The BOYS

Episode seven

Walt nursed his ego for a few bittersweet caveman days before swallowing his pride and making the trek down his mountain and across the northeast tip of municipal San Diego to the North County State Employment Office in Escondido. He had mailed out sixteen of the crisp, expensive resumes to employers with post office boxes, made fourteen calls and had made the decision to be truthful about his age and experience, rather than waste more gas chasing down jobs for which he was overqualified. He had received zero... zero... invitations.

He'd accessed a headhunter on the Internet who promised to forward copies of his resume to thousands of eager companies across Southern California and Nevada, duly paid the forty-nine dollar fee with his VISA card and had waited for the calls to come in. None did. So, being a professional (an overqualified professional, at that!), he had done the professional thing and began calling the government people and, after a series of voicemail detours, pressed "O" and found a human being on the other end of the line, one who finally made an appointment for him.

For all it was worth... he arrived ten minutes early, gazing over a sea of weary job-seekers fidgeting in chairs. A few had brought paperbacks or celebrity-gossip magazines, a few more had brought their kids, and some were... to put it politely... none too fragrant. Several of these dozed, one snoring loudly. The young receptionist at the desk separating the applicants from rows of cubicles that contained equally tired-looking counselors listened to Walter's spiel, even looked up to confirm his appointment in her computer before telling him that they had no record of his existence, directed him to take a ticket and wait his turn... an unshaven man who claimed to have invented several hearing aids wanted to tell the rest of his life's story, so Walt pretended to sleep. At some juncture, pretense became reality because, when the loudspeaker in the room blared out "Eighty-two!", he awoke from one of those casino excursions that Braxton organized two or three time a year, to keep the sales force motivated. Only it wasn't some dive on a reservation, or even Vegas... it was this suave place, old, plenty of those wall things hanging on walls and patrons in diamonds and tuxedos. Monte Carlo, maybe, or the Caribbean... he must've done something right, because neither Matt, nor Ev, nor any of the other guys were hanging over his shoulder, queering his luck. And neither was Missy. There was a blonde on his left... she reminded him of somebody, someone older and common, it was as if she were a ghost out of the past of someone Walter knew, but couldn't remember. And the brunette on his right bore a passing resemblance to the Black Widow, but gazed at him with longing and admiration as he pushed a pile of chips across a green felt table, and the wheel began to spin. He had a tuxedo of his own... white, like a fuckin' James Bond, a cognac and a cigar, and a bulge in his pants...

"Eighty-two!"

Walter started, looked down. Eighty-two was the number on his ticket... and there was a bulge in his pants. Holding his overqualified junk fund salesman's raincoat across his groin, he hobbled to the receptionist, who pointed him towards a cubicle manned... womanned, truth be told... by a short, stocky black woman with processed hair and an unpromising expression.

"Walter Kenneth uh... Fales?" She was holding a printout of his resume with her thumb and forefinger as if it were a dead mouse, fresh from the trap. His resume… that he'd submitted over the Internet when he'd made his appointment, so there had been an appointment... just one that had been lost, he realized with a wince, accidentally-on purpose.

"Glyniece Jones." She had the handshake of a defensive end, and Walter slid into the chair opposite her desk, raincoat still over his lap.

"Let's see what we have... MBA from Ohio State," she nodded, "oh... I did hear about BCM. Sorry!"

"Not as sorry as I am!" Walter tried to smile, but Ms. Jones took this the wrong way, and the little frown, which had begun to form while scanning his resume, deepened appreciably.

"You're not obligated to answer, but... are you in trouble with the law? We're not allowed to discriminate on background referrals, but if there are matters pending that would affect a potential employer..."

Humiliated and angry, Walt fired back: "I'm not a fuckin' crook."

"Well, that's helpful. Just watch the language,” she reminded in an admonitory tone he’d heard used by the television judges a few minutes before they went ballistic on some tattooed, t-shirted mope in the dock. “But... what's not helpful is your work history... you are what any reasonable employer would call overqualified. Are you familiar with this term?"

"I've heard of it, yes," Walter answered, cautiously.

Ms. Jones sighed.

"Mr. Fales, I don't believe I need to remind you that times are not good. And what has finally been admitted to be a recession isn't temporary, there has been... to use a college person's term... a major paradigm shift as regards employment, not only here but nationwide and, even, across what we like to think of as the industrialized West. And it's no longer factory and textile workers being laid off, nor even the recent problems with information technology. The world is shrinking, sir, and financial-sector work that formerly was done by highly trained, and highly compensated professionals like yourself can be performed by automated programs, or abroad, at pennies on the dollar."

"So... I'll have to take a cut in salary, I'm prepared to do that," Walter said, trying not to beg. At least his erection had melted away.

"It's not about the money, Mr. Fales. With your extensive background, no employer is going to trust you to stay on in a position beneath your capabilities, even when it is obvious that no positions appropriate to your capabilities are going to open up for years to come, if ever. And there's no shortage of younger applicants who, quite frankly, are more desirable to healthcare providers..."

"It's a fuckin' insurance matter? Well, tell 'em I'll go without, if the rest of the package is right. I’ll just do what half my neighbors do… go to Mexico if I need a doctor."

"Language! And insurance is part of the problem... but what really works against you is that younger applicants who have not built up assets are viewed as more trustworthy. To put it another way, you're not desperate enough..."

"But I am!" Walter objected. “I got bills to pay." And, since he just happened to have a sheaf of the past three days' envelopes in the pocket of his raincoat... he fished these out and waved them before the unsmiling counselor. "I've already missed our mortgage payment and my credit... well, what do I got to do to show these guys, sell my kidneys on E-Bay? Sell my kids? Start throwing chairs around? Kill somebody?"

Mrs. Jones seemed to fumble with something under her desk, then glared back, "You can begin by lowering your voice." Finally Walter dropped his eyes, a whipped dog. "Good boy! Now... you say in your resume that you will only accept salaried positions and, in light of what I have said, that's not a reasonable attitude. Face it, there's not much of a market for interns, not at your age." She smiled, but icily... the world had long moved on past intern jokes. "There are some commissioned positions available. Insurance sales. Everybody needs insurance..."

"Assuming they do," Walter said, wearily, "how long until they pay?"

"Let me see," and Glyniece began tapping computer keys with more enthusiasm than she'd previously exhibited. "Quarterly... but they hold back the first three months, to discourage the fly-by-nighters. Everybody's doing it. But... if you work hard and put up respectable numbers, you should be in a position to ask for a loan, an advance, before Christmas."

"I can't wait that long," Walt shook his head.

"I see. Many people your age take early retirement, you know... you would be eligible for half of your Social Security..."

"How can I retire with a net worth of below zero?" Walter shot back.

"Well... I was just making a suggestion. Alright, then, there is something... a managerial trainee position in the hospitality industry that doesn't specifically exclude persons of your... uh... background. In fact, they specify mature... though that probably just means someone over twenty-five, for insurance reasons. Now the starting salary is somewhat below that which you said you'd consider, but there are incentives, and you would be able to transfer your insurance."

"I'll take it!" Walter jumped.

Glyniece brought him up with a smirk. "We are not the employer, Mr. Fales, all we can do is to obtain an appointment, at which time you can plead your case. At least your attitude is changing. You're adjusting, very well. Now... the name of the company is Zweiss, Zweiss Interplantery... some people, honestly!... and their office is up north, by Temecula. May I have the authority to arrange an appointment for you at... ten fifty three, tomorrow morning?"

"Ten fifty three?"

Ms. Jones dropped her voice - the government computers and printers were old, the sort that made noise while printing out pages of directions and an introduction. "Just between us, Mr. Fales, Zweiss is coded a 27, meaning that it is a peculiar company. Am I clear?" She folded her arms, smugly, having taken the papers from the printer, dangling them before Walter like carrots in front of a mule. "Question is, are you desperate enough?"

"Is there something I have to do to prove to you that I am?"

She handed the printouts across her desk.

"Thank you," Walter remembered his manners, hoisting his raincoat under his arm and standing up. "And thank you for not making some stupid joke about my name..."

"I did think about it," Glyniece Jones confessed. "But I figured that, in your position, even a little good-natured humor was about the last thing you need. Just watch your language and, remember, times have changed."

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The crap that evening began over the wine. With Estrellita gone, Missy had made a stab at a tuna casserole, and the noodles were undercooked, among other problems. Walter crunched, dutifully, picked at his salad... how could somebody fuck up a salad?... and swished away the taste with wine he'd picked up at Safeway, the same wine Missy had gulped down, until she turned the bottle around, in order to replenish her glass, and things went all to hell.

"It's... Spanish..." she sobbed.

"I told you, we are all going to have to make sacrifices until I can work through this."

She glared at him, jaw set like one of those big, desert boulders.

"I've got an appointment, tomorrow, a really promising opportunity," he reminded her. "If you sleep late, that's where I'll be, so don't get any stupid ideas."

"What sort of appointment?" she finally asked.

"All I know is that it's in the hospitality sector."

"But," Missy began crying again, "you're not hospitable."

"Then I'll just damn well have to fake it, won't I?"

And Missy's sobs escalated to a wet, convulsive banshee wailing - finally, she threw her napkin on the table and fled. Scotty exhaled sharply.

"At least she didn't start throwing the plates, or silverware..."

"The world can be a lot tougher than it seems," Walter advised his son. "The lady at State said, uh... this interview might go better for me if I took a haircut before going in to apply, one of those places, I guess." And he smiled, man-to-man, but weakly. "Thing is, uh... seems I'm a little, you know... short..."

Scotty dug into the pocket of his jeans, pulled out a crumpled ten-dollar bill.

"Mr. Allen tipped me for bringing along our spreader, like... to spread the winter weed n'feed?"

Walter gave his son the fisheye.

"Alright... I said it was for equipment rental," Scotty admitted, "how's he to know? All of those spreaders look alike, and Allen's still loaded, got money fallin' out of his ass. Wants to brag on his country-club buds he's got an American cuttin' his lawn, we're the noveau status symbol. So he can pay for it, too, one way or another!"

"You're a good kid," Walter grinned. The telephone rang, and Walt pushed the wretched casserole away, picking up the receiver in the kitchen. It was Sal Duquesne."

"Hope I'm not calling too late, Walt, been in court. Just wanted to tell you I got this call from one of your Feds, finally returning my messages... Curry? Anyway, wish I could help, but I just can't take on any more charity cases. Problems of my own - know what I mean? Just wanted to tip you off," he hurried, before Walt could interrupt, "... guy probably will contact you tomorrow. Or the next day."

"Thanks for the warning," Walt said, hardly making an effort to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"Maybe legal aid could help," Duquesne suggested. "They usually won't get involved without an actual indictment or a pending, but you're the super-salesman, talk to 'em. Oh, and keep this in mind, guy as much as admitted that they're fishin' for scapegoats and squealers. Your choice which side of the fence you'll end up on. Character, Brother Fales! Got a job yet?"

"I'm workin' on it," Walt demurred.

"Work harder! Word to the wise... no fun bein' underpaid, but it's better than bein' in some prison, takin' rods up the rear end from half the fuckin' NBA..."

"I hear you..."

"Get a job, Walt," Sal reiterated. "Any job!"

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