of the few minutes he ‘interviewed’ me for, and that I should expect a response sometime the following week.

I thank him as if he healed me of some terminal disease, because that’s what I’m suppose to do, and then I follow Carla High-Heels out.