The Complete Lockpick Pornography (13 page)

That probably would have been okay if I had come up with a good insult — things might have gone better. I would have got beat up, but that was unavoidable. The problem was that I tried to laugh it off with a specific clever insult, an insult that the hero of my book had actually used. Word for word. Now, this was a high-fantasy novel, with trolls and wizards. So I called him a knave or a braggart or a foul wench maybe. I can't remember the exact wording, and thank God for that. I called this junior high bully a “foul knave” and then I smiled smugly.

One day in school Michael came up to me in the hall and called me a shithead. This was after months of no communication. He had a half-dozen people all crowded around him, watching. He called me a shithead and an asshole, and I probably said nothing. He suggested we meet at three-thirty at the bus stop — to fight.

I felt all wound up and half-crazed for the rest of the day. I felt crazy right up until I met him at the bus stop and then suddenly I was just tired. We were surrounded by a huge crowd, and they were all chanting,
Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!
There were never usually this many people at the bus stop.

When Michael came close enough I grabbed on to him before he could punch me and I pulled him to the ground. This was the strategy I had come up with while I was sitting in class and worrying. I wanted to believe that he would have appreciated it. It was a pretty smart strategy. It was the kind of thing we might have come up with together. We rolled around in the mud, getting filthy, but nobody got any real punches in. And then the bus came.

When we stood up, I stuck my hand out to him to shake. This was something else I had come up with while sitting in class.

“Good fight,” I said, and he looked at me, confused and with pity in his eyes. Maybe it was disgust, but probably it was pity. Then he turned around and got on the bus without shaking my hand or saying anything. Everyone was patting him on the back. I sat at the front of the bus, all wet and muddy, and a girl asked me why I had stuck my hand out like that. She said it was stupid. I didn't know what to say. It seemed like the right thing to do. I wasn't mad at him. I didn't even dislike him, but how could I explain
that
? So I said, “It was just a trick anyway. If he tried to shake it, I was going to punch him in the neck.”

Clay gave me the security-force recruitment flyer last night. It said they pay above industry standards, and that they have an extensive training program for new recruits. That sounds promising. I don't particularly want to be a security guard, but if I'm going to be one for a while, I don't want to have to rely on my “Hug 'em 'til the bus comes” fighting strategy.

Also, is it silly to hope there are training programs that teach you to handle being pepper-sprayed? In my imagination, this training basically consists of being sprayed over and over until you're used to it. I like the idea of being used to pepper spray, I think. It's kind of glamorous. You've got one of your friends over, and she goes to get her lip balm out of her purse, and accidentally sprays you full-on with her pepper spray.

“My God, I'm so sorry,” she says, her hand going to her mouth in shock.

You give a nonchalant little chuckle.

“It's cool, baby. I'm used to it.”

Will I learn how to tell if people are lying just from their body language? From facial micro-expressions? Will I learn to defuse a bomb while making witty banter with the sinister villain? Will they show me how to look good in sweat-stained clothes? Is this my chance to become an action hero? Does Clay already know these things? He's pretty mysterious and dangerous-seeming. I bet he does. Are there any buddy-cop movies where the two cops make out?

There will be.

It's all I talked about in the car.

“There's no extensive training,” Clay said.

“You don't think I'm tough enough? You don't think they'll take me aside because I match a certain psychological profile and teach me to kill?”

“I think they show you a lame marketing video and make you pay for your own uniform,” he says. “But it's a paycheque and it's easy work.”

But he probably just wants it to be a surprise. He wants to lower my expectations so that when they first put a machine gun in my hand, I get the proper thrill of excitement. And then we will both be dangerous and exciting. We could become vigilantes! We've read about violence in the news — teenage boyfriends being attacked at their proms down in Texas; lesbians having their houses vandalized in Saskatoon — and instead of feeling frustrated and helpless, like usual, we could buy plane tickets. We could each pack a small bag with just the essentials. You don't want to take weapons through airport security. Any weapons we need will have to be attained through on-site procurement.

And they had better hope the law catches up with them before our plane touches down. Prison will be a slap on the wrist compared to our unhinged, dark-as-night vengeance. I think it would be cool if we wore suits while we committed these violent acts of retribution. Not fancy suits. No, cheap suits that we won't mind ruining. Then if we're caught by the police, well, think how amazing we'll look! All bloody and torn and grizzled.

Plus, suits look official. They would add an air of credibility to our campaign of blood-drenched disproportionate responses. The average citizen will take us more seriously. That's right, ma'am, I've got a licence to open a twenty-four-hour ass-kicking delivery service in your neighbourhood.

While I finish the security-guard employment application, Clay is playing chess on his cellphone beside me. This is something else he's been trying to get me to learn with him. In case we ever become criminal masterminds, he says. We don't have to become grandmasters or anything like that. It is Clay's thinking that we just need to get good enough for undereducated cops to think we're geniuses when they find our half-finished chess games. “They're criminal masterminds!” they'll say. “They're always one move ahead!”

I finish the application and take it up to the girl. She smiles and then looks past me at Clay. I smile. It's all very friendly.

“The pamphlet mentions that you provide extensive training,” I say. “What exactly does that entail?”

“Well . . .” She pauses, smiles again, and launches into a pitch. This is something I was not expecting. It's a sales pitch for the company. She tells me about their dedication to “quality training,” about the company's “model.” The words come out with a practised ease, and it seems like she's going to go on forever. I look over at Clay for help, but he's still playing his game. She keeps going. The commitment to the dedication to our ultimate goal of satisfying the customer's et cetera.

I raise a hand to interrupt and put it as plainly as I can.

“When do I get the pepper-spray training?” I say.

She laughs nervously and tells me that pepper spray isn't a part of their training program. What about karate then? Russian Special Forces knife fighting? Nope. I look past her at the poster on the wall. Skydivers in a circle, thumbs up, hurtling toward the ground, representing integrity or quality assurance or some business ethic. I begin to get that sinking feeling. You know the one — the one you got when you discovered your dad didn't really fight crime, he just dressed up like that for conventions sometimes.

“Is that all for today?” she wants to know.

No, it isn't, but what should I say? Won't you train me to fight crime, to take an ass-kicking with a smile? Won't you show me how to cripple a man twice my size using only a ballpoint pen?

Of course they won't.

I don't make a scene. I don't flip over desks or threaten any lives. Afterwards, driving home with Clay, I think maybe I should have. Maybe that would have shown them my potential. The boss would have come out from a backroom and looked around at the carnage and said, “Why is this guy getting the regular application form? Let's get him a taser gun and schedule him a training session with Tire Iron Pat.”

After he drops me off, Clay goes to work, and I curl up on the couch to watch
Die Hard
.
Die Hard
is the greatest action movie ever made. There is no denying this fact. It is the father of all action movies. The mother. When action movies wake up in the middle of the night crying,
Die Hard
walks across broken glass in its bare feet to give them their bottle.

The secretary calls me when I'm in the shower; I was thinking about Clay in a bloodstained suit, his shirt ripped open, his eyes distant and angry.

“Would you be available for an interview with one of our detectives?” the secretary says. Detectives! My heart's fluttering.

“You're damn right I'm available,” I say. I hope I sound like I've been sleeping in my car wearing a dirty wife-beater for a week, stinking like whisky. Would I have been available if she hadn't used that word,
detectives
, or if I hadn't been sitting at home watching
Die Hard
all day, memorizing every line of Bruce Willis's dialogue? Sure. But now I'm available and excited!

My mom calls after that.

“You weren't home this morning,” she says.

“Clay took me out to where he works. He's gonna get me a job as a security guard,” I tell her.

“Is he there now?” she says.

“No.”

“I think you should ask him to marry you.”

I almost drop the phone, and then I'm laughing.

“Are you kidding?”

“You two work really well together. He makes you happy, Clay. Why not put a ring on his finger?”

I think about sliding a ring onto Clay's hand, and his smile, and I get all gooey in the heart. This is why people get married, I think. They don't think about these things practically; they just imagine the wedding cake. The way their boyfriend would look in a tuxedo. They imagine sitting old and crotchety together on the front step, canes leaning against the wall, a chessboard between them. Two men growing old together. And their heart feels like this, and of course it seems like a good idea.

“If I get married, it's not going to be for a long time,” I tell her. “I don't even have a job.”

“You're almost thirty now, Arthur.”

After that, I just sit on the couch thinking about growing older with Clay. About trying to find two wedding-cake toppers that would do us justice. Do they make Muppet wedding-cake toppers? I bet they do.

The interview is later that day. My interview with the detective. It wouldn't be accurate to describe him without clichés. He's a barrel of man. He has a five o'clock shadow. He likes his women like he likes his whisky. Twelve years old and mixed up with Coke. That kind of guy! He shows me his licence, which says quite clearly, “Private Investigator and Private Guard Licence.” I am in the presence of pure badassery. His shirt is untucked!

It brings a smile to my face, seeing that licence, knowing that it isn't out of reach, knowing that someday soon I could be damaging public property in a high-speed chase through downtown. Beating down little old men with their own
GOD HATES FAGS
signs. I could be the one coming home stinking of booze, though I might skip the self-destructive alcoholism. I wouldn't want to drive Clay away. But otherwise, I could be a loose cannon! A half-crazed maverick!

I smile, and the detective smiles back.

“You know, you learn a lot from this job,” he says.

I'm on the edge of my seat already, but I lean even farther forward. Is this it? Is this where the music swells, and we cut to a training montage?

“You learn how to read a person,” he says, and I'm all ears.

Training.
Extensive training
.

“Sure, you can get books and videos that teach you this stuff,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. He has thick fingers. A fist like a sack of oranges, if he needs it. I imagine he needs it. I want to believe that he needs it all the time. “But you'll never make it far on theory alone,” he says. “This job will teach you how to read a person. You'll do it every day. Your safety will depend on it.” And then he leans forward, so we're face-to-face and I can smell the cigarettes on his breath, and he says, “You want to know what I can tell about you? Just from your body language?”

Fuck, do I ever. I can only nod, mute with awe. Can he tell that I've never been close with my father? Can he tell that I watch movies to live life the way it should be lived, to jump from train to train with Harrison Ford because I would never have the courage on my own? To laugh every shitty thing off and just keep shooting myself out of cannons like Gonzo? Does he know that Steve Martin is my hero, or that I cried when John Candy died?

“You're a smart kid, for one,” he says. “You learn fast. You're a good worker.”

He keeps talking, and as he talks my heart sinks, but my smile never fades. I keep on smiling while he feeds me line after line. He tells me everything he thinks I want to hear. This is just another part of the pitch. Why is there a pitch? Why are they pitching me this job? Shouldn't I be trying to convince
them
?

I'm such an idiot. This isn't going to be a job that will tolerate or encourage my loose-cannon idea of justice. This isn't a job that will nurture and respect my violent yet tender-hearted individuality. This job won't fix me, won't give me the tools to handle myself when someone like Dave comes swinging, or when someone like Wallace shoves me.

This is how great our company is. This is how great you are. Imagine how great it would be if you wore a uniform at night and patrolled construction sites for our company! Think of the possibilities, Arthur! Think of the spiritual enlightenment!

And then he offers me the job, still leaning forward, gesturing with those thick, lying fingers.

I nod. I smile. And I say, “Thank you, yes, I would like to come to work for you.”

“Great,” he says. “Do you have time now for your training?”

Training! My heart flutters against my will. He takes me into another room.

And so this is training. There isn't a single bottle of pepper spray to be found. Training to these people means watching instructional videos with fellow new recruit Bob. Bob has joined up for some part-time work, and he doesn't seem like the brightest knife in the shed. I'm getting the feeling that the shed I've stumbled into isn't even meant for cutlery. It's meant to store rocks.

The material in these videos seems aimed at people trying to find work after suffering a stroke or major head trauma. Every point they make is repeated a dozen times. Stealing from employers is wrong. Yes, even if it's just a pen. That means it is wrong to steal a pen. What about this blue pen? Yes, stealing the blue pen is wrong too. Yes, even if you're poor, and your family needs the blue pen for Christmas dinner.

Later on we're treated to a dozen or so different “employee testimonies” about how great it is to work with the company. Now, let's make something clear. It's not that I don't believe these are really employees. It's quite obvious they're real employees. There is no way in hell anyone would say, “No, let's not use real employees, let's hire some professional actors,” and then have the actors pretend to be idiots.

But if they approached Clay to be in a video like this, I'm sure he'd say no. Maybe this is all they could get. It's not very encouraging. My problem is that I'm not sure that my idea of a great job is the same as, say, someone with an
IQ
of 60. I don't mean to say I'm better, just that we have different needs.

My dreams of spunky sidekicks and dry cool wit in the face of adversity have faded. I am not going to be an action hero; I am going to be a rent-a-cop. Maybe one day an action hero will run past me, and I will be an innocent victim in the shootout.

This is what's left.

I wonder what Clay is wearing right now.