January’s whiteout yielded to a cloudy February, and then a more-lamb-than-lion March of filthy, thaw-resistant snowbanks, and Richard still had yet to receive an offer. He accepted as many interviews as he could, no matter how unpromising the position, and attended slews of seminars, career fairs, and industry-sponsored events. He was soon compelled to venture beyond his field, going so far as to respond to Scotch-taped “Now Hiring” flyers in the windows of grocery stores and restaurants. The managers liked him well enough, though they were wary of hiring a thirty-seven-year old man for positions more suitable for college students or teenagers. The interviews at the restaurants were especially traumatizing. In his best suit, Richard would be directed by one of the hostesses to sit at an unwiped, ketchup-stained bar and fill out a one-page application. Then, after sipping ice water or flat Diet Coke for twenty minutes, a person too young to remember the first Gulf War would emerge from the back with his application scored with checkmarks like on a fifth-grade math quiz and escort him to an empty table or booth, where he would be subjected to frivolous questions over the chatter and chomping of nearby patrons.

“So, Richard, do you have any experience in the food industry?”

“Technically, no.”

“So you’ve never worked in this kind of environment before?”

“That’s correct.”

“Pardon my directness, but we don’t usually get too many people your age applying for [wait staff/bartender/maître d’]. Why do you want this job?”

“Well, um, to be honest, it’s not so much a question of want—"

Richard’s ego did not bruise easily. But being pronounced unsuitable to wait tables at an Outback Steakhouse after answering only two questions—honestly and directly, it should be noted—was a harsh pill.

He decided to switch tactics. From now on, however bottom-feeding or repellent or high-schoolish the job seemed, Richard would present himself as the ideal candidate, even if that meant straight-faced lying. He responded to questions with words such as “rewarding” and “stimulating” and “contribute” and “valuable team member.” He talked up his credentials and complimented the interviewers on everything from generous benefit packages to the color of the carpeting. But that strategy didn’t work either.

On one occasion, the Vice President of Production at Syzygex, Inc., Boston’s second-largest educational publisher, emailed Richard an unsolicited request. Richard had forwarded his résumé (with the three typos corrected) to Syzygex without formally applying for a position. Even so, one of the company’s HR reps had stumbled across the résumé and forwarded it to the VP, Allan Norell. In his email, Mr. Norell invited Richard to apply for a senior-level management position that would have paid almost twice as much as his job at JSEP. Richard killed at the interview, which lasted over three hours. He said all of the right things and, more importantly, didn’t say any of the wrong things (his rancor toward Otto and Bertha was kept well hidden).

“Allan,” as Mr. Norell had asked Richard to call him upon their opening handshake—noted many similarities between Syzergex’s corporate structure and processes and those at JSEP. He seemed pleased with Richard’s accomplishments and personableness and, as they were wrapping up he said to him point-blank, “You’re a perfect fit. I look forward to working with you.” Richard was convinced the job was his and that a formal offer would be extended the following day. But instead he received a call from a nameless HR person, who told him, in an ingratiating, high-pitched peep, that they had decided on another candidate. When Richard pressed her for details, he learned that he had lost out to a thirty-year industry lifer who had decamped from Random House in New York.

Richard couldn’t figure what he was doing wrong. Was he being too pushy? Too passive? Was he overqualified? Undereducated? Not properly attired? Did he sweat too much? Were there still typos on his résumé? (He checked with a magnifying glass—no.)

Then one day, as he was exiting the Houghton Mifflin building on Berkeley Street after an interview for a low-ranking marketing position in the School Division for which he had zip, nada, zero germane experience, or interest for that matter, the truth slammed into him: He had not been visited by another sphere since the day he lost his job (“That Day,” as he had come to refer to it). Why? Had the recent swerves and swayings of his post-JSEP phase somehow caused them to dry up? Or had the spheres been there all along, hiding in corners or under tables, just beyond his vision, and he was too preoccupied to notice or care? (But I do care…) It seemed that whomever or whatever was behind the spheres had given up on him. Moroseness set in. After the voyage on the longship, he had made a promise to the Sphericals (another recent coinage) that he would eventually pull back the curtain and learn of their designs. But how could he keep his promise if they didn’t need him anymore, if he had already fulfilled his purpose? Used up and spat out. What could he do except continue to wait? He felt like he’d been dumped.

Also—and this was what irked him the most, though he was skeptical of its significance—there have been only two spheres so far. That seemed wrong. There should be another one. There should be three.

Isn’t there a prerequisite that this sort of thing—symbols, quests, revelations—should conform to the Rule of Three? The fire cave and sea voyage were real—he was certain of it now—but they were not real like the hand at the end of Richard’s arm or the shirt on his back were real. As time passed, they slipped to the level of dreamy real, allegorical and impressionistic, a fairy tale played out in a convex mirror, snippets of folklore weirdly alive yet displaced, like a centipede crawling on a TV screen. And in fairy tales and folklore (as in scriptures, epics, parables, and myths), when two pieces of a larger puzzle are known, by narrative decree there must be a third to satisfy the whole.

Richard’s mind popped with examples:

Father, Son, Holy Spirit; gold, frankincense, myrrh; Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego; Faith, Hope, Charity; Peter’s denials; Fates; Furies; Graces; Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva; Inferno, Purgatory, Paradise; the Three Gems; the Three Holy Cities; the Triple Goddess; the Sphinx’s Riddle; heads of Cerberus; Atalanta’s apples; Caesar’s denials of the diadem; Weird Sisters; Lear’s daughters; Christmas Past, Present, Yet to Come; Scarecrow, Tin Man, Cowardly Lion; Little Pigs; Musketeers; Blind Mice; Goldilocks and her bears, chairs, porridges, beds; Ahab’s grapplings with Moby Dick; Harry Potter’s Deathly Hallows; Zod, Non, Ursa from Superman II (Richard's favorite movie as a kid); Wynken, Blynken, Nod; Tinker, Evers, Chance; Larry, Curly, Moe; Snap, Crackle, Pop.

As his thoughts returned to That Day, Richard became convinced that a cosmic error had occurred. A third sphere would mean something. Order and balance would color in the gray spaces. Two spheres were aberrant, incomplete.

So where is it? A few weeks of tending to the damages of This World and the doors to the Other are forever barred?

Next Chapter: Part Three: Diversions, Digressions, Discoveries, Chapter III