Dallin rode his scooter up the corridor. The whole ship a corridor. Going up and down and left and right. Even where they ate was called a mess hall.
Dallin put at least ten hours on his scooter every day. Gleaming corridors, polished to a mirror finish. And every single hallway had four coming off of it.
Sector H-L were Dallin's. His team called it hell, but Dante hadn't imagined anything like this. Sisyphus in year 700 might have had some feeling for hell's cleaning. If the dwarves had to clean the Mines off Moria to a mirror finish, they would have been able to feel the hell crew's pain.
I smoothed my pants out needlessly as Richard and Barb looked over my resume, Richard holding it at arm’s length, refusing to see an eye doctor because “it's fine.”
Barb managed to give me the idea that she was rolling her eyes constantly, even though I didn't see her actually it. Richard bounced his foot, drummed his pencil, looked at the clock, turned the paper over, and doodled.
Killian wandered the aisles in the garage squinting at a graveyard of good intentions.
One bay door was open, releasing dusty air and replacing it with fresh, sunshine air.
There was an organized madness to the garage. Anal retentive maybe, but easily distracted also was the soul that reflected in each polished surface.
“What's that?” Killian asked, pointing to an object on a shelf with his clipboard.
Brandon walked over to it. “Ping pong set. Two paddles in cases and bundled up with stands”
“When did you last play ping pong?”
“Three months ago.”
“Did you use any of this?”
Brandon shook his head. He was a squat man with a wide forehead. He had thin blonde hair cropped close, almost military. Turning the ping pong paddles over, he set them back.
Killian made a mark on his clipboard. “When was the last time you used these to play table tennis?”
“It would have been, at least a year ago maybe longer,” Brandon answered.
Killian made another note on his clipboard.“When was the last time you went bicycling?”
“In college.”
“Did you live here when you were in college?”
“No.”
“Have you ever used this bicycle?”
“Well, I lived closer to my work when I started buying–”
“Sorry, when was the last time you used this bicycle?”
“I haven't.” Killian walked over and opened up the bag next to it.
“You have a stand for it. A reasonable lock. Do you have bicycling specific clothes?”
“No.” Killian marked down on his clipboard, and raised his eyebrows at Brandon.
“Yes. I have bicycling clothes,” Brandon said.
Killian made another mark.
“Camping?”
“Last summer but I've been hiking this spring.”
“Concrete stuff?”
“Never.” After each question Killian made a mark on his clipboard.
“Skiing?”
“I got a good deal.” Killian raised made the same mark he had been making.
“Do you work on your car yourself or have a shop do most of it?” He asked pointing at the rolling toolbox.
“Dealer warranty still.” Killian sighed.
“What do you do with your time?”
“Internet? I mean, I cook and clean and work. That takes a lot of time.”
“I see. Well,” Killian said writing some notes as he spoke, “I'm cancelling your Amazon Prime account and prescribing long form reading for an hour a day. Also, go for walks without listening to anything. You also need to pick one of the hobbies from this room and get rid of the rest. Pick something you'll actually do.”
“But,” he was cut off. “Do you want to get better or make excuses? Did you come to me to get better or to say the same?”
“To get better.”
“Then try what I say. Besides if you get half of what you paid for for all of this,” Killian said waving to the amalgam of dead hobbies, “You'll more than pay for my fee.”
