Boston Solutions Incorporated
Chapter 17

Copyright© 2021 by Lazlo Zalezac

“I am very unhappy.”

“About?” Magus asked looking at the giant man sitting slumped down in the office chair.

“Everything,” Nestor said. He sighed dejectedly.

Magus said, “When was the last time you were happy?”

“When I was in college,” Nestor said. Just thinking about his college days brought a smile to his face and he sat up straighter.

“Did you go to a lot of parties?” Magus asked.

“No. I don’t like parties. I liked going to classes,” Nestor said.

Magus asked, “What was your major?”

“English literature. I really enjoyed reading and discussing poetry in my classes and with my classmates,” Nestor said. “I like poetry. I like poetry a lot. I guess you could say that I love poetry.”

“So we have established that you were happy in college reading and discussing poetry. Why did your happy days come to an end?” Magus asked.

“I graduated,” Nestor said.

“That does happen on occasion; not often enough but on occasion,” Magus said. “What happened upon graduating?”

“I had to get a job,” Nestor said. A pained expression flashed across his face and he crumpled back into his chair.

“Did you want a job?” Magus asked.

“Yes,” Nestor answered.

“Did you get a job?” Magus asked.

“Yes,” Nestor answered.

Magus asked, “What job did you get?”

Nestor answered, “It took a while to find a job. I mean, there aren’t many job ads for people who like poetry. I kept looking and finally found a job waiting on tables.”

“So you became a waiter. How was it?” Magus asked.

“A big guy like me should not be carrying food around in a crowded restaurant. I couldn’t move without bumping into people, chairs, or tables. I dropped more food than I delivered. That job didn’t even last a week,” Nestor said.

Magus asked, “How did you feel about that?”

“Bad, but I continued to look for work. I found another job after a while,” Nestor said.

Magus said, “Good. What job did you get?”

Nestor said, “I got a job as a parking lot attendant. I was really looking forward to it. I figured that I would have a lot of time to read poetry and it would be a relatively low stress job.”

“That sounds like a good job for you,” Magus said.

“Unfortunately, I discovered that I couldn’t fit in the booth,” Nestor said. “It was short and kind of narrow.”

Magus said, “You are a rather large man. What happened?”

“Everything was okay at first. I sat outside the booth, read poetry, and collected money from the patrons. Then one day, about a week after I started, it began raining cats and dogs. I forced my way into the booth to keep from getting wet. I was stuck for three hours before anyone noticed. The fire department had to take the booth apart to get me out,” Nestor said. His cheeks turned red.

“I can see where that might be embarrassing,” Magus said. Although Nestor was a pretty big guy, the booth must have been pretty small for him to get stuck in it.

“I was embarrassed while they were trying to get me out. Then I was depressed because I was unemployed again. It was not one of my better days,” Nestor said.

Magus said, “I can see why you might say that. Then what happened?”

“It took a couple of months, but I got the job I have now,” Nestor said. He sat there looking like the poster child of misery.

“Where do you work?” Magus asked.

Nestor whimpered. To see a guy that big whimper was pretty disturbing. He mumbled something that Magus couldn’t quite hear. Magus asked, “Where?”

After getting control of his emotions, Nestor answered, “At the Department of Motor Vehicles.”

“Oooo,” Magus said flinching. Afraid to hear the answer, he asked, “Doing what?”

“Vehicle registrations. All day long I hand out license plates,” Nestor said. A tear leaked out the corner of his eye.

Magus asked, “How is your job working out?”

“All day long there is a line of people ... crabby people ... renewing their vehicle registrations. After an hour, their faces just blur into blobs of frowning mean grotesque snarling hateful spiteful nasty...” Nestor said slowly fading out as he ran out of adjectives. He shuddered and then said, “The horror.”

“I take it you don’t like your job,” Magus said.

Nestor said, “The ad should have said that poets need not apply. It is a job guaranteed to kill a sensitive soul like mine. I’ve been there a year.”

Having established that the job was one sore point in Nestor’s life, Magus asked, “Are you married?”

“No,” Nestor said.

“Dating anyone?” Magus asked.


Magus asked, “Why not?”

“I can’t look at people after working a whole day in the DMV. It doesn’t matter how beautiful a woman is; I just look at her and imagine her in line 6 at the DMV. The mental image that conjures just isn’t all that pretty. I spend my weekends hiding in a corner and shivering,” Nestor said.

“I can see where that might get in the way of dating,” Magus said.

“It does.”

Magus asked, “Have you thought about quitting your job?”

“I’m trapped. I have bills to pay and a degree in a subject that doesn’t lead to a high paying job,” Nestor said. He sighed and slumped even further down in his chair.

“I can see how you might feel trapped,” Magus said. He was silent for a minute. Finally, he asked, “How is your health?”

“Not so good. I can’t sleep at night. My stomach is producing acid like it was a chemical factory owned by Dow. My muscles are so tense that I can barely walk like a human being. I have constant headaches,” Nestor said.

Magus asked, “Have you been to a doctor?”

“Yes,” Nestor said.

“What did your doctor say?” Magus asked.

“He says that it is stress. He gave me some pills to take. They have helped a little. They get me through the first hour of work. I’ve been going to a therapist, but an hour with him versus eight hours of facing an endless line of crabby irritated angry mad furious inhuman...” Nestor’s answer faded out when he ran out of adjectives.

“I see,” Magus said. “Tell me about your perfect job.”

Nestor said, “Well, I’d like a job that has a bit of up time and a bit of down time. Kind of like a chauffeur where you drive a bit and then wait for the person to finish his business. It would give me a chance to read a bit of poetry without being in a position where I’m not doing my job. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do,” Magus answered. “Do any other characteristics of your perfect job come to mind?”

“Chauffeur would be okay, but I don’t want to be sitting all day. I would like to be a little more physical than that. I’m a big guy and I like moving around and using my muscles occasionally.”

“Interesting,” Magus said.

“Speaking of being a big guy, I’d like a job where that isn’t a negative. Cubicles drive me crazy because I pretty much take up all the space in them. I’d liked to avoid jobs requiring me to work in small enclosed spaces. To tell the truth, I don’t want to get stuck in a booth again.”

“Understandable,” Magus said.

“Despite my complaints about my job, I do like talking to people. I just don’t like an endless line of crabby, irritated, angry, frustrated, mad, frowning...” Nestor said, fading out when he ran out of adjectives.

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