When he came to the next day, the last thing he remembered was puking in the alley. He glanced at his watch. Shit, it was late. He got dressed and was out the door with barf still on his breath. The battery in his beat-to-shit Morris Minor was dead. He looked at his Timex again—shit, eleven-thirty—and made a dash to the El. He chewed his fingernails and paced. The train came at last, packed to the gills. By the time he showed up for the interview, his iridescent blue satin shirt was stained with sweat. The chain around his neck was a major mistake. This was a suit-and-tie interview, and he looked like a damn greaseball. He tried to slide his pinkie ring off, but he couldn’t get it past his second knuckle. He reeked of booze, vomit, and cologne.

There were no preliminary courtesies. The three-person panel immediately began firing questions. Flop sweat rolled down Clifford’s face. He reached for his handkerchief, a crumpled yellow rectangle of cloth, and shook it open; the members of the panel recoiled. The three huddled over his résumé, speaking in whispers. Clifford heard snatches of muted questions.

“Fired? A drywall hanger? What’s this here, mortuary assistant? Well, what is it, mortuary or exterminator? Both? Fired from both? Oh my God, a paperboy! Thirty-three years old and a paperboy?”

Clifford struggled to compose himself. Having heard enough, the assistant deputy commissioner of the Bureau of Bridges and Transit tossed his half-frames on the table and rocked back in his chair. He locked his hands behind his head and leaned back, revealing two muffs of nasal hair. The smirk on his face was enough to make Clifford want to pound the bastard to the ground.

A man resembling Joseph Stalin poured a glass of water. He took several small sips, straightened his tie, and began, “Mr. Grimes, it says here you served in the armed forces. Tell us about that.”

Clifford told the panel he had won a Silver Star during Operation Desert Storm. A broad grin lit the assistant commissioner’s narrow face. He leaned forward, picked up his glasses, and said, “Your recent work history points in the opposite direction, Cliff. Things just don’t seem to jibe here.”

Clifford wiped down his face and said, “Look, I can do this job!”

“An orangutan can do the job. That’s not the point.”

The heat of the room was unbearable. Clifford rolled up his sleeves, revealing a tattoo that read JULIET AND CLIFF, TRUE LOVE SPRINGS ETERNAL. He saw six eyes fall upon it. He could scarcely breathe. He said, “Gulf War. Sergeant in the Green Berets. Some heavy shit went down, and—”