Job's Lament

I

         Job had never really considered the implications of his name. All he knew was that his parents must have had a good reason for naming him after a biblical character. In fact, he figured the reason was so good that he didn’t even need to ask what it was (Actually, Job’s parents, Bob and Marcia, gave him his name after flipping through a bible looking for a name that “sounded really damn holy.” The only reason they used a bible at all was that Marcia’s parents insisted that Job be named from to bible, to counterbalance the fact that he was born 2 months after Bob and Marcia married, and otherwise he would go to hell, and no one would want that).

At any rate, Job figured that since his name came from the bible, he’d better act like it, and thus tried to live his whole live as respectably as possible. He was of average height, had clean-cut, straight brown hair, brushed his teeth twice a day (and flossed), and went to church on Sundays. This method of living life had worked quite well for him, and he ended up as a bank teller in his home town in Ohio.

The problem was that Job happened to be the only person around him in his workplace that had gotten this far without understanding really anything that was taught to him. Job went through motions like a professional. Job had never really even understood that he was going through the motions. He was blind at best, like a man waving his cane about who didn’t realize that eyes existed at all. At worst, he was intellectually comatose.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Evidently Job was in such a stupor now.

“How may I help you, ma’am?” Job straightened himself out, mentally slapped himself in the face, and prepared to help the woman waiting for him to do his job.

“I’d like to withdraw some money…” Her voice faded into oblivion. Job had a stupendous ability of doing things without actually consulting his senses. Somehow, it worked out and he always got people their money just the way they wanted it.

Job got through school in a similar way. It wasn’t really that he worked himself to death, day in and day out, although he certainly did more work than he had to due to his lack of understanding of the basic rules of the world. Basically he did what exactly what the class demanded. He didn’t have to fight any nagging voices in the back of his head telling him any other way to do it because there weren’t any voices there at all. His stifling lack of creativity and awareness, combined with his generally clean and tidy appearance made authority figures at least respect him. “That’s a man who knows how to follow orders,” they’d always say. It got him through 12 years of school, 4 years of economics at a nice state college, and a nice job at his uncle’s bank.

“Thank you!” The woman smiled at him, gave a slight, almost imperceptible wink, and walked out of the building, a satisfied customer. Job slowly faded back into reality like he was awakening from a slumber.

In truth, bank telling was not a very good job for Job. He was impersonal, absent-minded, and stared into space like he had just smoked a large amount of marijuana. If his town were any larger, identity thefts and fraud would be serious problems for someone as dull as Job to catch, and even as it was his customer service skills were roughly equivalent to those of a zombie, only with significantly less brain-eating.

And yet, somehow it worked. People liked Job. His coworkers were always looking up to him, even though he didn’t realize it. Finally, the archstone to the whole thing was that Job was too unaware to realize that he should be actively hating his job while he stood there contemplating solemnly the fine-grained (faux) dark wood panels that composed his immediate surroundings .

Slowly the hours eked by, Job an impartial observer like a stone to a glacier creeping over it. At 5:07, he blankly walked out the glass doors, closing his eyes to avoid the glare that the sun cast through the shoddily tempered glass.

When he opened his eyes again, he was lounging on his worn home couch with a scotch in hand. Logically, he must have opened his eyes for the fifteen minute drive home, but Job figured he just zoned out. (At this point, it is an unequivocally good thing that Job does not understand anything at all, for anyone else in this situation would fear for their life, which would severely hamper the following discussion).

Job was so concentrated on the heady flavor of his scotch that it took him roughly five minutes to notice that a red horned man was standing on the opposite side of his coffee table, waiting patiently. Even after he noticed the man, nothing in his brain started to click. He simply stared.

Naturally, the devil is very patient. He has been known to wait for days, weeks, even years to confront someone. If you were to meet him, (For all I know, you have already. I’m looking at you, lawyers.) you would actually be quite surprised at how calm and nonchalant he appeared to be. He almost had an enlightened air about him, as if he fundamentally was at peace with the world around him (although this is probably not the case). However, his face visibly eased up when he saw that Job was finally ready to chat.

“Hey, man.” The devil always plays it cool.

“Umm… hello.” Job was at a loss for words, a symptom common to him.

“How’s about we have a little talk?” It felt as if the devil was simply making small talk before he launched into a smooth jazz piece. One could almost forget the hellfire and the souls of the damned that were bursting from the ground below him.

“Okay.” Job was taking this remarkably well. The devil figured that he possibly wouldn’t even have to be intimidated.

“Now, I’ve been watching you for a while, and I’ve got to say, it looks like you really need something.”

“What’s that?” Job wasn’t really all that interested, but he was playing along because he had nothing better to do.

“You seem to be doing pretty well in life, but there looks like a little bit of it that’s missing, and that’s smarts. I’ve known you for a long time, Job, and I can tell that you’re bullshitting everything you do.” The bait was cast…

“What?” The devil knew that he had this one.

“I can give you those smarts, in exchange for one little thing: your soul.” It took all of the devil’s self-restraint to not drop the “kool kat” pretense and burst into maniacal laughter. Times really had changed.

“…I don’t think I really need that. I mean, I don’t see anything wrong.” The fish was too dumb to realize that there was bait in front of it. The devil buried his face in his palm.

“Listen. Trust me on this one. You really need this intelligence.” The devil was floundering, this wasn’t working anymore.

“No thanks, man. I don’t think that I need any – (job caught himself) more – intelligence.” Job may have sounded and acted calm and collected, but deep inside him he noticed just a little bit of nausea. Talking with the devil is sort of uncomfortable, especially when he’s acting unpredictably.

The devil started to lose his composure, and decided to just go for broke.

“You puny mortal speck! Your short, unaware mortal coil shall bend and shatter under the unholy wrath of THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS!” The devil was now about 40 feet tall, his skin, formerly red, was now red and black at the same time, and glowing. His trident had three cobras as prongs, and they appeared to be not very well-fed (and as a result, hungry). His satyr-like horns had grown to resemble that of a bull, and on his chest, it looked as if someone had engraved “616,” crossed out the “1,” and replaced it with another “6.”

“I shall e you from existence…” Job had spent a rather large portion of his adolescence being yelled at by various people for not doing various things (primarily because he didn’t understand how). This was quite familiar turf for him, and it was almost a relief as he settled out of his senses and contemplated fervently how the ice cubes in his scotch got hairline cracks in them. He still hadn’t figured it out 15 minutes later when he noticed that there was much less hellfire and brimstone in the room than he had gotten accustomed to. He snapped back into vision and hearing, and resumed drinking his scotch, now sans devil.

Job had a nice frozen dinner of cube steak and more scotch, Job settled down on his couch and turned on his television. He didn’t have cable, but it was irrelevant because he simply watched whatever was on for a few hours. If someone changed the channel to static, Job wouldn’t even change it back. He just used it to mellow himself and as an aid to zoning out. At 9:55, right at the climax of a crime show, he turned the television off and walked slowly to his bedroom. After getting ready to go to sleep, he opened up his bible, sat on his bed, and began reading. It wasn’t really reading, just a mental retreading of words he’d seen before, without any understanding. He was currently midway through his eponymous book, and he had not only not noticed the plot of the story (and thus failed to tie it back to his own rather strange experience), he didn’t even notice that he shared a name with the titular character. After twenty or thirty minutes of reading, Job closed the book, put it on his bedside stand, and lay down for sleep.

II

Usually, when Job lay down to sleep, he closed his eyes and that was that, he would wake up the next morning, fresh as an apple on the tree, without more than a few seconds of memory between closing his eyes and opening them again. This time, however, Job noticed that he was still noticing things. Five minutes passed, then ten, and try as he might, Job couldn’t get to sleep. This was sort of a weird experience for him, as insomnia had never even occurred to Job before. A sort of pit began sinking in his chest, as if there was some sort of emptiness inside him. Job didn’t know what it was, but it scared him. He’d never felt like he was missing something as fundamental as this before. Job rolled back in forth in bed, trying position after position, seeking a physical cure for a mental ailment he didn’t understand.

Job was hanging his head off the bed with one foot twisted under it at eight O’clock in the morning when his alarm rang. He groaned, out of both physical soreness and the gnawing teeth that were slowly moving in his stomach, plodding like machines, reminding him there was something wrong with his life.

         Job got ready for work with a lump in his throat, as he knew that this day was going to be painful for him. His drive to work was a dull haze, although he phased back into reality a few times, realized he was operating several tons of metal moving at 40 miles per hour, and barely restrained himself from completely losing his composure and crashing. Job was very unnerved that he couldn’t maintain his un-concentration, and it was pretty dangerous to only be on auto-pilot most of the time.

         Job finally got to his bank’s parking lot, and zoned out for the parking. He knew how to do this.

         It felt to Job as if the events of the past 16 hours were his brain telling him that he needed to relax. He didn’t fully grasp what happened, but he had heard that when people see things, it means that either A) they have drunk just a little too much alcohol or B) That they are stressed and need some time to relax. Job, however, didn’t have any time to relax at the moment. It was early August, and all of his coworkers except a few were on vacation. If he were to take a vacation now, there wouldn’t be enough people to keep the bank open. Job sighed, realized he was still parking, stopped steering in panic, and hit the bumper of the red Camaro behind him. His boss was going to be infinitely less than pleased. Job adjusted his tie nervously, got out of his car, and checked the damage on the Camaro. Aside from a deep scratch, it appeared to be basically alright. His car, on the other hand, was a more grisly sight. He kicked it in frustration. Job distinctly remembered the car dealer telling him that even used Pintos had incredible durability. Something clicked in Job’s brain, and he realized that his car was a piece of shit, and that the dealer would have told him that Pintos flew and cured cancer if it meant he could get that awful car off of his lot.

         Job was still in a fume when he finished his morning work at the bank and went to his booth. He figured that he would avoid his boss until later in the day when he saw him in a good mood, and then just confess and hope it ended well. With a plan, Job slouched back in his chair, slightly less anxious and ready to see customers.

         His first customer was wearing a nice suit and fancy cologne. He had a somewhat displeased look on his face, a look reminiscent of a wealthy man who is unhappy with the temperature of his Jacuzzi.

         “Welcome to Johnson Bank, how may I – “This customer looked suspiciously like his boss.

         “Hello, sir. What’s wrong?” Job played dumb, although he knew he should begin hunkering down for the hurricane starting.

         “What’s wrong, Job? You want to know what’s wrong?”  His boss called him Job, just like his coworkers, parents, and priest did. Job barely remembered his last name; the only time he ever saw it was on paychecks and bills.

         “I – “Mr. Johnson cut him off. He wondered why his boss even asked.

         “You know damn well what’s wrong. You know how much that scratch is going to cost to get out? I shouldn’t even ask, you wouldn’t know. Who taught you to drive, son, a foreigner?” Amit, Job’s coworker in the next booth over, looked like he was about to say something, but stopped himself.

         “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll pay for it.” Job here was on firm ground. He had made so many mistakes that he was better at fixing them than any other man he knew.

         “Damn right you will. What goes on in the schools these days, socialism? They’re obviously not teaching you how to drive.” Mr. Johnson awkwardly muttered himself out of the conversation. Amit slid over to take his place.

         “Hey, Job. Sucks about the car.” Amit genuinely cared about Job like a brother who looks after his siblings. Amit went to Ohio State University for economics, and graduated with honors. Amit decided he wanted to live in a smaller town, and as a result got a job below many of his other offers and became the ethnic talk of the year at the bank (The closest thing they had to a someone who wasn’t a white straight Protestant American before that was a middle-aged banker who made eye contact in all the wrong situations and was rumored to wear a thong). In actuality Amit was a few years younger than Job, as Amit just got out of school, but he still felt like it was his duty ever since he took this job to make sure that Job was doing alright. His charm made up for his incompetence, in Amit’s opinion.

         “Yeah, I know. I wasn’t thinking.” Job stopped, and realized that, yes, he actually was thinking, and that was the problem.

         “You doing anything after work? We could go grab a beer.” Amit didn’t normally go drinking.

         “Sounds good.” Job once again found himself wondering, worrying. Thoughts such as how he would get home if he was drunk and whether alcohol would help him not hallucinate had never occurred to him before, and once they popped up, he couldn’t just ignore them. He knew that he should talk to Amit about the previous night though.

         The world blurred like a photo where the camera’s shutter didn’t close. Soon work was over, and Job felt himself walking outside. A plastic bag was floating in the wind, and a teenage boy was filming it. Job stepped into the bag accidentally while walking by and didn’t think wonder why he was filming it until Amit pointed out that there was a bag on his foot outside the bar.

“I guess I stepped in it.” Now that he was thinking about it, he had no idea why the boy was filming the bag. Sure, it was ephemeral, and maybe poetic in the right light, but it was also a plastic bag. He didn’t have a chance to work it out, though, as Amit pulled him into the Sticky Wicket before he could say anything.

“So, how has, well, life been for you?” Amit, despite his intelligence, was not a great conversationalist, but he was trying.

“Things have been weird lately.” Job didn’t know how else to put it. “Oh, I ran into the fucking devil yesterday, how about you?” didn’t feel like a great icebreaker.

“Yeah, the boss has really been a pisser lately. I’ll have a straight vodka.” The bartender turned to Job expectantly.

“Yeah, it’s not just that though…oh, I’ll have a scotch.” He didn’t notice the bartender looking at him, and felt sheepish.

“Is it about fitting in there? Because let me tell you, speaking as the only fucking Indian in Fairview, I can tell you about fitting in.” Amit laughed.

“Hahaha.” Job laughed whenever someone he was talking to laughed. It had worked out well so far for him, even though it was a little monotonous. “That’s not really it, though, I like it here.”

“What else has been on your mind?” Although Job was still gazing off like always, Amit could tell there was something else that was really getting at Job.

Job pensively stared at the fine grain of the bar. It was stained with cheap, smelly beer, vomit, and just enough urine to add a slight cringe if Job inhaled too strongly.

“Well, something I don’t really understand happened last night.”

“Job, something you don’t understand happens every five minutes to you.” Amit was trying to lighten the mood, but it came off as rude, so he sunk into himself a little bit and waited for Job to say something.

“…I came home and the devil tried to talk to me.”

Amit was so focused on trying to be supportive that it took him a second to realize what Job said.

“What?”

“I…was in my living room and the devil appears and tries to get me to make a deal with him.”

“You’re kidding.” Amit readied himself for the punchline, and then remember he was talking to someone who was quite possible too dumb to make jokes. His faint smile acquiesced to the growing disease in his head, and morphed into a frown, and then a scowl.

“Are you on fucking drugs, Job? Oh, Jesus Jesus you could get fired you could go to jail dammit Job why are you such an idiot?” Amit stopped himself, breathed, and then took another deeper breath.

“I’m sure I saw this. Amit, you know me, I would never take drugs.” This was true. Job went through life known as “the boring kid” to his peers and classmates, and thus he was invited to few parties throughout high school and college. He had no reason to start drugs now, and Amit seriously doubted that he had the motivation.

“True…” Amit found himself sliding towards believing Job, and could not catch himself.

Amit hesitantly asked, “Suppose you did see the devil. What did he want?”

“He offered me the gift of being able to understand things in exchange for my soul.” Job had thought about it and decided that was the best way to put things.

“Why?”

“I am only beginning to try and figure out why.” Job nervously had another drink of his scotch.

“…Did you say ‘yes’?” Amit was slowly mouthing the words before he said them, as if he wanted to make sure he was saying exactly the right thing.

“No! Why would I want that? I’m smart enough now as it is.” Job looked at Amit.

“Ooh, that is a tasty drink.”

“Yeah, I like my scotch, too.” Job could jump from any train of thought onto another one without falling under the rails. His train just wasn’t moving fast enough for it to be an issue.

“About the devil thing though, you should consider seeing a psychiatrist.” Amit gave the only advice he knew how to give in this situation.

Job thought for a minute. “I’ll look into that. It’s probably best for me.” He realized that he actually did know what was best for himself, and was pleasantly surprised. There was something on his mind, though, that he just realized had been there since the minute the devil left the night before.

“Amit, do you believe in hell?”

Amit thought for a minute.

“I don’t know… but I don’t believe in heaven.”

III

         Thanking god (should he exist) that it was a Friday (or, at least it was two hours ago), Job staggered back to his apartment. The Sticky Wicket’s odor had permeated his clothing hours before, and he gave off the impression of a quite well-dressed hobo. He walked down Fourth Street, which morphed with a right turn into Baker, which he stumbled down to reach his brown box on the second floor of a larger brick box. Job was thinking about the events of the past few days right up to the point where he stood at the door for a second and remembered he had to unlock it. A key awkwardly fit in his hand as he rubbed it up and down on the door until it slid into the slot.

Staggering like he was shot in the knee, Job managed to get to his bedside table and stopped. Normally, he’d just fall asleep without worrying about getting ready for bed in a situation like this. However, drunk as he may be, Job could not forget that he had to brush his teeth, slip into nightclothes, and read from the bible. He tried to sleep, but it gnawed at him like hunger until he resignedly got up and did the things he had to do. The book almost automatically flipped to the page he was on, and he continued where he last left off.

Before he was 20 words into the book, he began to notice that not only was the book his namesake, but also was quite similar to what happened to him the day before. As he continued to read, the harsh penalties that (biblical) Job had inflicted on him simply for existing hit him harder and harder. Why was he being punished? Why would God toy with him this way?

Petty gods were a philosophical problem, but Job had a personal problem. Looking back at his meeting, Job slowly became more and more convinced that it was a possibility that God had made a bet with the devil that he could be convinced to sell his soul for knowledge. Why else would he target Job? He hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, Job hadn’t really done anything bad, good, or even conscious at all for almost the entirety of the past couple decades.

Job didn’t recall much from his time in church on Sundays, but one song from a time of mourning, sung every year, seemed to stick in his mind now. As the book continued, and Job slowly reached his wit’s end, only the lament “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” stuck in his mind. This defeated mantra, this cry on the ash heap, was Job’s last thought before the book was placed on the table and he was carried off to sleep.

Job awoke with a dull nausea reminiscent of being on an incredibly shifty boat for a very long time. As far as he could tell, he still had his soul, but as he went through his morning ritual, he couldn’t stop second-guessing himself at every turn. Was the time right? Should he be in the shower for this long? Had he paid the rent yet? He felt as if a four year old had crawled up his nose, all the way into his brain, and incessantly questioned everything. He quickly finished getting ready, walked outside, and started walking to work when he realized it was a Saturday. It wasn’t until Butcher street that he figured this out, as before this he had been stifling each absolutely useless observation that his mind had been making about his utterly mundane surroundings. The concrete was grey, as all concrete was, and frankly he could not care less. It wasn’t until he noticed that none of the stores were open yet that he realized his mistake, and with a groan he threw one foot in front of the other until he was inside his apartment.

Job was slowly becoming quite annoyed with his newfound ability, and resolved to do something about it as quickly as possible. At some point the night before, between talking about the devil, singing “Livin’ on a Prayer” with Amit in no-part harmony, and slinking off in a depressed, drunken stupor, Job had been given the number of a psychiatrist that was, well, the only psychiatrist in Fairview. He rifled through his rumpled dress pants from the day before and pulled out a beer-stained napkin with the number 387-4095 on it. A crude smiley face was inscribed beneath it, possibly to imply worth of the number, or possibly because Amit had just downed his fifth shot of vodka. The man may have been rather small, but he had an impressive penchant for drinks much too harsh for Job to handle.

Job realized after he was daydreaming after a minute and gave the number a call. A nasally voice answered.

“Hello, Dobbson psychiatric offices, how may I help you?” He could almost smell the perfume that was undoubtedly too strong even from across the phone.

“Umm, hello. May I please speak to your psychiatrist?” Job went for the straightforward approach.

“I’m sorry, she’s in a meeting. Would you like to make an appointment?” Job glanced at his clock. It was nine O’clock in the morning.

“…I guess so. Is later today good?” Scheduling was not Job’s forte.

A muffled laughter appeared on the other end.

“How does a week from Monday sound, eager beaver?” This was much too long for Job to have to deal with critical thought.

“This is a very serious issue, an emergency. Is there any time you can squeeze me in today?”

There was a prolonged silence at the other end. Job glanced instinctively at his hands, a trick he had picked up as a banker to make sure he wasn’t just holding someone’s money and waiting absentmindedly.

“Well…if it’s very serious, I suppose we could make room for you at three today, but it will cost extra.”

“That’s fine.” Job’s expense budget consisted of rent, utilities, food, clothing, and scotch. The man was nothing if not frugal.

“Okay, we’ll make an appointment, Mr…”

“Job.” He had always preferred a one-name moniker, simply because it was easier.

“Job what?” Many places, however, did not accept one part names.

“Job Singh.” Job had always had a peculiar neurosis where he disliked his last name so much that whenever prompted, he gave whatever last name was on the top of his head. Interestingly enough, the last person he was thinking about was his coworker.

“Singh? Oh, you’re one of those ‘injuns’.” The woman pronounced the word somewhat like one would pronounce the word “communist,” or “mobster.”

Job knew he had dug himself into a pit here. His brain followed two trains of thought. On the first, he told her he lied about his name and there was no appointment. On the second, he showed up, and the receptionist (in what would certainly be a non-subtle way) would observe that he didn’t look very Indian, and he would be forced to explain then that he wasn’t Indian. He only really had one choice.

“Well, not really. I think one married into our family a while back, and the name just stuck.” This only vaguely made sense, but it was enough.

“Oh, I guess that makes sense. Funny how the world works, isn’t it?” She appeared to a very happy person.

“Yeah.” Job had sealed the deal.

A few seconds passed.

“Bye.” This was how most conversations between strangers and Job ended. Job would run out of things to say, and slowly sidle away from the conversation until he was out of thought’s way. In this case, he was still trying to think of things to say, but he realized at some point that there really weren’t any.

         Job was slightly frustrated with himself for just letting the conversation walk its way right off a cliff, but at least he had set up the appointment. All that needed to happen now were about five and a half hours.

         Five and a half hours.

         Job stared at his wall with growing impatience. All of a sudden, he couldn’t stop thinking about things. Five hours was a very long time to pass in a house with no books, no cable, no computer, and nothing interesting to do. Job had never really been bored before, having been capable of beating a wall at a staring contest for hours on end. A boiling desire to see more, to hear more, to experience more than the sensory deprivation chamber that was his current environment came up, and at 9:30, Job simply couldn’t take it anymore, and the steam started seeping out. Job stormed out of his house, determined to do something.

         As he walked across the grey pavement, Job figured first he would go to the bookstore, and then possibly to the theater, and then realized he would have to carry his books to the theater, and resolved to go there first. Then he realized that a car was turning the corner into his face.

         “Hey, what the fuck were you doing in the middle of the road?” A squat, dumpy man was yelling at him. The man hadn’t even had the courtesy to get out of his car.

         “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t thinking.” Job started to wax apologetic, but then realized that he was apologizing for being hit by a car.

         “You weren’t thinking? Are you stoned?” The man appeared to be getting angrier.

         Job, too, felt his blood boiling. “How are you mad at me? I’m the one that was hit by the fucking car!”

         Job reached into his coat pocket to pull out the cell phone that his mother insisted he get “in case we need you to buy more beer.”

         “Easy, there, man, no need for that. I’m just gonna go now, sorry about the car thing.” Job had bought a very old and bulky cell phone, and evidently the man had thought Job was pulling out something else entirely.

         The whole matter was altogether frustrating, though. Job had a worm in his brain that was eating it. He had already lost his peace of mind, and Job needed to get it removed before it got him killed.

         With the external stimuli, the five hours went much quicker, and before he knew it Job was at the Dobbson psychiatric offices. The place smelled vaguely damp, but well-kept.

         “Hello. Are you Mr. Singh?” Job had been right about the perfume earlier.

         “Yes.” Job had never thought about it before, but he was rather curt.

         “Well, Ms. Dobbson will be seeing you in a moment.” The woman was quite aggressively chipper. She appeared to be in her fifties, wore her hair curly and in a grayish white that defied color, and had a contented demeanor that only receptionists, secretaries, and lunch ladies could. This woman did almost nothing, and loved every minute of it.

         Job sat in the somewhat poorly lit waiting room, and read a copy of Highlights Magazine. He had almost found all of the hidden objects when he was called into the woman’s office.

         A woman sat behind a large wooden desk. She was kempt and curt, prim and pert. An air of professionalism blanketed the room, almost oppressively so. Tight blonde hair and slightly too much rose lipstick were the only obvious traits that made this person female.

         “Hello, Mr. Singh. You said that you direly needed to see me?” Job doubted that if he searched for a year he could find anything but business behind that composed face.

         “Yes.” Job waited, and then realized he in this case needed to say more. “Two days ago, I came home and saw the devil.”

         There was literally no change whatsoever in Ms. Dobbson’s expression.

         “What did he say to you?”

         “He offered me knowledge in exchange for my soul.” The gravitas of the statement felt strangely comical in the presence of this woman.

         “Oh, a Faustian proposal?” Ms. Dobbson appeared marginally more interested, unless she was just feigning it.

         Job’s entire understanding of Faust was as a German novel wherein a man uses a lot of complex words and then becomes unhappy. He was told in high school that it meant more than this.

         “…Yeah.”

         “Why do you think he offered you knowledge?” The grain of the woman’s desk was a gnarled, and almost actively swirling. It appeared that whoever chopped down the wood to make it had not done a very good job.

         “I don’t know, but ever since I declined, my brain has been doing very strange things, and keeping me from being happy.”

         “Do you think someone in your family caused you to think like this?” The woman was like a cat, pouncing into action with her readied line of enquiry.

         “…What?”

         And so it went for two hours.

         “…And so, based on your situation, I think the best thing to start with are some anti-psychotics to be taken daily, and write down whenever you think about your father.”

         Job had no idea if she was a good psychiatrist, and he couldn’t see what the devil had to do with his father, but he decided that following her instructions would be best, as pills, he always been told by his parents, solved problems.

         He walked home from the pharmacy with two bottles of pills. The woman’s handwriting somehow turned a one into a two, and as a result he was going to be twice as healthy.

         Job spent the rest of the day reading, barely able to contain his excitement at being able to take the pills that evening and finally being able to get on with his life. After reading, a light dinner, and more reading, it was late evening, and Job was ready. The pit inside him was soon to be filled, and he was holding the shovel. He eagerly went to his bathroom, popped open the bottle, and read the instructions for how many to take.

         The slip she gave him read “Take 1 pr evkglrhr” according to the psychiatrist’s arcane handwriting. Job took a second to grasp its meaning, and then wrinkled his brow at the paltry portion. Still, if she recommended he take one, he was going to take one, and it would work. He pulled out a single pill, placed it in his mouth, and swallowed it down with some water. Then he waited.

         Fifteen minutes passed, and nothing happened. Job was almost in tears. His mind was still exploding with thought, and the raw emptiness inside him was burning, rising to his unbridled emotions. Something was still fundamentally wrong with him.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

         Job was at a loss. He had no idea what to do. He slowly went to his bed, kneeled, and began to pray, as he had once seen his mother do when she was at her wit’s end.

         “God, why have you done this to me? Why did you give me the devil when I asked for nothing? I didn’t do anything, I just lived a good life. I prayed to you, I read from your book. What made you act so cruel?”

         He waited for a response. When he didn’t get one, he choked back a swear to the heavens and crawled into bed.

         The next day came too quickly. Job sat in his house with nothing, no peace of mind, no happiness. Reading could not lighten his torture. His mind would not let him not think. The day passed painfully slowly, until by the time Job was supposed to take another pill, his mind was starting to bend under the inanity.

         One pill obviously would not do the trick. Job reached in, and took three pills out. The lump in his throat was larger as they went down, but Job was positive these would work. His head spun a little after a while, but that did not quiet it.

         Job felt more alone then he ever had before. His god had abandoned him, his mind turned hours into days, and he for once could not leave the world into a daydream. This deathly knowledge was breaking him, corroding his spirit.

         On Monday, Job didn’t come into work. He couldn’t concentrate at all, and he didn’t want anyone to see him like this. Job felt as if his brain was a dam, and his thoughts were a reservoir that was slowly growing larger and larger, becoming a deluge. It was all he could do to try and keep the dam from bursting, but he knew that if he didn’t release the pressure, it was only a matter of time. The day went so slowly that it blurred, and Job wondered if he was going insane. That night, Job took six pills, felt the world rumble, and barely kept himself from vomiting.

         Tuesday was the end. Job could not go any longer. He needed an out, any out. His mind was relentless, questioning him, mocking him, speaking to no end about nothing. Job was by all standards gone, and he knew it. At noon, he did the only thing that he thought gave him any hope of surviving.

         My God.

         Job pried open both bottles of pills.

         My God.

         He pulled out all of the manna inside. It felt strangely warm.

         Why have you

         He swallowed pill after pill, until he had gone through both bottles. Salvation.

         Forsaken me?

         Time warped under the heat. Nerves contracted spasmodically, one, and then another, and then more. It was as if the hellfire that he had seen under the devil earlier had caught inside him, and begun roaring.  He felt a pain in his chest that he knew was his heart being eaten by the inferno, and all was ashes.

IV

Job took a while to realize he was awake. The blaring lights that tried to be calming simply glanced off of the stark white covers and ceiling, and wearied him. He was lying down, and a beep confirmed each time his heart beat. After a few minutes, a nurse noticed he was awake and scurried over to him.

“Well, that certainly was a doozy, wasn’t it? You’ve been asleep for two days now, we were wondering when you were going to come out of it.” The woman was unabashedly cheery, and, interestingly enough, so was Job.

“I’m in a…hospital?”

“Yes, after that…well, you’re mostly better now. We have a lot of forms for you to sign, and you’re going to have to stay with us for a while, but the important thing is that you’re well.” She ran off to go tell her supervisor of his condition.

Job breathed in, and then out. His body felt new. The world felt new. He asked his mind for any guesses as to what happened, and realized that he actually wanted to hear the answer. Maybe something had put a faucet on the endless stream of thought that had been coming out, but whatever the reason, Job was pleased.

He wasn’t fully aware of the events that had transpired, but he remembered a devil, an emptiness, and pills. Somehow, it had all come to pass, and it was over. Job had won.

When Job got out of the hospital (in a very long time) he knew that he was going to go try and find a different job. He didn’t know what he wanted, but he knew that it had to be more stimulating. Job also wanted to make some friends, as previously Amit was the only one that came close. The world felt very big, and Job was ready to explore it.

All the past we leave behind,

We debouch upon a newer mightier world, varied world,

Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march,

Pioneers! O pioneers!