THE JobMart's tinted windows seemed to frown at him. They were like the shades worn by the stereotypical spy: sinister, watchful and totally inscrutable. Yet the building itself seemed so shabby and dreary it gave him the urge to shiver. Even on a bright day like this the building appeared overcast.
Desperate as he was to find meaningful work, he pitied those who worked inside. Each day of their lives they came face to face with the unemployed. The tentative nature of work was paraded before them in a reminder of their own tenuous grip on society.
With a heavy heart he went inside. People jostled him. A long counter separated the employed from the jobless. It made for a wall dividing two worlds, where the ragged queues of blank-faced people waited to sign their names for another infusion of grinding poverty. Behind the wall, more blank-faced people processed the deserving poor. Workers on a human production line, they churned out ready-made rejects.
Mills joined the queue and found himself surrounded by the dead-eyed faces of the hopeless and the broken.
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