off
firecrackers. My stereo and speakers are set up near the head of the mattress
on the floor so I can blast myself into unconsciousness on bad nights.
Lately I've begun to notice that
the floor is a little lopsided, causing everything that falls to roll eastward.
Including Barbara Russo's tiny turquoise-colored earring. The earring is still
lying under a chair in the corner, where it's been since Barbara slept with me
at some point during the Reagan administration. When I discovered it months
later, I made a conscious decision to leave it there. Not out of sloppiness or
bravado; it's merely a reminder that romance is still possible.
This morning, though, it just
depresses the hell out of me, so I figure I'm better off playing it safe and
facing the malevolent world outside. Sticking around here is too risky. I roll
out of bed, light a cigarette, and take the Sex Pistols record off the
turntable. With a rumbling stomach and a hung-over head full of cotton, I put
the cap on the half-empty Jack Daniel's bottle and get ready to spend another
day. straightening out my clients' lives.
Early in the afternoon I look up to
see Jack Pirone, my old training instructor and current union rep, glowering
down at me. Big Jack's eyes are darting back and forth, like they've become
frightened by the prospect of drowning in his grotesquely fleshy face. His jaw
is working furiously, though he doesn't appear to have anything in his mouth.
"Whaddya doing?" Jack
says.
"Nothing. Just filling out
reports."
"Whaddya doing?!!" Jack
says a little louder.
I go back to writing. "I just
told you."
"WHADDYA DOING?!!!!!!"
I slap my folder down on the desk
and give him my undivided attention. "Is something the matter, Jack?"
"What's all this bullshit
about you going to field service?"
I start to ask how he knows
already, but Jack has spies all over the office and good instincts besides. He
eventually figures everything out. He stops chewing and glares at me.
"The membership is not going
to be happy, Steven."
"The membership is going to
end up feeling whatever you tell them to feel," I say, dropping my pen.
"So why don't you just tell me why you're not happy?"
"Precedent," Jack intones
with the solemnity of a seminary student. He goes over to my blackboard and
writes the word out.
"You're young," he says,
"you been here two years, you're not married, you don't know. Your average
probation officer makes—what?—twenty-three thousand a year? They're fuckin' fat
slobs like me. They wanna sit in front of the tube and eat pasta fazule. They
don't wanna run around the streets, looking for some sick fuck who is too busy
corn-holing eighty-nine-year-old females to keep an appointment. If your
average P.O. wants excitement, he watches Knots Landing with the wife, and
maybe gets a handjob if she's in the mood."
"So I'm not stopping
him."
Jack shakes his head and huffs
loudly. "No good, Steven. No good. You're setting a bad precedent for the
rest of us.
Office people shouldn't have to
risk being in the field. Just because the noble savage asks you to do
something, you don't have to jump through hoops ..."
"The who?"
"The noble savage—Ms.
Lang."
"Ah, knock it off, Jack,"
I say, frowning. He knows I hate shit like that. "It's not her idea
anyway."
"Who then?" Jack asks.
"I think it was this guy
Deputy Dawson ..."
"He's a fuckin' budget
manager! What the fuck does he know? I gotta ask around about this." Jack
stops and chews his nails pensively.
"That's all I know."
"So what're you saying, you
sold us out?" Jack grabs one of the empty wooden chairs, spins it around,
and sits on it backward. Its legs give a sinister creak. "You can't do this.
They're not giving us full insurance benefits for the field."
"I get something," I say
a little uncertainly. "Don't I?"
"You should get the same
benefits as if you were a cop," Jack says, starting to slip into one of
his standard union speeches. "The field job is just as dangerous. More, in
fact. Because
firecrackers. My stereo and speakers are set up near the head of the mattress
on the floor so I can blast myself into unconsciousness on bad nights.
Lately I've begun to notice that
the floor is a little lopsided, causing everything that falls to roll eastward.
Including Barbara Russo's tiny turquoise-colored earring. The earring is still
lying under a chair in the corner, where it's been since Barbara slept with me
at some point during the Reagan administration. When I discovered it months
later, I made a conscious decision to leave it there. Not out of sloppiness or
bravado; it's merely a reminder that romance is still possible.
This morning, though, it just
depresses the hell out of me, so I figure I'm better off playing it safe and
facing the malevolent world outside. Sticking around here is too risky. I roll
out of bed, light a cigarette, and take the Sex Pistols record off the
turntable. With a rumbling stomach and a hung-over head full of cotton, I put
the cap on the half-empty Jack Daniel's bottle and get ready to spend another
day. straightening out my clients' lives.
Early in the afternoon I look up to
see Jack Pirone, my old training instructor and current union rep, glowering
down at me. Big Jack's eyes are darting back and forth, like they've become
frightened by the prospect of drowning in his grotesquely fleshy face. His jaw
is working furiously, though he doesn't appear to have anything in his mouth.
"Whaddya doing?" Jack
says.
"Nothing. Just filling out
reports."
"Whaddya doing?!!" Jack
says a little louder.
I go back to writing. "I just
told you."
"WHADDYA DOING?!!!!!!"
I slap my folder down on the desk
and give him my undivided attention. "Is something the matter, Jack?"
"What's all this bullshit
about you going to field service?"
I start to ask how he knows
already, but Jack has spies all over the office and good instincts besides. He
eventually figures everything out. He stops chewing and glares at me.
"The membership is not going
to be happy, Steven."
"The membership is going to
end up feeling whatever you tell them to feel," I say, dropping my pen.
"So why don't you just tell me why you're not happy?"
"Precedent," Jack intones
with the solemnity of a seminary student. He goes over to my blackboard and
writes the word out.
"You're young," he says,
"you been here two years, you're not married, you don't know. Your average
probation officer makes—what?—twenty-three thousand a year? They're fuckin' fat
slobs like me. They wanna sit in front of the tube and eat pasta fazule. They
don't wanna run around the streets, looking for some sick fuck who is too busy
corn-holing eighty-nine-year-old females to keep an appointment. If your
average P.O. wants excitement, he watches Knots Landing with the wife, and
maybe gets a handjob if she's in the mood."
"So I'm not stopping
him."
Jack shakes his head and huffs
loudly. "No good, Steven. No good. You're setting a bad precedent for the
rest of us.
Office people shouldn't have to
risk being in the field. Just because the noble savage asks you to do
something, you don't have to jump through hoops ..."
"The who?"
"The noble savage—Ms.
Lang."
"Ah, knock it off, Jack,"
I say, frowning. He knows I hate shit like that. "It's not her idea
anyway."
"Who then?" Jack asks.
"I think it was this guy
Deputy Dawson ..."
"He's a fuckin' budget
manager! What the fuck does he know? I gotta ask around about this." Jack
stops and chews his nails pensively.
"That's all I know."
"So what're you saying, you
sold us out?" Jack grabs one of the empty wooden chairs, spins it around,
and sits on it backward. Its legs give a sinister creak. "You can't do this.
They're not giving us full insurance benefits for the field."
"I get something," I say
a little uncertainly. "Don't I?"
"You should get the same
benefits as if you were a cop," Jack says, starting to slip into one of
his standard union speeches. "The field job is just as dangerous. More, in
fact. Because
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