Orthogon

The first job I ever got fired from was at the Pentagon. My cousin had goats - two of them, Jenny and Simon. He said how Georgetown cosmos were paying hand over fist to have his goats come over and shit all over their lawns. He turned them out into the back yard, he said, and came back in the evening. He told me some other stories about the housewives who hired him, too, but I didn’t believe those as much. The goats, though. Why not? I figured I could probably subcontract. You don’t ask a squirrel for security clearance, so why a goat?

Turned out they cared an awful lot about the goats. I only had them out on the outer yard for 20 minutes before a couple of beefy undercaste men in security badges came marching out towards me and I knew I was screwed. Background check, drug testing, interviews with my family - the whole nine yards - and I was only groundskeeper for four months. Supervisor made sure to lecture me on how bad it was for an immigrant to fuck up a federal job. How I was gonna get deported now, how my visa was invalid, you get it. What he said made sense, but how was I to know?

Second job I got fired from was down towards Georgetown. I was a dishwasher for six weeks. Busy diner, oversized dining room constantly stuffed with college kids, but the boss kept his staff budget shoestring. I got yelled at a lot for not having enough tumblers racked. Well, boss had front-of-house fill the tumblers with lukewarm tap water and bring them out to every table - no one touched the things. I figured I could just dump them out and wipe them down and rerack without bothering with soap every time. Boss chewed me out for that, then he would chew me out for not racking fast enough, then for cutting corners again, then he fired me. So it goes.

Next it gets a little tricky, because I wised up and followed my cousin’s footsteps, or more accurately, his goats'. I mostly did the bits goats couldn’t reach - edging, trimming, powerwashing. He helped me get references, and since he just mowed their gigantic lawns we weren’t in competition. Only issue was when we both showed up in his pickup the housewives would get real tight. I guess one guy is an exotic, two is a gang. So when I could I took jobs solo, with mixed results. On the one hand, I discovered that maybe my cousin hadn’t been bullshitting so hard about the housewives after all. On the other hand, I got dismissed for:

1. Burning clippings on the lawn when there were too many to haul away
2. Subcontracting to the kids (even though they loved helping out and I paid good money)
3. Using a mechanical trimmer when the baby was trying to sleep
4. Using hand clippers and taking too long to finish (“trying to gyp me”)
5. Not sleeping with the housewife (call me conceited but I swear it’s true)
6. Fooling around with the housewife and taking too long (man was more worried about my hourly rate than his giggly fraulein)
7. Leaving clippings behind when I left to dump one load and come back for the rest

Well, you can see the pattern. Maybe it’s just my personality, but I never really seemed to “gel” with any of the jobs. My cousin started getting a little antsy, too, making strained jokes about how maybe I was gonna cost him business. I doubted they associated the two of us together - such people don’t really look too closely at their employees' relationships - but I was getting bored of the work. Only so many times you can run a weedwhacker around an ornate mailbox stuffed with week-old copies of Good Housekeeping and New Yorker before you start thinking about running it around your own neck instead.

I started looking for other stuff and found it with relative ease. Gopher at an independent studio, which meant a couple college kids paid me dishwasher money to lug their camera stuff around while they harassed pretty girls into doing “mood culture” shots in various sexy locales. It was tolerable work. A lot of grunt work, but people bought me drinks a couple times. One of the girls suggested turning the camera on me. “It’s the perfect story of the dispossesed pressed into service of the artistic bourgeoisie,” she said. The producer kid nodded absently while sizing her up, trying to calculate how to get her to take off her top. “Last showing I went to critics were eating up that sort of self-castigatory metatextual themology. Just put up a splash card saying you’re donating all profits to queer kids in Africa or whatever. It’ll kill.”

“We’re not really expecting a lot of profit,” said Producer, gritting his teeth. I could tell from association with the man that he intended to stall until sunset, at which time he would hustle her out of her clothes and into the silhouette of a doorway. He had about a dozen doorway silhouette shots. It was a good move, because you wrapped shooting exactly as it got dark and cold. The guy was scummy, but I respected his skill as a professional.

“He’s not from Africa,” said the other guy - writer, main character, and co-producer on as many of these “mood culture” shoots as he could reasonably demand. He didn’t say it, but I could tell he’d bitten himself off right before “I’m pretty sure.”

The girl looked at me and spoke a bit too clearly and simply for my taste. “Would you like us to tell your story?”

I held her gaze for a couple seconds. “You know, miss,” I said, pointing, “if we wait for the sun to go down we can get a beautiful shot in the nude, framed against the doorway right here with the sunset behind you.”

You might think that’s when I got fired but of course I didn’t. Matter of fact, she didn’t take much more convincing. No, that gig was fine, but the pay was awful for what it was, and I spent most of it driving a smelly diesel van in rush hour traffic, or lugging giant cases of $200,000 equipment up multiple flights of stairs, and relatively little shooting “mood culture”. Soon enough Writer and Producer had a falling out over Producer sleeping with Writer’s on-again-off-again while they were off-again, and I happily made my exit. My only regret was that I was leaving with nothing - Producer kept all the footage we’d taken, of course, and Writer took the van. Equipment went back to wherever they had rented it from. At this point I’d spent a good deal of time in the DC area, and had not much more to show for it than when I’d crossed the border. I felt like I was doing something wrong.

After leaving the independent studio I dropped by my cousin’s to catch up and to couchsurf while I figured out what next. He was back to his friendly self now that I wasn’t antagonizing his clients. He told me a suit had dropped by last week looking for me.

“No shit,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Federal government type guy. Not a cop. Wouldn’t say what he was after.”

“You tell him?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Said I’d never heard of you.”

“He probably wants to send you back now that your visa’s gone,” said his wife.

I figured that was most likely, but another two weeks went by and no work came my way. It was getting to the point where I would have to drop down to Baltimore and sit in the parking lot hoping for some general contractor to come by and point at me to hop in the bed of his pickup - become a day laborer, in short. That didn’t seem much more appealing than going back. So I said “fuck it”, and left to go track down the suit. From experience with the independent studio, I thought maybe having a deportation story would help me get laid more frequently if I ever came back to town. And maybe my head was in the clouds but it didn’t feel like it would be that hard to come back if I wanted to. So if I gotta be a vagrant, let me do it in style and drop in on the feds myself. That’s where my head was.

The suit had left his business card, and I showed up to his office during lunch hour. I intended to sneak in and be sitting in his chair when he got back like James Bond, but I guess he was taking a working lunch because after I presented his card at the front desk and got buzzed in, I strode up to his cubicle to find it occupied. He was a mousy, balding man with ugly shoes and a studiously neutral expression. He looked at me impassively, and I suddenly felt hot under the collar.

“Heard from someone you wanted to see me,” I said.

“You name?” He clipped the syllables out like morse code.

I told him my name.

His neutral expression didn’t change, but he stood, and offered me his hand. I shook it hesitantly. He nodded once. “I’m surprised to see you here. Nevertheless. Let’s clear some things up: I am not after you for visa or immigration.”

That set me a litte more at ease.

“In fact, I sympathize with your struggle.”

That keyed me up again for some reason.

“Listen, you have no reason to trust anyone from the federal government, I understand. But the fact is, I want to hire you. It will be a good job. I’ll take care of your visa issue. For as long as you work for me, you’ll be perfectly safe.” He stuck out his hand to shake again, as if he expected me to accept on the spot. Shit, I almost did, that’s how powerful his personality was.

“Why ask for me?” I asked.

He lowered his hand again. “Because this job involves security at the Pentagon, and you have prior experience working there already.”

For four months, as a groundskeeper. Never mind.

“You are intimately familiar with the layout of the facilities, and the routines of the personnel.”

I’d been forbidden from loitering within 50 feet of the building’s walls. “What’s the pay?”

He blinked, the first sign of surprise or any emotion that he’d shown. “Good pay.” He named a number. It was good pay.

“What’s the job?” I asked.

“Red-team. You work for us, pretending to be a bad guy. Describe to us everything you remember. Put on your old uniform and go undercover. Reconnect with any colleagues who remember you. That sort of thing. Helps us to understand what weak points terrorists might exploit.”

Maybe it was just his abrupt speaking style, but it felt like he was the first DC native in a while to treat me like a mentally capable human being, and that was refreshing. Unfortunate fact was I had absolutely no knowledge about the grounds or connections on the inside or anything like that. What would the stylish vagrant do? I cleared my throat. “I accept,” I said.

Ten minutes later I was handed off to a smarmy lawyer looking guy who seemed to think he was friendly and approachable. He yammered about things I didn’t really care to understand for a while, and fifteen minutes after that I was holding an envelope stuffed with hundreds. Not bad for a day’s bullshitting. I bought a case of beer on my way back to my cousin’s.

The routine was: I would show up at the office, and the lawyery guy would tell me the day’s assignment. Sometimes he would interview me. He asked me detailed questions about how many people worked in each building, how thick the walls were, what they were made of, what the floor layout was, where the suits in the Pentagon were, whether they ever came out into the open, how many people carried guns, what type of guns, where was the armory, were there really security cameras everywhere, how frequently did new people get hired, how frequently did they quit, how many left and how many were fired, was anyone ever arrested, had I heard any stories about guards shooting anyone, who was most likely to retire soon, what was the pay like, did anyone complain about pay, did anyone complain about hours, were they ever working too many hours, were they ever understaffed, did they ever hire guards from out of the local police, did they ever hire immigrants for important jobs, were there any controversies about immigrants, were there any controversies about racism, were there any controversies about sexual assault, were any of the employees perverts, which ones were gay, which ones weren’t gay but also didn’t talk about women, what does the truck look like that brings in cafeteria food, how many people unload it, who supervises them, did I ever hear of anyone faking a drug test, where were the light switches in each room, which employees tend to show up late, who works too hard, who loves their family the most, do they have pictures of their family, do I remember how many kids are in the picture, has anyone recently gotten divorced, is anyone diabetic - stuff like that.

A few times he gave me worker’s coveralls with a fake name tag on them, and told me to go and hang around without supervisors spotting me and try to chat with my old friends. I had no friends there, and like hell was I gonna sneak into the Pentagon, for any amount of cash in an envelope. I ducked down to a cafe instead, ate a sandwich, and reminisced about the giant rifles carried by the many guards on duty at the Pentagon at all times, slung under arm for quickest possible access. Then I wandered down to the laundromat where my cousin’s wife worked, and chatted with folks there. I ran my uniform through the wash and smeared some dirt on my face, so that by the time I showed up it looked like I’d been in the garden all day and had stopped to launder my uniform after. I spun him some bullshit every time. I learned quickly that as long as I spoke with confidence, the lawyerish man would bite. The more confident and simultaneously nervous I looked, the more eagerly he scribbled my words down on paper in his ugly shorthand. We generated pages of incomprehsible secretary’s runes this way. I did a little Googling at the library for what I could find out about floor plans and the like, so that anyone who Googled it would see my story match with reality, and I did add the truth when I could, recalling my brief stint as a groundskeeper. Mostly, though, I bullshitted.

“You’re very articulate,” he told me once.

“Thank you,” I said. Why is that surprising? I had Netflix growing up, same as your kids.

All good things must come to an end, and one day the lawyerish guy was missing. Only the mousy, shortspoken man was in the office to greet me. And he didn’t exactly greet me, either, although I held out my hand in expectation of our customary greeting. He just sat in his office chair, staring impassively at me for a long time.

He finally spoke, and his voice was slightly too soft, just a bit strained. “You haven’t been completely honest with us,” he said.

The game was up. I wondered if they were going to shoot me for lying to the government. “Not entirely,” I admitted.

He waited the duration of one calm, measured breath before speaking again. “We had you do a lie detector test.”

Did I mention they hooked me up to a lie detector? I cheerfully bullshitted through the whole thing and it spit out a result of ‘true’. I told him as much. “Those things aren’t really that reliable,” I added. Thanks, James Bond.

“I made a serious error in judgement in hiring you,” he said.

I had to agree.

He stood to gaze out the window at the city. Smog from the morning commute filled the air. Sunlight filtered through the cloud of dust, rays of light dancing over immaculately manicured lawns. “But the error was not mine alone,” he said. “I was informed that you had been made aware of our true mission. I was told - and believed - that, as an illegal immigrant, you had a good deal of sympathy for our cause. I was further informed that you saw the necessity of our subversive tactics, our extralegal operations, that you comprehended and agreed with our reasoning and methods.” He turned to me, his impassive face crumpling into a dark mask of rage. “I was under the impression that you fully understood the consequences for failure, both for yourself, and for your family.”

Presumably this involved what the lawyerish guy had always been going on about, and I had always been tuning out. I suddenly felt myself wishing that I’d paid more attention during orientation. “Ah.” I said. My family?

He recomposed himself. “Well, I admit defeat. Whoever you are, whoever your handlers are, you have thoroughly routed us. I doubt I have the remaindant power to even make good on previous threats. Just answer me one question, in the name of good sportsmanship as a victor - why did you do it? Why work so hard to undermine this project when you yourself, as an illegal immigrant, stand to gain so much from our success? Why sabotage what might be the last chance under this regime to repeal the draconian-” he cut himself off suddenly, staring at me.

I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to answer. I also didn’t think ‘remaindant’ was a word. “I just kept at it because the pay was good,” I said. “That’s all.”

“But we paid you well because the cause was so important!”

I shrugged.

“Your work was dangerous, you could have been arrested!”

I shook my head. “No, I just took the uniform to the cleaners and came back.” I almost mentioned my cousin’s wife, but stopped myself just in time. Maybe I was living a little too cavalier after all.

His jaw dropped. It was disconcerting to see that Easter Island type guy gobsmacked, but he was. “The greater good!” he cried.

I shrugged. “I wasn’t really paying attention to that stuff. Like I said, I just wanted the cash.”

He collapsed into his chair. His brow was beaded with sweat. “You mean to tell me our conspiracy was undone because we trusted a man who only lives for money?” He glared at me. “And not even to say that he was bribed to betray us, no - this man is so singlemindedly focused on money that he ignores the seditious conspiracy he is now a part of and blithely lies his way through the whole thing just so he can keep an informant’s salary!?”

“It’s real hard for me to find work,” I said.

He stared.

“I think I might have ADHD,” I added, trying to be helpful.

He didn’t really say or do much after that. I waited a couple minutes, in case he wanted to get anything else off his chest, but I guess I probably wasn’t the person to confide in. I had the feeling I would never see him again, and sure enough, I didn’t. So that’s how that gig ended.