CLIFFORD HOMER GRIMES​ JR. got the interview thanks to an uncle on his mother’s side of the family. Harry was a bottom-feeder in the Daley machine who had just enough bite to foist his wayward nephew onto the city’s Department of Transportation. He did this reluctantly, only after his sister Martha got down on her knees and begged. But Uncle Harry came through. After announcing the good news, Harry sat in her living room fingering his pencil-thin mustache as he awaited a token gesture of thanks. Clifford being Clifford, none was forthcoming. Harry moved to the bay window and saw a cop stick a parking ticket under the wipers of his Oldsmobile. He was out the door like a shot. It was all a blur to his groggy nephew, who was recovering from a stupendous hangover. Moments later Harry was back, holding an orange ticket. “Too late, goddamn it, but I know people in Traffic. I’ll have it squashed. The sons of bitches.”

Harry had been worn down by his sister’s appeals. His nephew was a fucked-up mess, and when (not if) he was canned, Harry’s good deed would generate only scorn downtown. It was an idle stab, but Harry handed Clifford a paperback copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People. He had done his best; his nephew was hopeless. All he wanted to do was hang out with those faggots at the gym and lift weights. He looked like a goddamn freak. Then Harry put on his trench coat and stepped outside. He noticed a couple of kids running away from his car. The Olds hadn’t been on the street more than fifteen minutes and it had been zapped by the parking ticket and a pair of quick-ass hubcap thieves.

Clifford dragged himself into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and left for the gym. Interview in less than a day; he was terrified. After his workout he went home for a nap.

At eight-thirty P.M. Clifford got up and hit the bars. He favored silk shirts, gilded chains, a zircon pinkie. As his main man Winston liked to say, “Who’s goin’ get the booty, muh fuck? I’ll tell you: the chief peacock, not that ugly drab-ass uncle!” When Clifford told him about the interview, Winston hopped around Casey’s Bar and Grill singing, “After breakfast every day, she never fail to say, Get a job. Sha da da da, sha da da; yip yip yip yip, mum mum mum, get a job.” Clifford proceeded to get hammered.