Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Ding-a, ding-a, ding-a, ding-a!

“Merry Christmas, sir! Spare a dollar for the poor?”

Justin stopped, raising his head to look at the bell-ringing Santa and his shiny red bucket.

Ding-a, ding-a, ding-a, ding-a!

“Just a dollar, sir! Every little bit helps!”

Justin averted his gaze, the irony of the encounter too much for him to bear, and continued on his way without a word. To his relief, the sidewalk Santa let him go without comment. Justin wasn't sure what he would have done if he'd tried to argue. Probably break down and cry. But no, that would have to wait until he got home.

Home…a word that would be about as meaningless to him as Callipygian before long.

Pleasant Ridge wasn't a big town, which was the only reason Justin had been able to hold down a job for the past two months when he didn't own a car—a problem that he alone seemed to have. Judging by the traffic clogging the streets, it seemed that not only had every single one of the town's residents come out to shop today, but each and every one of them had been given their very own car just for that purpose. None of them thought twice about parking directly on top of the crosswalks, a hair's breadth away from the car in front of them's bumper, turning what was normally a twenty minute walk into an hour and a half long slog.

And every step of the way, Justin was accosted by Christmas. Not even a full day past Thanksgiving, and multicolored lights already hung from everything that could conceivably support their weight. Christmas carols drilled into his ears. If they weren't being blasted from each and every storefront, then they were leaking from the windows of the cars he had to squeeze past when he crossed the street. And worst of all, more and more sidewalk Santas waited for him, each one cheerfully asking him to put his money in the bucket to help the homeless, having no idea that he was probably going to be homeless before New Year's, all while incessantly ringing those bells.

Ding-a, ding-a, ding-a, DING-A, DING-A, DING-A, DING-A, DING-A!

By the time he reached his apartment, a studio barely big enough to be called a closet, Justin Flinchley had come to a very sobering realization.

“I hate Christmas,” he said after shutting the door behind himself.

Saying it out loud shocked him. How could that be true? How could anyone but the most miserly Scrooge or cantankerous Grinch hate Christmas? Everything about Christmas was pure happiness! The music, the lights, the gifts, the…

…hordes of bloodthirsty shoppers who were all too willing to trample you for a toy their kid would get bored of in less than a week.

His back still ached from the fall he'd taken off the stepladder. He wouldn't be surprised if he went to the doctor—not that he could afford to visit the doctor now—and found out that he'd fractured a vertebra or whatever it was that happened when people took nasty spills like that. Whose fault had that been? The customer's. But had the customer been the one to pay the price? No! In fact, by throwing Justin down the stairs, they had been rewarded with a free toy! The thought turned his face so red that he could have fried an egg on it—but he doubted he could afford eggs anymore, either! And what was even more infuriating was…

No. Gritting his teeth against the anger, Justin forced himself to take a breath. All this ranting and raving wasn’t going to help him out of his dilemma. There would be a time and place for that later—with that place hopefully being here. If not that, then from a comfy cardboard box in a nice, warm alleyway. Either way, if he didn’t want to spend Christmas warming himself around a burning trash can, then he had work to do.

With effort, he managed to push the sense of inevitable doom aside, and booted up his laptop. There was only one way to keep from being evicted, and that was to find a new job by the end of the week. That would be cutting things dangerously close, but if he scrimped even more than he usually did, then just maybe he could pull through this.

A minute later, he was staring at the homepage of No Hobo, a website he had hoped to never have to look at again. After spending close to six months applying for every job that didn’t require some kind of college degree, he had finally struck…well, not gold. Not even bronze. Gravel. The kind people buy for their driveways and stuff. He had struck gravel when he’d been hired at Willy-Mart.

“Hello again, old friend,” he muttered at the website’s logo, a bright red X over a smelly, unshaven tramp.

That’s going to be you in a couple of weeks, the pessimistic side of his brain whispered to him.

A few clicks later, a waterfall of job titles cascaded down his computer screen. Sighing in resignation, Justin began to scroll through them.

Mold Taster, read the first one. We here at Aunt Maude’s Mold Farm take pride in producing only the world’s highest quality molds and funguses! As a Mold Taster, you will be an integral part of our team, licking each sample of mold five times a day to judge its health and making alterations to its environment accordingly. Pay is $5.00 an hour. Health benefits not included.

Justin’s frown deepened, but he clicked the big green Apply button anyway. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, after all…especially if they wanted the beggar part to stay metaphorical.

Toilet Masseuse, declared the next ad. We believe that every toilet on earth is made in God’s image. Our ideal applicant will see the value in providing each and every toilet they service with a bare handed, deep-porcelain massage as they scrub away the grime and muck. Rubber gloves are prohibited. Pay begins at $3.50 an hour, with the opportunity for 25 cent raises every five years, since anyone who applies will doubtlessly agree that a privilege like this is worth more than all the money in the world.

Justin clicked Apply. Was this really all life had in store for him? Eighty years of cleaning toilets with his bare hands, just to die with retirement nought but an unrealized dream? For a single horrible second, he wondered if maybe being homeless might actually be better than…

He shoved those thoughts away and kept scrolling.

Flesh-Eating Acid Tester. Apply.

Corpse Burper. Apply.

Live Bait. Apply.

Air Courier.

Wait. Justin blinked and shook his head, having fallen into a scrolling-and-clicking trance. What was that last one? Air Courier. What was a job like that doing on No Hobo, a website strictly for finding skilless, bottom of the barrel workers? Intrigued, he clicked on it.

NP Deliveries is desperately hiring an air courier, it read. Fly highly valuable cargo to its destination, ensuring safe and timely delivery. No experience necessary, we will train you. Ideal applicants will have a strong work ethic and be willing to work long hours. Starting pay is $200 an hour, with plenty of room for upward mobility. Boarding and food will be provided entirely by NP Deliveries. Must be willing to relocate.

Justin sat back in his chair, stunned. That was perhaps the single greatest job offer he had ever heard! He reread it ten times, convinced that he must have missed something. Two hundred dollars an hour. No experience necessary. Boarding and food paid for by the company? It…That...Something like this had to be a scam, right? There was no way it could be real. It was the very definition of something being too good to be true.

Besides, he reminded himself bitterly, an air courier? You? You faint if you so much as stand on your tiptoes!

He moved his mouse to back out of that page…but then he paused. What if it was real? He was no expert, but he guessed the chances of that were less than one million to one. Then again, he was a week away from being homeless. Even if it did turn out to be a scam, what did he have to lose? The scammers would get an address he no longer lived at, a phone number he could no longer afford the plan for, and an email address for someone who no longer owned a computer. And as for his fear of heights, hadn't he just said that beggars couldn't be choosers? He'd already applied for a job licking mold. Was learning to fly really so different?

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Justin muttered, and clicked Apply.

The screen froze. Justin sighed. Well, that was just great. Had he somehow downloaded a virus just by applying? His computer was humming like a jet engine, struggling under the strain of some herculean task, but no matter how many times he mashed control, alt, delete, it refused to—

A text box appeared on the screen.

Congratulations, it said. We have reviewed your qualifications and decided that you will be a good fit for our company! Please prepare for relocation.

Justin blinked. “What the…”

Suddenly, the screen exploded with light! Justin cried out in surprise, throwing an arm in front of his face to protect his eyes. Reds, greens, yellows, and blues so bright they threatened to blind him. What kind of a virus was this? Was it actually trying to blow his computer up?

Something seemed to take hold of Justin. Something he couldn't see, couldn't even quite feel, as if he'd been turned to metal and was being drawn toward a giant magnet. And it was drawing him toward…

“No, no, no!” he yelled as he felt himself being pulled out of his chair. He grabbed the armrests, but it was no good. It reminded him of an old scifi movie he'd seen once, where the window of a spaceship had been broken, creating a vacuum that sucked everyone inside through it. But unless he had taken a very wrong turn on his way home, he shouldn't have been anywhere near outer space!

With one last terrified scream, Justin was pulled out of his chair—and into his computer screen.