With Every Fall
The sky was beginning to cloud over, but he was already sitting in a small waiting room that smelled of cardboard, trying to smooth his wrinkled T-shirt with his hands. Across from him, the interviewer, a bald, stocky man with an intimidating mustache, watched him from the other side of the desk.
That cardboard smell, mixed with a hint of sweat and stale coffee, reminded him of the boxes from his childhood moves.
The interviewer's mustache, thick and black, looked like a threatening caterpillar, moving in rhythm with his words.
He, meanwhile, was thinking about the melody he had composed the night before, a mix of synthesizers and electric guitar. He wondered if he should add lyrics to it, something about pain and hope.
The image of cardboard boxes blended in his mind with that of brown canvases, waiting to be filled with color.
—So, tell me, do you have experience handling boxes?
—Uh… well, I once helped my cousin move. I carried boxes all weekend. Very heavy, but, you know, I managed, he said with a smile, trying to project confidence, though his voice trembled slightly.
The memory of boxes stacked inside the moving truck, swaying rhythmically, came back to him.
As he spoke, he mentally sketched the waiting room, imagining it rendered in an abstract, geometric style, very minimalist, full of contrasts. The interviewer's mustache would turn into a rectangular black stain over his mouth, as if silencing him, something like a symbol of censorship.
The man stared at him, clearly skeptical.
—This isn't about carrying boxes. It's about making them. Do you know how to use an industrial stapler?
—Sure, he said with great confidence. "How different can it be from a regular one?" he thought.
He imagined the industrial stapler as a giant version of the one on his desk, easy to handle, child's play.
He thought about how he could use it to create a metal sculpture, something abstract and provocative.
The interviewer gave him a suspicious look, then pulled out an industrial stapler and a couple of sheets of cardboard.
—Alright. Go ahead. Do it.
He saw it and was surprised by its shape, but he took the stapler with a forced smile and examined it as if it were an alien weapon. He pulled the trigger hard and fired a staple that flew toward the wall, embedding itself dangerously close to the man.
—Careful! the interviewer shouted.
—Uh… well, it seems like it needs calibration, the aim's off, haha, he said, trying to joke.
The staple, lodged in the wall, looked like a dart thrown by a beginner. A cold sweat ran down his back.
The man sighed, frowning, but decided to give him another chance.
—Alright, let's try something else. I need you to assemble this box as fast as possible.
He pulled out several cardboard pieces and placed them in front of him. Alex threw himself into the task with almost desperate enthusiasm, folding and stapling as best he could. In the end, however, the box looked like an abstract sculpture, with sides that wouldn't close and an unstable base. The cardboard, rebellious and slippery, resisted his attempts to shape it into a rectangular prism.
Suddenly, he began to see the box as a piece of conceptual art, a critique of the perfection imposed by society. He thought about how he could exhibit it in a gallery, with a provocative title.
The interviewer stared at the result in disbelief.
—That… is not a box. It's… I don't know what that is.
—It's dysfunctional art, he replied with a nervous smile.
The smile, tense and forced, failed to hide his anxiety.
—This isn't a museum. It's a box factory. Look, let's try something simpler, the man said, clearly losing patience. —Just stack those empty boxes in that corner.
Alex nodded, grateful for a simple task. He began moving the boxes, but as he placed the last one on top, he lost his balance and the entire stack collapsed, hitting a lamp that fell and shattered a glass of water on the desk, soaking both of them.
—For God's sake! the interviewer shouted, jumping to his feet.
The artist, drenched by the splashing water, raised his hands in apology.
—Well… I think there's room for improvement.
The cold water soaked his T-shirt, making him feel like a fish freshly pulled out of water.
The man stared at him with a mix of anger and resignation.
—Thank you for coming. We'll… call you.
Alex stood up with a nervous smile, shaking out his clothes.
—Perfect! I'll be waiting for your call!
He left the building, trying to recover some dignity.
As he walked, he checked his wallet and saw the few bills he had left. He sighed, thinking:
"Well, at least I can still afford a pizza."
Pizza, an ephemeral comfort.
As he walked toward the pizzeria, he wondered if he would ever find a job meant for him, if he would ever manage to escape that cycle of failures.
But deep down, he knew his real job was to create, and that maybe one day, somehow, the job of his dreams would become real.