A bald young man in an orange jumpsuit with blood and a chunk of flesh in his mouth stood tall with fierce eyes, staring at another bleeding yet more imposing individual opposite him. His eyes were calm despite his trembling body, but the aggressor — despite being bigger and taller — did not imdiately move. The madness in those eyes elicited a profound fear down his spine, but only briefly. In this place, violence was just too familiar. In this place, madness and cruelty were the basic requirents to survive, so he ignored the blood on his ears and rushed forward, ready for the real fight. Suddenly, the attackers turned into a massive wolf as they jumped toward their targets, ready to shred the bald man apart.
Whawhawha!
Zane opened his eyes, drenched in cold sweat. "Not this dream again," he thought as he reached out for his phone and stopped the alarm. He sat on the edge of the small bed, which was not on the floor only because it was supported by four bricks, and took a mont to regain his bearings. Every ti he's too stressed, that dream will hunt him, and it seems to be happening more lately.
As he stood and headed out of the room, a small pile of books fell on the floor, but Zane ignored it. He passed the living room/kitchen to enter the cramped bathroom and stared at the mirror over the sink for a few seconds. By all Western beauty standards, he was a handso man: symtrical face, clear black skin with no pores visible, beautiful hazel eyes, short boxed beard, and pearly white teeth. The only disadvantage was that he was not considered tall at only 5'11".
The face of the bald man was superposed with Zane's visage in the mirror for a few seconds before disappearing. He exhaled deeply before brushing his teeth, flossing, and removing his wave cap to reveal his wavy hair and a sharp lineup. He put on a shower cap for a quick shower. After a round of hair oil and a few products, he put the wave cap back on to end his morning routine.
Zane headed to the kitchen, wearing nothing but a towel, revealing his well-defined body and a tattoo of a lion with flaming eyes on his pectoral muscle. He opened the fridge to reveal a few items: two remaining potatoes, an almost-empty bottle of ketchup, a bag of mozzarella cheese about to expire, and a jar of pickles with only one or two left. Zane frowned, then checked his phone, and sadly, he only had $12.45 to his na.
"I guess I'm improvising today," he thought, taking out the potatoes and the cheese. He first cut each of them into four sections, then added them to a pot with water and salt. While the water was boiling, he returned to his sleeping room to check on the only good suit he had. There was plenty of ti before the potato boiled, so he used this to put on his pants and iron out the white shirt.
After around ten minutes, he returned to the kitchen. First, the potatoes suffered a tragedy when he smashed them into a pan, then added the cheese, cornstarch, salt, garlic powder, onion powder, and paprika, and mixed everything until it reached a dough-like consistency. Zane moved the final result into a zip-lock bag and smashed it until it was an even 1 inch thick. He froze it for over 40 minutes before cutting it into strips. The last step was to heat a small amount of oil and fry the strips, thus creating a homade version of potato mozzarella sticks.
"I should have added a bit more salt once they were fried," Zane thought after taking the first bite. Overall, it was a decent al, and far from the worst or best he ever had. He checked his phone and saw that the train would be arriving soon, so he put on his vest, removed the cap from his head, took his bag, a half-empty pack of gum on the nightstand, a key-chain that resembled a handle, and rushed out of his apartnt.
Calling it an apartnt was a disservice to all apartnts, but it was more of a small studio. Unfortunately, that's the only thing he could afford, and barely at that. On his way to the train station, Zane dropped the morning garbage at a dumpster near the corner. The trash collector cos every two weeks, and since they recently ca, he didn't have to worry about trash piling up. However, he was surprised to find that soone had thrown away a perfect-looking century Bob punching dummy.
"What a waste," Zane thought before putting on his headphones and opening his main playlist, starting with Gloria Gaynor's hit, I Will Survive. Normally, he would walk since it was Manhattan and he had no money, but for this occasion, he steeled himself to spend the last bit of money he had left.
As soon as he entered, a few people stared at him, but that was normal. Zane wasn't lucky enough to find a seat on the train, but that was fine by him. With the music blasting at the highest volu, he had no problem waiting until his stop. He arrived at his destination forty minutes earlier, but five other individuals dressed formally were already waiting. And even more people arrived with each passing minute.
It took a while, but soon, a woman in a business suit walked to the sitting area and called, "Zane Kwa Skylar?"
"I'm here," Zane replied while ignoring how she butchered his middle na. He followed her into the room and sat opposite three individuals: two n and one woman. The three interviewers looked at a computer screen and muttered among themselves. Then, the middle-aged man in the center finally spoke:
"Your resu is impressive: graduating Suma Cum Laude and at the top of your class from MIT, with two Bachelor's in Robotic and Chemical Engineering, and two master's degrees in chanical and Software Engineering. You're trilingual and have countless internships under your resu.
"On paper, you are the kind of talent we are looking for, but there seems to be sothing missing. Why did you suddenly stop a couple of months into your Ph.D. program, and why is there a six-year blank period afterward?"
"Here we go," Zane thought while sighing to himself. "I was in…prison for five years, and I've been trying to rebuild my life since then." He knew he could not hide the truth from the company's background check, so the best approach was the truth.
"Oh?"
"Soone planted marijuana in my bag."
"Planted, you say?" The interviewer comnted, but it was apparent he was trying to hide his sneer.
"I—"
"The circumstances of your trial are not our concern," said the woman. "Our company has hired ex-cons, but the issue is your lack of experience."
"I need a job to acquire experience, but no one is hiring . But, as you can see, I've done many internships when I was in school, and I'm caught up in the latest developnts in the engineering world, and I have been working as a car chanic for the past year, which should count for experience," Zane explained.
"Do you really believe so?" the man on the left finally said.
"Hmm, yes."
"Well, thank you for your ti, Mr.Skylar," the central interviewer suddenly said. "We will contact you once we've made a decision."
"Please, I just need one chance," Zane swiftly said. These people only asked him one fewer than three questions, so he knew his chances were almost zero.
"Our company will choose the best candidate for the position," the woman said. "And if you are that candidate, we will select you. Now, our ti is valuable, so please leave the premises so we can continue this interview session."
"I understand, and thank you for your ti," Zane sighed. This was the 117th job application in two months, and only the third ti he had reached the interview stage. At least, these people allowed him to get this far. Zane left the building and walked more than 20 miles to return ho. He used this long voyage to reflect on his life.
Everything started going downhill that night five years ago. He was now 28 years old, and based on the plan he had for his future, he should have been a millionaire, if not a billionaire, with the resources and knowledge to change the world. However, his luck seed to have hit rock bottom ever since soone reported him for the possession of marijuana, and the MIT campus police arrested him.
Zane arrived ho in a daze, and when he looked at his small apartnt, he wanted to smash everything around him. However, his poverty woke him from the needless anger. He changed into black jeans, a blue t-shirt, and his dirty and beat-up black Air Force Ones before heading to the library. Reading was the only way to calm him down. So, for the next four hours, he spent his ti with his head in a book or in his notebook, drawing blueprints for things he would like to build. Once he felt he had cald down enough, he exited the library and headed to the local park for a run. Probably the only positive outco of his ti in prison was his newfound love of exercise.
Zane worked up a nasty appetite after running for so long, so he prepared to head to the nearest bodega to buy himself a sandwich. With the $10 left in his bank account, he can have a sandwich at the bodega and have enough to buy a few potatoes to make today's breakfast again. However, midway through his trip, his phone rang, and he looked at the caller: Unwanted Twin.
"What do you want?"
"You were supposed to call after the interview," said a woman's voice.
"Oh."
"That's all you have to say?" Alisha asked.
"I forgot."
"…I'm guessing things didn't go well?"
"You would guess correctly," Zane sighed.
"…Zane, I know you have your own pride and all, but I think you have reached the point where you have to be realistic," Alisha said. "There is a job in the cafeteria, and I can put in a good word for you."
"I'll think about it."
"You always say that."
"And I an it this ti," Zane sighed.
"You an it?"
"I do."
"Good, send your resu, and I'll do the rest," Alisha nodded.
"Alright."
"Anyway, I'm about to take my lunch break. Do you want to join?"
"Are you buying?"
"I know you're broke, so yes, I am buying."
"I knew I loved you for a reason," Zane smiled. "Wait, Sarah won't be there, will she?"
"No, she won't."
"Good. Tell where we're going?"
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