The third member of the panel interrupted Clifford. She was a dour woman of fifty, her hair in a salt-and-pepper bob. She had a snub nose as bad as Lon Chaney’s in The Phantom of the Opera. The woman waved a copy of Clifford’s service record and said, “Bad-conduct discharge. Private. No Green Beret, but a four-month stretch in the stockade.”

Clifford hadn’t thought about a background check; this job was supposed to be a shoo-in. He turned up his palms in a gesture of wonder. “You must have the wrong Clifford Grimes.” He swallowed hard, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down like an elevator. His larynx was tight, dry, and strained. He sounded like Tweety Bird with his cartoon nuts in a vise. The interview was blown.

The assistant commissioner replaced his glasses and scanned Clifford’s service record. “These are discharge papers for a Clifford Howard Grimes at 1187 South Sullivan in Chicago. Is this your address, Cliff? You listed it as such on your application. Are we meant to believe there were actually two Clifford Howard Grimeses in the U.S. Army?”

“It does seem a little far-fetched,” Clifford said. “I don’t under—”

“I’ve heard enough bullshit for one day,” the commissioner said. “Let’s cut it off here. Thanks to your uncle Harry, you are hired, effective next Monday. Report to personnel at nine A.M. sharp, and be advised that all new hires work on probationary status the first six months. If you slip up, if you can’t cut the mustard, you’ll be out on your ear.”

“I’m a hard worker. I never get sick, and I will do a terrific job; you will be glad you took me.”

“Enough! Get the hell out of here!”

As he staggered from the building his silk shirt was soaked. Oh man, Disasterville! But at least they didn’t know he’d been thrown in the brig for impregnating the colonel’s daughter, Juliet, an epileptic, fourteen years old, with an IQ of 64.

The bridge-tender job was simple. All Clifford had to do was sit in the bridge house at Cermak Road and push a red button to let a ship pass through. Still, Clifford pissed and moaned because they stuck him on the graveyard shift. Harry said, “What do you expect, sonny boy? You’re the junior tender. You’re lucky to get the job. Goddamn it, I’m not God! What more can I do?”

“Graveyard sucks. Why do you think they call it graveyard? It fucks up your body rhythms. You don’t get any melanin, which leads to cancer, which leads where? I’ll tell you, Uncle Harry, it leads to the graveyard!”

“Oh, fuck you, you son of a bitch. You don’t want a job. You just want to lift weights. You look like a cocksucking faggot. I’m done with you!”