Best Hiring Practices

The object of my observation, Claire, is a victim of what is called the boots theory of socioeconomic unfairness. It's not a theory she understands or could articulate, but its symptoms are written all over her life. Her apron, a rough piece of fabric secured around her waist, frequently catches on the splintered bar and tables of the run-down tavern in which she works. The apron, once a lively red, has aged into a dull burgundy, its color echoing the inevitable decay that affects all things, even fabric. Each tug and catch aggravates the fraying that has been present in the garment since it was bought second-hand. I know this because I have seen her scowl when serving drinks to the local patrons. I've watched her wince when the worn fabric snags on the jagged wood, a quick flash of irritation crossing her features, as if the small inconvenience is just one more burden in her already difficult life.

She undoubtedly calculates how soon it will catch the eye of her merciless employer due to its ragged look. I see her sometimes in the quiet moments, eyeing the ragged edges of her uniform with a furrowed brow, weighing the potential of another confrontation with her boss. Her tunic, the other essential part of her work attire, is stiff with many working hours of dried sweat and the homemade perfume used to mask its scent. The smell of stale beer and sweat intermingles with a sharp lavender scent that is as oppressive as it is inadequate to conceal her labor. I know this because I have seen her nose scrunch up as she is reminded with every lift of a tray. The frequent lifts, necessary to complete her duties, bring her nose close enough to the fabric to inhale its increasingly unwashed scent.

Its patchwork woolen construction is deteriorating more rapidly since it's her only clothing suitable for tavern work. I know this because the simple grey tunic is all I have seen her in for the past week. Day in, day out, the same tunic, a silent testament to her poverty and limited resources. Her shoes, made of worn leather, are on their last legs and are only hanging on due to the makeshift insertion of scrap leather scavenged from behind the tannery. I know this because I have seen her rummaging through the muck of the alley for them, a determined look on her face despite the degradation of her circumstances.

She can't afford to replace these garments with anything of better quality because her employer thinks a few scant meals a day and a leaky roof are fair compensation for her work. I know this because I am hearing her being berated through the tavern door for asking for a loan to buy new shoes. It's a conversation I have heard many times, not just from Claire but from countless others who find themselves at the mercy of a system that exploits their vulnerability. Because I know these things, I wait outside for another minute, for the inevitable outcome of her plea.

This is long enough for Claire to tumble out the tavern doors with a yelp more of surprise than pain amid the shouting of the older owner. I knew it was coming, as it always does, but still I wait, as if prolonging the inevitable somehow changes its nature. But in truth, this cycle of humiliation and struggle only reinforces my purpose. As I reach out and grab a portion of the apron around her chest, I am not a savior, but an opportunity, an alternative to the unending spiral of suffering that clings to Claire like the scent on her tunic.

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“Hello,” I say, my tone steady and calm, holding her by a fist full of apron, roughly a foot from impacting the mud below. It was a swift motion, one that goes unnoticed by the passersby but undoubtedly changes the trajectory of her life. “Are you looking for a job?”

“Uhhhhh…” Claire croaks out, her voice cracking under the weight of surprise. Her eyes dart around, the deep amber irises searching for something solid in her upended world. I watch as her mind, clouded with confusion, tries to comprehend the sudden shift in perspective. It may have been foolish of me to assume she is in the frame of mind to recognize her previous employment has ended, much less go job hunting. But I've long since learnt that life doesn't always afford us the luxury of time.

With a light tug, I take the first step and pull her apron towards me, letting her steady herself upright. Her feet stumble a bit, the worn soles of her shoes slipping on the muck underfoot, but eventually, she finds her footing. After a bit more glassy-eyed brain-rebooting, her amber eyes settle on mine of contrasting pale grey, and she adopts a questioning expression. It’s a mirror of her current state: lost yet eager for answers.

“It seems you’ve just been relieved of your barmaid position,” I say more slowly and carefully, a hint of feigned sympathy coloring my otherwise impassive tone. I gesture to the doors of the tavern, still vibrating from being roughly slammed shut by the presumed owner, “And I am in need of a worker. So would you like a job?”

“I uhm… yes? I don’t think I have anywhere to stay anymore…” Claire manages to slowly get out, her voice wavering as the weight of her situation hits. I watch her face fall, the vibrancy in her eyes dimming as she grows progressively more despondent.

“I considered that," I interject, subtly shifting the conversation to a more pragmatic, less emotional ground. "My new shop has a spare room you may use while you remain in my employ. You will be justly compensated as well of course. You living there will increase efficiency, so it’s a boon for us both.”

“You considered?... Never mind," she sighs, her shoulders sagging in apparent resignation. "I don’t really have any things but…”

“All the easier to head out then! We can hammer out the details in a more suitable location,” I cut her off, as we are still standing in a dingy street in front of a pub I have been loathe to spend the last week visiting. My trousers, boots, and long knee-length gambeson doubling as a jacket are by far durable enough to manage a little mud, but it’s the principle of the thing. “This is hardly the environment to conduct business.”

With a sense of finality, I pivot on my heel and begin my brisk walk to what passes for the “good side” of this pathetically small town. Even in this relatively anemic kingdom, this settlement barely qualifies as such. The fact that humans can self-isolate by class in a town of only triple-digit population is a depressing testament to human character, really.

“I didn’t get your name!” Claire calls much louder than is necessary as she scurries to catch up. She does not walk abreast with me but rather stays a pace behind my side. A mix of wariness and curiosity, I assume.

“That is because I hadn’t given it." I reply, keeping my gaze fixed ahead. Her anxious face drops in disappointment and I am surprised at my immediate desire to correct this development. It’s rare that I feel such impulse. “It’s Kyda.

“Oh and Claire?” I continue, my voice echoing slightly in the stillness of the street. I don't turn to look at her, choosing instead to maintain the forward motion. There's a rhythm to my steps, a cadence that she seems to instinctively match.

“Hmm?” She replies, her voice noticeably softer now, hesitant. Perhaps she's pondering the nature of my proposition or my unexpected aid.

“Remind me to get you some proper boots.”