Chapter 15

June 30

As near as I could tell, I was the only traveler at the airport that day who had checked a garbage bag. To look at the positive side of things, this figured to make spotting my luggage on the baggage carousel in New York a significantly easier task. In retrospect, I probably should have scouted around for a cardboard box. Lots of people travel with cardboard boxes. As a rule, these boxes tend to contain some sort of consumer product originally shipped in a cardboard box and intended as a gift. A souvenir replica of the Statue of Liberty, for example, or a nice selection of cheeses from Wisconsin. No one but the X-ray machine operator and I would have known that my box contained my life's possessions. Something to consider for next time, I thought as I made sure my luggage's twist-tie was secure for the trip.
My confidence rose measurably once my garbage bag was checked. The airline rep voiced some concern that trash bags might not qualify as luggage under FAA guidelines, but I pointed out that he couldn't be certain that they didn't, and the man didn't call my bluff. Not after I'd threatened to find the most disgusting, refuse-filled trash bag in the airport and make him check that one, too, to take full advantage of my two-bag allotment if I received any more flack on the luggage front. With my garbage bag in the loving hands of trained airline baggage handlers, I became just another suit-wearing, USA-Today-reading business traveler waiting to board the morning flight to New York City. Sure, my suit wasn't of the highest quality, and yes, I'd found my copy of USA Today lying discarded on an airport seat, but why quibble over details? The point was I had the suit and the USA Today, the official garment and official reading material of those who had ventured at least five hundred miles from home in the pursuit of cash. Ergo, I was a business traveler. Ipso facto social acceptability. A guy in a tee shirt and jeans sat down in the row of seats just across from me in the terminal. I shot him a condescending look, to get in the spirit of the thing.
It had been two months since I'd paid attention to any world event that had occurred outside of my earshot, but I was pleased to note that I hadn't missed anything important. Or at least if I had missed anything, no one at USA Today had gotten wind of it either. The grand sweep of world events tends to be like an episode of Scooby-Doo; nine times out of ten you can tune in half way through and not need anyone to fill you in on what you missed. And that tenth time out of ten only seems different. It always turns out that the ghost pirates aren't real.
As I recall, that day's big news stories involved politics, weather, and sports. Actually, I don't recall. But had it been anything other than politics, weather, and sports, I figure it would have made more of an impression. Out of respect for my newly rekindled career path I flipped to the financial section, furrowed my brow and nodded knowingly, which, truth be told, was about all I knew how to do when viewing a financial section.

I'd hitchhiked from Bridgeton to the Portland airport, a distance of a little more than 30 miles. You don't see hitchhikers on the road too much anymore. Their numbers have dropped since so many of them either have been arrested for killing the people who picked them up, or killed themselves by the people who picked them up. One might expect this decline in hitchhiker quantity, coupled with the ever-increasing number of vehicles on the road, to create a supply-demand imbalance that would work in favor of any remaining hitchhikers. My economics training suggested that there should be four cars pulled over to the side of the road, all bidding for one hitchhiker's services. But in truth it isn't easy to hitch a ride these days, and those carrying garbage bags face longer odds than most. So I resorted to a trick I'd learned while hitchhiking to sell my plasma earlier that month: I wore my suit and carried a gas can. These props created for passing motorists the impression that I was a gainfully employed, vehicle-owning individual much like themselves who had, through the distractions of a busy and productive life, failed to keep careful track of his gasoline supply. Such a person inevitably would find a ride much sooner than would an unemployed loser carrying his worldly possessions in a Hefty bag.
There was just one downside to this plan: when someone did pick me up, they tended to pull over at the next gas station and become concerned when I failed to disembark. Fortunately, my second ride of the day, a carpool of middle-managers heading off to a busy day of middle-management nodded knowingly when I explained I was late for a flight. Middle managers understand being late for flights. They got me to the airport with time to spare. I let them keep my gas can.
The flight from Portland, Maine to New York City took only 55 minutes, not enough time for an airline meal. I was provided with a glass of juice, which isn't much to sustain a person through a crucial job interview. Fortunately, when I explained my problem to the stewardess she provided me with a small bag of sympathy peanuts.
Oddly, my garbage bag wasn't lost or accidentally discarded in transit. This was a minor disappointment, since I couldn't have helped but turn a profit had the airline been required to compensate me for lost possessions. I took the train downtown and checked my bag at a locker in the station to avoid the inevitable odd looks one gets upon arriving for a job interview with one's refuse.
The whole voyage had gone extremely well, much better than I'd had any right to expect. The airline tickets had been booked as promised, the office security guard didn't turn me away at the door. I'd spent the morning jumping from car to plane to commuter train, and I'd still made it on time. The first indication that something might be amiss didn't occur until I stepped into the interviewer's office.
It was the largest office that I'd ever seen. Had it contained a bed, it would have been the largest apartment I'd ever seen. Had it contained fish, it would have been the third-largest lake I'd ever seen. This was not human resources. No, to merit an office of this grandeur, you must have the ability to do something beyond the hiring others to do the things that you haven't the ability to do. You must either be able to produce an amazing amount of revenue…or be able to convince others that you produce an amazing amount of revenue. At very least you must be related to, or sleeping with, someone who produces an amazing amount of revenue. Any way you played it, there had to be an amazing amount of revenue in there somewhere.
"Nice office," I said, since anyone who would inhabit such an office clearly expected impressed comments from visitors. Such comments were, after all, the only return on the $150,000 they'd invested in oriental rugs.
"Thank you," said the relatively small bald man behind the extraordinarily large mahogany desk. "Had it been my decision, I wouldn't have asked for anything quite so spacious, of course, but my decorator assured me that a desk of this size would look silly in a smaller space."
"Yes, I see her point."
"His point, actually. Lawrence is the best straight male decorator on the East Coast. Actually, he might be the only straight male decorator on the East Coast…and as long as we're on the subject, it's possible he's just pretending to be straight."
"Oh?"
"Lawrence is under the impression that being a straight decorator will qualify him for decorating contracts under government minority set-asides."
"A straight decorator qualifies for government set asides?"
"If he has a close relationship with Senator Jack Carroll he does."
"And your decorator had a close relationship with Senator Carroll?"
"Lawrence is sleeping with him. But then you didn't come here to discuss the politics of office decoration."
The man was right of course, I hadn't traveled all that way to discuss any aspect of office decoration. But then, aside for the vague promise of employment, I wasn't quite sure why I had flown 400 miles that morning. And this was only the top item on the list of things I didn't know even though it really seemed that I should. Running a close second was the identity of the man seated across the beautifully stained hardwood floor to which drawers and legs had been added so that it might pass as a desk. The man hadn't mentioned his name when we spoke on the phone, and it wasn't going to help my chances of landing a job if I admitted I didn't know who he was at this stage. If I hadn't asked his assistant's name when she contacted me about the airline tickets, I might still be wandering around the Johnston Brothers' offices in search of the appropriate executive.
"So, down to business," the man said. "When can you start?"
"Start what?" I asked, taken by surprise.
"Start working. What else?"
"What? Really? Just like that? Don't you even want to ask me any questions?"
The man looked a bit disturbed. "I just asked you a question: 'When can you start?' Then I asked you another, 'What else?' That's two questions on my part with zero answers from you. I'm willing to live without a response to my 'What else?' question, but to be frank I had rather hoped for some feedback on the whole 'When can you start?' issue."
"I can start whenever you like."
"Good. Then start right away. Your presence here is extremely important."
"It is? What will I be doing?"
"Oh, that doesn't matter." The man's phone rang. "I've got to take this. Glad to have you on board. My assistant, Gloria, will take care of the details."
"Uh…thank you," I managed, but the man had already turned his attention to the call. I should have been thrilled, of course. But at the time I was too busy being confused.
I wandered stunned from the office. "I was told you'd take care of the details on my job," I told Gloria.
"What sort of details remain to be covered?" she asked.
"Well, I suppose what I'll be doing and how much I'll be paid for doing it."
"In other words, you accepted a job without bothering to ask what the job is or how much it pays."
"Correct."
"What did you two talk about in there?"
"Mostly interior decoration and politics."
"You complimented him on his office, didn't you?"
"It seemed like the thing to do at the time."
"So what were you told about this yet-to-be-determined position here."
"That it's very important and I need to start right away."
"But not what the job actually is."
"That seemed less of a priority."
"Did it occur to you wonder what was going on?"
"Certainly."
"But you didn't want to ask and risk screwing up a good thing."
"Sounds like you have a pretty good grasp of the situation."
"I believe I do."
"Great. Then could you explain it to me?" I asked.
"No," Gloria explained.
"Have you noticed that this whole job offer has been like something out of a Hitchcock movie?" I asked the assistant.
"Are you afraid of birds?"
"No."
"Heights?"
"No."
"Ever dressed as your mother and slashed hotel guests?"
"No, but…"
"Then I don't see the connection. And anyway, I wouldn't worry about the vertigo too much, since you won't get a window office."
"I meant it's like those Hitchcock movies when a man, usually Cary Grant, but occasionally Robert Donat, is pulled out of his normal routine and thrust into a huge conspiracy that usually results in numerous attempts on his life."
"And you're Cary Grant?"
"In this scenario, yes."
She studied my face. "No, Cary Grant was much more attractive than you," Gloria said finally.
"I think you're missing the larger point here. Is anyone ever going to explain to me why an unidentified man behind a preposterously large desk has just offered me a very important job doing nothing in particular?"
"I'm not supposed to say until you take the job."
"Is there a job?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll take it. Now you can tell me."
"You have to sign the contract first." Gloria produced a contract from a manila folder.
I signed and initialed everywhere she pointed. "Just out of curiosity--not because it’s a deal breaker or anything--did signing this contract just implicate me in a massive fraud cover-up or international murder-for-hire scheme?"
"Not that I know of," Gloria said.
"Well there goes my guess."
"I think it's a fairly standard one-year employment contract…only with a few added wrinkles, such as a very strict non-disclosure agreement--one that covers what I'm about to tell you. Do you understand?"
"I've understood absolutely nothing that's happened in the past three days, but don't let that stop you."
Gloria leaned in conspiratorially. I leaned in as well so she'd know I was a team player. "The man who just hired you is the CEO of Johnston Brothers"
"That was a Johnston?" I asked.
"No, his name is George Gwafinn."
"Gwafin? You mean…we're related?"
"Of course you're related. You're his son."
"No, my father lives in Kansas. He's a quality inspector at a barbed-wire factory."
"Do you want this job?" Gloria asked.
"No, I need this job. I want to believe I'm not going insane."
"Then the man in that office is your father, you're his son, and--most importantly--you love your father. It's all in the contract. Do you understand now?"
"How can anyone hope to understand love?"
"Don't go getting all philosophical on me. You're bound by contract to love your father."
"Contracts to ensure love. That might catch on."
"In or out?"
"Just a second here. You're asking me to disown my family, the people who raised me and took care of me relatively well for 18 years in exchange for a job. I think I need to give it a bit of thought."
"How much thought?"
"I'm done now. I'll do it."
"Good. And by the way, you're not legally disowning your family. This is just a corporate adoption."
"A corporate adoption?"
"It's not so uncommon as you might think."
"It isn't?"
"You have to consider Mr. Gwafinn's position. Johnstons ran Johnston Brothers for 92 years, starting with the firm's founding in 1901 and ending this past Friday, noonish. Now Mr. Gwafinn's in charge, but there are still 41 Johnstons on the payroll including three on the board, assuming none of the older ones keeled over this morning on their way to work. Those 41 Johnstons were not exactly thrilled when the non-Johnstons on the board voted to turn the company over to a fellow non-Johnston. I think it struck them as a bit nepotistic. Anyway, the upshot is that any one of these 41 Johnstons would be happy to stab Mr. Gwafinn in the back or, if he won't turn around, the front. Mr. Gwafinn is up against both history and superior numbers. By hiring his son, he's ensuring he has at least one ally in the company--and he's showing that he has enough power to hire whomever he wants. It was the perfect plan, except for one minor hitch."
"Mr. Gwafinn doesn't have any children." I deduced. "So you found someone with the same last name."
"Mr. Gwafinn didn't have any children," the assistant corrected. "Now he does. You. Truth is, Mr. Gwafinn has never even been married, except once years ago, for tax purposes."
"And I've got a new father and a new job."
"And a new "n" on the end of your last name," Gloria added. "Mr. Gwafinn uses a double n, so now you do, too."
"Does anyone know about this except us?"
"The extra n?"
"The contract."
"No one else."
"He must have tremendous faith in your discretion."
"Why wouldn't he? I'm his niece."
"Real niece or corporate-adoption niece?" I asked.
"Sorry, my contract says I can't answer that."
"I understand," I said, and suddenly felt quite squeamish about my earlier efforts to peak down the blouse of a woman who turned out to be my cousin.
Gloria didn't know exactly what my new job would be, and wasn't about to bother Gwafinn with such trivial matters. But the contract answered my other pressing question--I would receive the standard $65,000-plus-bonus offered to all Johnston Brothers' rookies. That was just fine with me, even though as the son of the CEO I might have expected a little more. Gloria suggested I report to Reception the following morning to let them decide what to do with me. In the meantime, she gave me $800 in petty cash and told me to get a couple of suits that wouldn't reflect poorly on my new father. Instead, I purchased just one suit that wouldn't reflect poorly on my new father, and used the rest of the cash to pay for a couple nights in a hotel of the sort that would have reflected poorly even on my old father, a man who has been known to sleep in the back of his pickup truck rather than spring for the Holiday Inn. I'd try to find an apartment that weekend.
That evening I called Tony the Italian Native American at his parents' house in New Jersey to explain that I'd handed off my post as Observatory watchman.
"Don't worry about it, Gwaf," Tony said when briefed on the situation. "I was lucky to have you and Dave there guarding the place I long as I did. I'm sure Curt will do fine."
"To be honest, you probably didn't even need a watchman. I'm not certain it was ever in any real risk."
"Dave was staying there?"
"Until he disappeared."
"Then it was at risk."
"I meant there wasn't any risk that the administration would try to take it back. Actually, the greater risk might be if they find Dave's bongs lying around the place."
"Oh, I doubt they'd give me any static over a few bongs. If it comes up I'll just say they're peace pipes or something."
"Plastic peace pipes covered in Grateful Dead logos? Will they go for that?"
"They went for a Native American from Bayonne."
"Good point. Any idea on what you're going to do with your astronomy building? It's considerably larger than the average dorm room."
"I'm thinking about turning it into a support center for Native American tribes whose casinos have gone under. I feel I should give something back to my people."
"That's a great idea, Tony, but you're Italian."
"They run casinos, we run casinos-- I'm sure we have more in common than we realize."
"Fair enough."
"Thanks for the call, Gwaf. And congratulations again on the job."
"Yea, thanks."
"You don't sound so enthusiastic. Isn't this your dream job?"
"It's a good job. But, yea, something is bothering me."
"You mean the ethical dilemma of accepting a job offer made because of implied nepotism after decrying the inequity of things like nepotism for so long?" I'd already explained the details to Tony, in clear violation of my contract.
"At first I thought it might be that," I said. "But now I'm pretty sure I'm okay with the implied nepotism."
"What then?"
"Well, for a while this afternoon I thought what was bothering me was that this whole thing wasn't bothering me. I've sort of taken this it in stride, and that doesn't exactly speak well of my character."
"Uh huh."
"But I've done some thinking, and I'm pretty sure that's not it either."
"No?"
"I think what's really bothering me is that I'm not at all bothered by the fact that I'm not bothered about not being bothered. I'm pretty sure that's it anyway. I figure it's got to be that, or the fact that I don't get my own office. I mean me, the son of the fucking CEO, without an office."
"Or the fact that you have to have your name changed to cash your paycheck."
"No one's going to notice a missing 'n'. If they do, I'll tell them it's a typo. And if it comes to it, having my name changed is no big deal, just a few forms really. I looked into it."
"You'd give up your family name, just like that? After your father pricked his fingers to the bone testing barbed wire every day at work to feed and clothe you?"
"I wouldn't be giving up the family name, I'd be increasing it by one 'n.' If anything, I'd be adding to the family name."
"You know, Bob, I think you'll do just fine on Wall Street."
"Gee, thanks Tony," I said. I choose to ignore both sarcasm and the backhanded nature of compliments when doing so is in my interest. "If you're looking for a job on Wall Street when you graduate, give me a call. I might be able to hook you up. Of course, you'd probably have to change your name so people think you're my brother."
"No problem. The college already is pressuring me to change my name to something more Native-American sounding for recruiting purposes. What do you think of Tony Hung-like-buffalo?"
"How 'bout something that honors your Jersey roots like Tony What-are-you-lookin-at?"
"I don't know. That might not be Native American enough."
"How would you know?"
"A fair point. Anyway, I might just let the college decide. I mean, what does a name matter anyway?"
"More than I ever realized."