Then I was called down to personnel at the old Federal Build– ing. They let me sit the usual 45 minutes or hour and one half.

Then. “Mr. Chinaski?” this voice said.

“Yeh,” I said.

“Step in.”

The man walked me back to a desk. There sat this woman. She looked a bit sexy, melting into 38 or 39, but she looked as if her sexual ambition had either been laid aside for other things or as if it had been ignored.

“Sit down, Mr. Chinaski.” I sat down.

Baby, I thought, I could really give you a ride.

“Mr. Chinaski,” she said, “we have been wondering if you have filled out this application properly.”

“Uh?”

“We mean, the arrest record.”

She handed me the sheet. There wasn’t any sex in her eyes.

I had listed 8 or 10 common drunk raps. It was only an estimate. I had no idea of the dates.

“Now, have you listed everything?” she asked me.

“Hmmm, hmmm, let me think ...”

I knew what she wanted. She wanted me to say “yes” and then she had me.

“Let me see . . . Hmmm. Hmmm.” “Yes?” she said.

“Oh oh! My god I”

“What is it?”

“It’s either drunk in auto or drunk driving. About 4 years ago or so. I don’t know the exact date.”

“And this was a slip of the mind?”

“Yes, really, I meant to put it down.” “All right. Put it down.”

I wrote it down.

“Mr. Chinaski. This is a terrible record. I want you to explain these charges and if possible justify your present employment with us.”

“All right.”

“You have ten days to reply.”

I didn’t want the job that badly. But she irritated me.

I phoned in sick that night after buying some ruled and numbered legal paper and a blue, very official-looking folder. I got a fifth of whiskey and a six pack, then sat down and typed it out. I had the dictionary at my elbow. Every now and then I would flip a page, find a large incomprehensible word and build a sentence or paragraph out of the idea. It ran 42 pages. I finished up with, “Copies of this statement have been retained for distribution to the press, television, and other mass communication media.”

I was full of shit.

She got up from her desk and got it personally. “Mr. Chinaski?”

“Yes?”

It was 9 a.m. One day after her request to answer charges. “Just a moment.”
She took the 42 pages back to her desk. She read and read and read. There was somebody reading over her shoulder. Then there were 2, 3, 4, 5. All reading. 6, 7, 8, 9. All reading.

What the hell? I thought.

Then I heard a voice from the crowd, “Well, all geniuses are drunkards!” As if that explained away the matter. Too many movies again.

She got up from the desk with the 42 pages in her hand. “Mr. Chinaski?”

“Yes?”

“Your case will be continued. You will hear from us.” “Meanwhile, continue working?”

“Meanwhile, continue working.”

“Good morning,” I said.