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The Taming of the Shrewd Armchair

“Tell me again why—what’s his name?”

“Mr. Canary.”

“Why can’t Mr. Canary have a simple holographic meeting?” asked Tessa, fixing Jack’s tie. “Job interviews in person are such an outdated fashion.”

Jack didn’t know Mr. Canary personally. He chuckled, remembering the picture of the Director of Production on theCozy Dwellings’ website introductory page. Mr. Canary had something bird-like in his appearance—sharp facial features, a bald head, and a bright yellow jacket as attire.

“We already had two holographic interviews with HR last week. But for the position of Brand Manager of one discrete department, Mr. Canary prefers my physical presence,” replied Jack, mumbling more to himself than his wife. “I’m not sure why, though.”

He looked in the mirror and repositioned the tie. He swiftly grabbed the tumbler from the counter to finish his breakfast smoothie.

Drats. Cold liquid splashed, leaving a few green drops on his clothes.

“Jack,” exclaimed Tessa. “Look what you’ve done.”

She took a dry-cleaning evaporator from the drawer and ran the device over Jack’s jacket lapel and white shirt while Jack wriggled the jacket’s button.

“Better,” said Tessa. “And remember, don’t fidget.”

“I never do,” said Jack, dropping the button of his best jacket, which he bought five years ago for their wedding.

“Uh-huh,” Tessa sighed. “At least put your hands in your pockets or grab the chair’s armrests. We need this job, Jack. My business is not the same after I lost my two legs.”

“Legs?” Jack looked at his feet in slightly scuffed brown shoes, which he had also bought for their wedding. He smirked and pointed at Tessa’s perfect, slender legs. “I see that you still have both of them.”

Tessa playfully punched him in the shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

He did. Tessa’s essential oil business suffered a great loss four months ago. Tessa’s legs, aka the gold status leaders of her Multi-Level-Marketing pyramid, quit. Cora married and moved to Mars. Aspen divorced and went into making candles or Voodoo dolls. Jack didn’t remember. Before they left, Tessa thrived well enough to employ Jack full-time for the marketing side of her business. Not that he didn’t believe in essential oil healing magic. He tolerated the smell and used a sleeping blend before bed. But he admired Tessa’s ambitions and enjoyed their financial stability—the essential oils income allowed them to buy a new house in an upscale neighborhood and vacation on the Moon or Mars twice a year. But after losing Tessa’s two legs, that stability had started shaking. They might have to sell one of their cars to pay the bills. Jack couldn’t imagine departing with his beloved flying Mustang, so he looked for a steady paycheck elsewhere until Tessa found new leaders. Or a huge client, maybe a spa chain or a cruise line. Despite the end of the 21st century, essential oils conglomerates didn’t disperse their precious natural resources for free. MLM corporation ruled the world.

Another huge corporation,Cozy Dwelling,produced and sold everything—from houses to dental floss. Jack spent a week wearing holovid goggles and learning about the company’s birth, studying the pictures of their top managers (Mr. Canary included), memorizing different branches of kitchen appliances and sofas. He even flew to the furniture store and lay down on several mattresses. Yesterday, he practiced an entire speech in front of the mirror about why he chose this specific company as his next employment—to combine humans’ basic needs with high-performance technology.

“Jack, are you even listening to what I said?” Tessa interrupted his train of thought and repeated, “I said, if you get too nervous, just use the calming oils blend.”

“In the middle of a face-to-face meeting?” Jack imagined applying the smelly oils on his temples while answering the question about his strengths and weaknesses.

“Of course not. Before the meeting.” Tessa handed him a small spritzer dispenser. “Take that.”

“What is this?”

“Lavender and Ylang-Ylang oils blend with water. Spray it on your wrists before entering the interview room.”

* * *

Jack might not have new shoes or a suit, but his red, flying two-seater Mustang with gold molding was a QL-354, the latest model. It covered the distance to theCozy Dwellingheadquarters in only 12 minutes and 40 seconds.

The ninety-nine-story skyscraper loomed in the foggy air and screamed “money” from every commercial 3-D billboard floating around the building. The flashing sign GUESTS PARKING led Jack’s car to the fifty-fifth floor. The parking attendant cyborg motioned to the next available slot.

Jack took one of those noise-cancelling elevators to the lobby, where another cyborg—slender brunette—greeted him with a smile at the reception desk.

“Jack Merlow, I presume? Floor 15. Room 158. Mr. Canary is expecting you.”

For a second, Jack thought the receptionist might pass for a real person with her alabaster skin and silk blouse if not for the cold stare of her almond-shaped digital eyes, running megabytes of information behind those retinas. Her blue eyes might have scanners, too, because she raised her hand.