thisauthorisscreaming:

Imagine this.

You’re a freshly-graduated English literature major applying for jobs. At first, you apply for well-paying amazing jobs, but as no one calls you back, your standards drop steadily. Eventually, you’re applying to retail. Still, no calls. You lose track of how many applications you send. You’re losing hope and starting to regret following your passions.

Then, you get a call. You’re hired. No interview, no background check, nothing. You’re so relieved that you agree to the job as soon as you find out it pays okay. You go to the address and find a standard-looking shop with a big green sign: The Junk Wizard. It features a cartoony wizard with a big blue hat. Standing by the door is your boss. He’s an elderly bald guy with a beard. He gives you the orientation video link, which is a cheesy 80s magic-themed catastrophe that you watch on your YouTube app. Finally, he presents you with a big blue hat spangled with silver stars – a requirement for the uniform, he assures. Regretting everything in your life that has led you to this sacrifice of dignity, you put it on. He leads you inside.

It’s amazing. Swords, potions, dragon scales, exotic faux animals – it’s the ultimate LARP shop. Suddenly the hat doesn’t matter. The pay is good and the location is amazing. Your boss gives you the tour, keeping in “wizard” character the whole time. He gives you a walkie shaped like a little magic flower and has you stand at the register. You grin at your surroundings – this is pretty cool, you decide.

Training lasts a week, during which time you never see another associate. It’s just you and the boss, who you have learned is named Gerald. He spends the week educating you on how to recommend armor repair potions (resin, you think, to repair nicks in the plastic) magic spell ingredients (for hardcore LARPing, you decide) and customer service for everyone from mermaids to dragons (your boss’ commitment to the store’s brand theme is seriously incredible). Finally, Gerald tells you that your training is over. He hands you a stick. You ask what the stick is for.

“Not a stick,” he says, “a wand.”

Hey, whatever makes the brand guy happy. You take the stick, and the store doors open. A pair of fauns come strolling in, followed by a mermaid in a water-wheelchair. Your heart stops.

“Oh good,” Gerald says, “customers.”

A dragon sticks his head through the double doors, then muscles his scaly red girth in. He paces in front of you. Gerald breaks away for a welcoming statement and informs the dragon of the sales. When he turns around, you’re hiding behind the register and breathing heavy. Gerald firmly reminds you that it’s rude to customers to hide from them. You stare at the opposite wall. You’re a junk wizard. That’s a dragon. This isn’t a brand theme. You briefly consider breaking the wand in half and calling it quits right then, but then you recall the long list of unreturned job applications you’ve sent in. This job pays well and you get a lot of hours. You can’t screw this up, you decide. Anything is better than unemployment. You stand up, adjust your crooked blue hat, and grip your wand until your knuckles are white.

“Ready, sir,” you manage.

Gerald gives you a kindly smile. You look at the dragon, swallow, and give him your best customer service smile.

“Hello sir.” Your customer service voice feels fresh and energetic. “Are you looking for anything in particular today?”