"The Applicant " by Matthew M

 

As I peer out the window through the thunderstorm, I see the city—a dark and gray jungle, like most others in the country today. The cab stops in front of the building, and the robot driver turns to look at me with its soulless eyes, holding out its wrist to request payment. I swipe my wrist over his, and the payment goes through. I get out of the car and stare at the ominous building in front of me, its geometric shape illuminated only by the thousands of corporate billboards around the city.

 

I walk up the steps quickly as the rain pours over the city, as it usually does most of the year. Up ahead, I see the robotic security guards that have replaced most of our human workers in “Old America.” They stop me, as expected, and ask, without a hint of emotion, “Business here?”

 

I reply, “I'm part of the new class. I'm here for my application for New America and their school.” The robots stare at me, running some sort of facial recognition, as the rain patters on their hard metallic surfaces.

 

They beep, “GPA please” I lift the sleeve of my coat and roll up the sleeve of my suit underneath, revealing a tattoo-like number burned into the skin of my wrist: 3.8, glowing a fluorescent blue. Swiping their wrist with mine, they beep and seem to ponder for a moment before blurting out, “Application fee will be $97.”

 

I take the charge; I am one of the lucky few who can afford basic necessities such as good clean food and water, based on my GPA—nonetheless, an application fee for a school in New America. The robotic guards buzz me in, and I walk through the dark geometric building, my shadow illuminated by the various billboards outside and the lightning striking.

 

I find a door marked “New Applicants Here.” I open it with the GPA engraved on my wrist and walk in. I look into the massive room and see thousands of applicants in front of me. Some are interacting and chatting, while others sit alone, pondering what lies ahead. We all have one thing in common: we look almost identical, wearing the same clothes, exhibiting the same mannerisms, and even sharing similar heights, eye colors, and voices. The marvel of genetic engineering has allowed the government to mold the next generation of Americans into their ideal image—applicants whose sole goal is to accomplish enough to get into New America.

 

Regardless, we still have to endure hours of rigorous examination, grueling work hours, and finally the “Application” to even have a shot at a school in New America. I sit down and look around; the screens in the room display the names of those called, and each walks in for a discussion with “the officer.” Only after the interview do you find out your fate. Those accepted to a school in New America leave immediately, while no one is quite sure what happens to those who are not.

 

As names pass by, time seems to move slower and slower. Anticipation builds in my stomach. I think, *I believe I've done enough… I hope I have, at least. After all, nobody is quite sure if they have, in the eyes of these people.* Finally, my name is called. I walk up to the huge doors, greeted by the assistant of the officer, who leads me through the massive doors that slam shut with a thunderous thud.

 

We walk down a hallway, make a left, and stop at a door. The secretary knocks, and the door buzzes open. We enter, and the secretary turns to leave. Sitting at the desk in front of me is the officer. He is pale, with jet-black hair slicked back; his age is hard to tell—maybe mid-30s or 40s. He wears glasses that reflect the light, making it impossible to see his eyes. His features are mundane yet mysterious.

 

I can't ascertain much about him, besides the fact that he is a stranger. He motions for me to come over, and I think, *Is it not odd that I know nothing about this person, while they know so much about me and yet determine my entire fate?*

 

I sit in the chair as he types on his thick, sleek, gray computer, presumably bringing up my accomplishments and history. He finally speaks.

 

“Well, let’s get this done fast, as I have to see thousands more of you applicants.”

 

I nod in agreement as he continues.

 

“Well, as you know, your GPA is the basis of your life. Everything you have ever done or accomplished in Old America is summed up in one number. Anything below a 3.5 is unacceptable for New America. It's your currency, your way of life. You paid for this entrance fee with that GPA, and it determines if you can even be considered for a good life. After all, it allows us to separate the top-tier applicants from those that the new government does not deem worthy. So let us hope, for your sake, that you have done enough.”

 

“Yes, sir, I hope I have done enough. I know my GPA is above a 3.5.”

 

“You and everyone else. Just remember, the ultimate goal for attending these schools is to serve one of the hundreds of companies that make up America now. At school, you will learn to become a perfect member of the corporate new world. So tell me, applicant, why should we let you in?”

 

“Well, I have worked hard. I have served my community and my nation—”

 

“Oh, please. Don’t you think I’ve heard this a hundred times? Grab my attention with something.”

 

I feel my hands go clammy as a lump forms in my stomach. I realize that we, as applicants, are just another name on a sheet. Everything I have done pales in comparison to what others have achieved in much more impressive ways. In their eyes, we as applicants are truly nothing.

 

“Surely you can tell me about yourself in, let’s say, 350 words or less? Come on now. Just answer four questions. I need your essence captured in this application; otherwise, I can’t decide your future for you. What is one way you have made your community better? Come on now.”

 

“I mean, I have served so much. I’ve clothed children, helped repair robots, built entire learning centers—I’ve been everything New America would want and more. How would you expect me to tell my life story in 350 words or less?”

 

He snaps back, “It’s easy, applicant. You just need to be concise and original. After all, I have to make a decision that will determine your future after just learning about you. It is easy.”

 

“What's so easy about any of this? You've taken my whole life and put it into a single paper. Somehow, with everything I have to deal with on a daily basis—all the sleepless nights I’ve given to this place—my personality and accomplishments all get compressed and put under a microscope.”

 

“Yes, it is. To be honest, we could care less about you as a person. We just need to get new workers for New America in our schools. After all, the whole point of the GPA determining your life is to make you compliant, to just be another cog in the corporate machine.”

 

I stand up from my seat. “This is so unfair! How do you expect me to be perfect for New America? All we applicants do is work and work and work, and the harder we work, the more you raise your expectations along with your prices. It’s unfair.”

 

“Nothing in our lives is fair, applicant. It’s a business; we need to raise prices to keep these schools functioning. Besides, it’s going to take a while to find out if you’ve made it.”

 

I scoff and say, “You’re telling me my future is based on a singular, one-dimensional view from a complete stranger who I don’t even know, and all that I am is compressed into one singular application?”

“Yes, I am telling you that. Now I would hurry up and work on those responses; you still have to revise them, and the deadline for your future is soon.”