The trodden path forked into the open door where there were three silent, eyeglassed faces peeking out over the top of large terminals oriented side by side in a wide semicircle. This was silly, of course, the deviation couldn’t have been more than a few fingernails’ widths. The middle was so worn the floor felt rutted like I was stuck in a track and might not be able to turn out. Previously I had only registered a vague brownness beneath me, but as I examined my steps, I realized that the carpet had once been red with a flat pile, still slightly shiny on the edges by the walls, as if intended for a parade of celebrities. The background check room felt further from the fingerprint room than the fingerprint room had been from the recruitment office. Turning to continue on my original trajectory, I noticed red numbers glowing from the face of a digital clock mounted to what must have been the wall at the hall’s terminus. Looking back the way I’d come, I could see the clump of frames on the wall about a hundred paces away.
When I emerged back into the corridor, I became aware of how long it had been since I was last exposed to natural light, suddenly felt myself in a tunnel.
#Crowes fingerprint time clock full
I took a squirt from the hand pump nozzle on a five-gallon jug full of what I assumed was sanitizer, working it over each fingertip, then into my knuckles and webbing, briefly covering myself with isopropanol stink before it evaporated. The listing had been vague on this and many other details. There hadn’t been any statement of expected physicality in the position’s description, nor was there any claim about non-discriminant hiring practices. Certainly, there were also other-abled people more than capable of performing the Essential Duties. Surely there were positions that required less fine dexterity. Maybe such applicants wouldn’t have made it this far, would’ve been screened and dismissed by the recruiter. Perhaps an unseen operator behind the wall would override the scanning machine defaults, accepting fewer than the normative quantity of finger scans, in Taimy’s case merely four. In that moment I was relieved to have all of my fingers present and intact, wondered what someone like my co-Habber Taimy might do, lacking as they did a finger on their right hand, as well as the entire other hand. After the last finger, my right pinky, the device sounded its satisfaction with special enthusiasm and then appeared to power down, all lights fading out, the lifelike buzz stilled. It was disappointing to find it unattended, as I remembered the intimacy of my last background check, the stranger officiously manipulating my hand against the instrument, hasty but tender. There was no instruction given, but the device was fairly intuitive, emitting a pleasant synthetic chime and vibration after each digit I offered. The scanner’s cord ran through a hole in the wall at floor level. I’d have to hold it a while, hopefully not too long.įingerprinting was straightforward: there was a small taupe box with a wire snaking out the back, off the padded mat on a table in front of a wall made up of what I assumed was two-way glass. I reasoned they wanted me to save my urine for their purposes, though they wouldn’t need it until the third door.
I encountered no other doors along the way, though I was hoping to find a bathroom. The first room was where he said it’d be, legibly announced by a simple placard. “Just lovely, aren’t they? It’s a wonderful operation you’re joining, I think you’ll find it quite rewarding.” Satisfying Requirements I thought I had stepped outside of the sightline from his desk, but I heard the man’s voice again before I saw him emerge through the open doorway. I wasn’t confident they weren’t paintings, abstract renderings of foreign textures. They hung at chest height, and my body cast too much of a shadow to make out what was pictured. In an attempt to get a close look I had to stoop down. The space outside the Recruitment Officer’s room felt lifeless but for a few framed images too small and closely concentrated relative to the scale of the corridor.
He directed me back out into the dim hallway, declaring that each room would be clearly labeled.
#Crowes fingerprint time clock skin
I showed up to complete a paper application at the recruitment office downtown where a man with sixty-year-old skin shuddering underneath a twenty something’s wardrobe glanced at it briefly with an artificial glimmer in his eye before hiring me on the spot, contingent on fingerprinting, background check, and drug test.
It’s tangential to my interests at best, but at least I could feign interest, more so than at the interview with the editorial department of the luxury magazine with photo spreads devoted to yachts and undiscovered villas, articles about cigars and the risk/reward ratio of contemporary art as an investment. Facilitating the fulfillment of others’ image-making could be an honest way to make a decent living.
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