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.This is why people get married, I think.They don't thinkabout these things practically, they just imagine the wedding cake.The waytheir boyfriend would look in a tuxedo.The imagine sitting old and crotchetytogether on the front step, canes leaning against the wall, a chessboardbetween you.Two men growing old together.And their heart feels like this,and of course it seems like a good idea."If I get married, it's not going to be for a long time," I tell her."I don't evenhave a job.""You're almost thirty now, Arthur," she says."And your mother is fifty! Youdon't want her to die without any grandkids, do you?""Did you just call me up to be crazy?" I say.After that, I just sit on the couch thinking about growing older with Clay.About trying to find two wedding cake toppers that would do us justice.Dothey make Muppet wedding cake toppers? I bet they do.The interview is later that day.My interview with the detective.It wouldn't beaccurate to describe him without clichés.He's a barrel of man.He has a fiveo'clock shadow.He likes his women like he likes his whiskey.Twelve years oldand mixed up with coke.That kind of guy! He shows me his licence, whichsays quite clearly, "Private investigator and private guard licence." I am in thepresence of pure badassery.His shirt is untucked!It brings a smile to my face, seeing that licence, knowing that it isn't out ofreach, knowing that some day soon I could be damaging public property in ahigh-speed chase through downtown.Beating down little old men with theirown GOD HATES FAGS signs.I could be the one coming home stinking ofbooze.Though I might skip the self destructive alcoholism.I wouldn't want todrive Clay away.But otherwise, I could be a loose cannon! A half-crazed maverick!I smile, and the detective smiles back."You know, you learn a lot from this job," he says.I'm on the edge of my seatalready, but I lean even farther forward.Is this it? Is this where the musicswells, and we cut to a training montage? "You learn how to read a person,"he says, and I'm all ears.Training.Extensive Training."Sure, you can get books and videos that teach you this stuff," he says, wavinghis hand dismissively.He has thick fingers.A fist like a sack of oranges, if heneeds it.I imagine he needs it.I want to believe that he needs it all the time."But you'll never make it far on theory alone," he says."This job will teach youhow to read a person.You'll do it every day.Your safety will depend on it."And then he leans forward, so we're face to face and I can smell the cigaretteson his breath, and he says, "You want to know what I can tell about you? Justfrom your body language?"Fuck, do I ever.I can only nod, mute with awe.Can he tell that I've never beenclose with my father? Can he tell that I watch movies to live life the way itshould be lived, to jump from train to train with Harrison Ford because Iwould never have the courage on my own? To laugh every shitty thing off andjust keep shooting myself out of cannons like Gonzo? Does he know that SteveMartin is my hero, or that I cried when John Candy died?"You're a smart kid, for one," he says."You learn fast.You're a good worker."He keeps talking, and as he talks my heart sinks, but my smile never fades.Ikeep on smiling while he feeds me line after line.He tells me everything hethinks I want to hear.This is just another part of the pitch.Why is there apitch? Why are they pitching me this job? Shouldn't I be trying to convincethem?I'm such an idiot.This isn't going to be a job that will tolerate or encouragemy loose cannon idea of justice.This isn't a job that will nurture and respectmy violent, yet tender hearted individuality.This job won't fix me, won't giveme the tools to handle myself when someone like Dave comes swinging at me,or when someone like Wallace shoves me.This is how great our company is.This is how great you are.Imagine howgreat it would be if you wore a uniform and patrolled construction sites atnight for our company! Think of the possibilities, Arthur! Think of thespiritual enlightenment! And then he offers me the job, still leaning forward, gesturing with thosethick, lying fingers.I nod.I smile.And I say "Thank you, yes I would like tocome to work for you.""Great," he says."Do you have time now for your training?"Training! My heart flutters against my will.He takes me into another room.And so this is training.There isn't a single bottle of pepper spray to be found.Training to these people means watching instructional videos with fellow newrecruit, Bob.Bob has joined up for some part time work, and he doesn't seemlike the brightest knife in the shed.I'm getting the feeling that the shed I'vestumbled into isn't even meant for cutlery.It's meant to store rocks.The material in these videos seems aimed at people trying to find work aftersuffering a major stroke or head trauma.Every point they make is repeated adozen times.Stealing from employers is wrong.Yes, even if it's just a pen.That means it is wrong to steal a pen.What about this blue pen? Yes, stealingthe blue pen is wrong, too.Yes, even if you're poor, and your family needs theblue pen for Christmas dinner. Chapter 7The scheduling guy from my security company gives me a brief description ofthe job site.He lets me know that I will be provided with a hard hat, and aflashlight."A Big Mother Fucking Flashlight," he says.Then he made hand motions likehe's beating someone down with that Big Mother Fucking Flashlight.For twoglorious seconds his eyes are bugged out of his head, and his teeth gnash atthe air as he tears into some make-believe crook.He's my new favourite co-worker.Aside from murdering trespassers, I will be required to walk around everyonce in a while with my justice club, and then call hourly reports in to thedispatcher.I have already begun planning ways to use this call-in procedureto keep me entertained.Some possibilities are:a) Fake emergencies.This includes pretending that someone is breaking intothe building, which would result in an exciting lightshow when the policearrived, and the chance to fill out long, involved reports, using made upcharacters.These could also include fake murders, insisting that wet shadowyhalf human figures beat someone to death with makeshift tools like big rocks,and then they dragged the bodies into the sewers.b) Disguising my voice differently at each call
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