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Authors: Peter Blauner
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all you're dealing with is convicted felons. You should get full
coverage—injury, auto collision, death. The whole shebang. God forbid one of these
bastards should put a bullet in your neck, you should be taken care of. Not
just half the cost."
"I'm sure the union will get
it straightened out," I say, glancing over at my desk, where paperwork is
beckoning to me. "You seem to be on top of everything else."
Jack slowly turns his head to the
right and snaps it back. It looks like an isometric exercise for people too fat
to consider sit-ups. "How much are they paying you for this move?" he
asks.
"None of your business."
"How much are they paying
you?!!"
"Never mind."
"HOWMUCHARETHEYPAYINGYOU?!!!!!"
Jack bellows.
"Not that much. Enough to
cover my union dues if they go up." Jack probably knows already. He's just
asking to intimidate me.
"Then why are you doing this
foolish thing, my boy?" His loud honk of a voice drops to an avuncular
timbre. "You know, this field unit is just another fuckin' publicity ploy,
so that people won't catch on how fucked-up this agency really is. Probation is
a joke. Why are you helping them perpetuate this bullshit?"
"I don't know," I say,
cracking my knuckles. "I'm a little bored here. I want a chance to go out
and do something. I mean, I talk to a lot of people here, but I don't know if
it does any good. Maybe it'd be good to see some action. You were the one who
told me that the only time the public is even aware of probation officers is
when a client goes out and kills somebody. And then it looks like we blew
it."
"Let me tell you
something," Jack says. He casts his eyes around the cubicle. "But
first gimme a cigarette."
I take a brand-new pack of
Marlboros out of my pocket, unwrap it, and offer it to Jack. Before he takes
one, he fishes the empty pack I'd thrown away out of the garbage can.
"You see this?" he says,
holding up the pack. "You should keep this with you. That way, the next
time some bum asks you for a smoke, you can show him the empty pack-and say you
haven't got any more and keep the fresh pack for yourself."
"What's your point,
Jack?"
Jack lights the cigarette, inhales
deeply, and blows out a roomful of smoke. "Look, you're a nice kid,"
he begins. "Everybody likes you and you've got a very good reputation here
already. You're obviously very bright and you mean well. I don't deny you any
of that."
"But?"
"But if you go out on the
street," Jack says slowly, "they are gonna fuckin' eat you
alive."
I don't say anything.
"And another thing while I'm
at it," Jack says, leaning forward against the top of the chair. "I
heard you talking to your clients the other day. 'I'm gonna violate you
personally .. .I'm gonna do this. I'm gonna do that.' Steven! Don't make it so personal.
You shouldn't tell clients you're the one who's gonna send them back to jail
and all that shit. Just tell 'em you're only doing your job. Some of these guys
are kind of sensitive, you know, and you might just get your fuckin' head blown
off." The chair legs groan loudly again under Jack's weight.
I start rilling out my reports.
"We'll see," I say.
"You oughta be a lawyer.
That's what you should do." Jack grunts as he begins to get up. There's a
sudden squeak and a loud crash on the floor.
"Ah, fuck you, Jack," I
say. "Now I gotta get a new chair."
The steady stream of clients keeps
up until 3:30 , when Maria Sanchez
walks in. I call the reception desk and tell Roger, the guard, not to send
anyone else back until I'm done with her.
Maria is a seventeen-year-old
Puerto Rican girl living with her mother, two sisters, three brothers, uncle,
aunt, and five cousins in a tenement on East 106th
Street . She's a smart girl and the only person in
her family who speaks good English. She gets along with people in the
neighborhood and did well in school before she got in trouble. She's a little
heavy, but she has a beautiful face with a cloud-parting smile.
She's wearing a short denim skirt
without
coverage—injury, auto collision, death. The whole shebang. God forbid one of these
bastards should put a bullet in your neck, you should be taken care of. Not
just half the cost."
"I'm sure the union will get
it straightened out," I say, glancing over at my desk, where paperwork is
beckoning to me. "You seem to be on top of everything else."
Jack slowly turns his head to the
right and snaps it back. It looks like an isometric exercise for people too fat
to consider sit-ups. "How much are they paying you for this move?" he
asks.
"None of your business."
"How much are they paying
you?!!"
"Never mind."
"HOWMUCHARETHEYPAYINGYOU?!!!!!"
Jack bellows.
"Not that much. Enough to
cover my union dues if they go up." Jack probably knows already. He's just
asking to intimidate me.
"Then why are you doing this
foolish thing, my boy?" His loud honk of a voice drops to an avuncular
timbre. "You know, this field unit is just another fuckin' publicity ploy,
so that people won't catch on how fucked-up this agency really is. Probation is
a joke. Why are you helping them perpetuate this bullshit?"
"I don't know," I say,
cracking my knuckles. "I'm a little bored here. I want a chance to go out
and do something. I mean, I talk to a lot of people here, but I don't know if
it does any good. Maybe it'd be good to see some action. You were the one who
told me that the only time the public is even aware of probation officers is
when a client goes out and kills somebody. And then it looks like we blew
it."
"Let me tell you
something," Jack says. He casts his eyes around the cubicle. "But
first gimme a cigarette."
I take a brand-new pack of
Marlboros out of my pocket, unwrap it, and offer it to Jack. Before he takes
one, he fishes the empty pack I'd thrown away out of the garbage can.
"You see this?" he says,
holding up the pack. "You should keep this with you. That way, the next
time some bum asks you for a smoke, you can show him the empty pack-and say you
haven't got any more and keep the fresh pack for yourself."
"What's your point,
Jack?"
Jack lights the cigarette, inhales
deeply, and blows out a roomful of smoke. "Look, you're a nice kid,"
he begins. "Everybody likes you and you've got a very good reputation here
already. You're obviously very bright and you mean well. I don't deny you any
of that."
"But?"
"But if you go out on the
street," Jack says slowly, "they are gonna fuckin' eat you
alive."
I don't say anything.
"And another thing while I'm
at it," Jack says, leaning forward against the top of the chair. "I
heard you talking to your clients the other day. 'I'm gonna violate you
personally .. .I'm gonna do this. I'm gonna do that.' Steven! Don't make it so personal.
You shouldn't tell clients you're the one who's gonna send them back to jail
and all that shit. Just tell 'em you're only doing your job. Some of these guys
are kind of sensitive, you know, and you might just get your fuckin' head blown
off." The chair legs groan loudly again under Jack's weight.
I start rilling out my reports.
"We'll see," I say.
"You oughta be a lawyer.
That's what you should do." Jack grunts as he begins to get up. There's a
sudden squeak and a loud crash on the floor.
"Ah, fuck you, Jack," I
say. "Now I gotta get a new chair."
The steady stream of clients keeps
up until 3:30 , when Maria Sanchez
walks in. I call the reception desk and tell Roger, the guard, not to send
anyone else back until I'm done with her.
Maria is a seventeen-year-old
Puerto Rican girl living with her mother, two sisters, three brothers, uncle,
aunt, and five cousins in a tenement on East 106th
Street . She's a smart girl and the only person in
her family who speaks good English. She gets along with people in the
neighborhood and did well in school before she got in trouble. She's a little
heavy, but she has a beautiful face with a cloud-parting smile.
She's wearing a short denim skirt
without
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