The Problem

Office. Mid-noon. Hunger depressing into tunneling thought like a bad screensaver. Burgers. Fries. Que the bad screensaver. A smorgasbord of family pictures perforate the embattled monitor. They are discoloured and warped. A Post-it-note on the top corner reads ‘fix computer’. It too is yellowed, curling, bending like the finger of the elderly woman now on the screen whose hand is out, arm flabby and useless, eyes static, mouth agape, and reaching for you.

You: [Screen brightens] Work. Yes, script writing. Selection time. What do we have? The usual snafu of people padding their resume for safety? The self-confident headstrong who will be guillotined in the shredder? The coiled humble types who say so little, which probably says a lot? Hrm, found one.

Me: Dear Ubisoft, the Selection Committee for Scriptwriting, and you.

You: Another usual start. Cookie-cutter. A bit of overbaked formalism too.

Me: My name is Kacper Niburski.

You: Or a blur. Like all the others. Letters meaning nothing. Nothing meaning nothing else.

Me: I – excitedly, qualified, and contently – am applying to the Scriptwriter position.

You: Adjectives? Really? Take that Masters of Arts and that undergraduate in Arts and Science and shov… wait what?

Me: And I would like to talk to you there in the office with the aggressive, relentless light, with the thankless day weeping away, with the empty stomach, with the computer that needs IT and it too.

You: What?

Me: I am it.

You: Excuse me?

Me: I am IT.

You: What is happening?

Me: I am I, the solution.

You: Sorry?

Me: Listen.

You: This is an interesting and atypical letter, though he (is it a he) can’t be talking to me.

Me: I am talking to you.

You: Me?

Me: You.

You: But how?

Me: One word at a time.

You: Okay smartass.

Me: I did not put that description in my CV, though I wouldn’t mind the suggestion of intelligence.

You: Okay, just ass then.

Me: That is fine for I rode a donkey in Mallorca.

You: I’m sorry?

Me: Aren’t cover letters meant to show personality? To convey meaning and essence and the perfect fit for the perfect shape?

You: It is why so many of them are cookie cutter, ya.

Me: Exactly. So listen –

You: Wait. This is foolish. I am talking to a sheet of paper from a stranger I don’t know and who doesn’t know me and who got lucky with the office deadzone and the listless lunch and the crummy computer.

Me: I am I, the solution.

You: You keep saying that. It’s cultish. Weird. Wait – again. What am I doing? Just tired. And hungry. I need food. Just this one application left. Then, Eden, apple and all. Okay. CV looks smooth, seamless. Years of writing experience for creative and investigative journalism institutions like The Silhouette, Incite, and The Meducator; was selected for the prestigious Iowa Writer’s Workshop; has buttloads of creative content creation for places like LetsStopAIDS or Academic Nexus; has a creative blog, a interestingly composed Instagram, knows his aesthetic in web and graphic design by building his own comic site, charity, and writing workshop; wrote award winning short stories; has a wide portfolio of fiction; worked for the innovation hub MaRS Discovery District doing a variety of projects, did loads of research in chemistry and public health, something about publishing poetry books.

Me: I also designed those books.

You: Thanks. I mean – shoot. Again, mindlessly conversing with no one. A ghost. Ha. The name’s fitting: Kacper.

Me: My parents like it too.

You: Oh ya? What does it me – shit. Look. I’m just spent. Doggone. Almost done. A few more minutes.

Me: And then?

You: Next person. Man not aga –

Me: Am I such an ending? Am I really summed up?

You: No offense but –

Me: Am I the grandmother gone and stretching out?

You: Hey. Watch it. That is a personal subject.

Me: So am I.

You: Okay. I get it. But you aren’t offering much.

Me: I am the only lifetime I know.

You: Do more maybe.

Me: I am trying for I am I, the solution.

You: You keep saying that, why?

Me: For I am the repair your computer needs.

You: How?

Me: I am reaching out to you too.

You: Oh.

Me: Your hands sit idle now.

You: I am thinking what to do.

Me: What do you mean?

You: Well, I have more applicants. And my boss needs to see a hiring process filled with passion and drive and teamwork. And I am really just one person against many people.

Me: As am I. I am one: I, the solution.

You: Look just because you say it doesn’t mean it’s true.

Me: And just because you don’t doesn’t mean it isn’t.

You: You have an answer for all, don’t you?

Me:

You: I said you have an answer for all, don’t you?

M:

You: Hello?

:

You: I don’t get it? So chatty one second and then silence. Compelling, atypical cover letter, but a real nut that one was. [Looks back to screen. The elderly woman is there again, though there is no fuzz around her. She is solid, full, total. Her hands hold you and your eyes, your memories, the times spent away from this place where you wanted more, thought more, planned on becoming more. Where did she go? Where did you? The lights in the office go off with a shriek. The screen dies. They come back on in an instant, a miracle of corporate minds and money. The computer will not turn back on. It has been fried. Oh how you are hungry for more and how empty you are with less.]