"I fear I am attended by some spies" (Part III)

I’ve tried to figure out why I have such a difficult time finishing this story, aside from the fact that I can’t understand why anyone other than my friends and family would have interest in my job interviews. Among my friends in D.C., I my job interview stories achieved infamy only matched by my humiliating blind date stories. There was the time that I underwent a battery of interviews with the city government, and received a tentative offer for what sounded like an ideal job. The only catch was that I had to have a final clearance interview with the mayor, to establish my “suitability” to work for his administration. I was rather excited about the prospects, and wanted to make a good impression with his Honor. The night before, I turned on the evening news while I rifled through my closet trying to decide between the blue suit or gray suit. (The array of fashion choices for the professional Washingtonian actually ran the gamut to black, and brown during some of the unfortunate Reagan years. I’ll bet Clark Clifford never put on a brown suit.) In Casablanca, Ilse wore blue, while the Germans wore gray, so I had pretty much decided on the navy. Then I saw it–the spectacle of Mayor Marion Berry being led off in handcuffs, shrieking “the bitch set me up.” Needless to say, the mayor’s office telephone me in the office and apologized that his Honor would be unable to make our appointment. That is a unique job interview story. This one, not so much, except it was my first.

The pamphlet filled with glossy photographs that the Agency mailed to me with my test results, questionnaires, and release forms did not offer much insight into the types of questions I might have to answer. At that point in my education, I knew far more about ancient civilizations, early hominid skeletal structure, and the succession of the British monarchy than I did about Oppenheimer or Philby. I had taken the Agency examination simply to explore an option, in the same way that I answered all of the recruitment letters I received, except for the one inquiring whether I might be interested to become impregnated with the sperm of a Nobel Prize winner to participate in a long-term experiment. The one from NASA was the coolest, but I never heard from them again after sending them my paperwork.

The prospect of discussing details of my personal life with Mr. Flag was a bit unnerving, but I did not feel I had anything particularly salacious or provocative in my past. I considered myself a fairly average college student in terms of experimenting with drugs and engaging in pre-marital sex. (Bite me, Tom Wolfe. One vanity that did not go up in flames in your bonfire is your pretentious self-image.) Practically every person I knew smoked pot at a party or a concert, at least occasionally. I did know a few serious stoners who were able to maintain top G.P.A.s at the same time, but they were all engineering and business majors. As for sex, at the time I had no idea that the only sexual relations that the Agency concerned themselves about were the ones that created the potential for blackmail. As a woman, me giving a man a blow job was not an issue, unless I was willing to do the same, in the service of my country, to elicit information.

But the interview with Mr. Flag never got that far.

Mr. Flag: Sinister, have you ever smoked marijuana?

Me: Yes.

Mr. Flag: (And where I remember his literal words, I will put them in quotation marks.) “I am surprised that you can be so frank about flagrantly breaking the law.”

Me: Everyone I know has smoked pot at least once. Besides, you told me that you want me to take a lie detector exam. So why would I lie?

Mr. Flag: “Ms. Sinister, the Agency does not only want intelligent people. Itwants the right kind of people.”

There was some additional discussion, but not much. I went home, stripped off my interview clothes, and popped the cap on a beer. I called my Dad, who I think was still at work, and burst into tears. Between sobs, I managed to pour out the story of how humiliated I felt. My father, in his quite understated, yet often profound way, replied “If that is how the Agency feels about you, why would you want to work for them?”

Looking back, this is one of those ineffable moments of clarity where one of those cartoon light bulbs should have appeared over my head. Even if I had managed to convince Mr. Flag and the Agency that they wanted me to work for them, fundamental aspects of my being would ultimately have balked at working for them.

But that did not happen for me.

"Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars...."

King Henry V:, IV, iii

Few pleasures in life rival those offered by a steaming hot bubble bath. Almost instantaneously, I could feel crample muscles relax and unkink. I stretched my left leg upward to examine whether my personal sense of hygiene would allow me to forgo shaving my legs another day. The thin purple scar snaking across my shin is still visible. By now, the mark should have disappeared.

This is where a typical blog entry would jump back in time to the time the injury occurred. I started composing a story about the camping trip. How my companion and I ran laughing, hand-in-hand, under a midnight sky drenched with twinkling stars, through a meadow littered with bracken and thorny brambles. Then, I realized I just do not feel like sharing details of the story behind that scar, or others which adorn my body and psyche, on this blog. At least not now. Suffice it to say, I scratched my shin on something, but got wrapped up in other pursuits and did not notice the blood until the next morning.

I started this journal on an impulse, without giving much thought as to what I sought to accomplish by writing it. Primarily, I thought it would serve as a tool to discipline myself to write something other than for work. A blog could be useful to collect ideas for articles to write for for professional journals. Additional publication credits would enhance my resume when applying for teaching positions. An online journal would also allow me to practice writing fiction, and experiment with ideas for a novel. Regrettably, I never made time to take a writing class during college. I could enroll in a class at one of the local universities, but I think the lessons lie in the writing itself.

One critical aspect that I failed to consider was that people might actually read what I write here. I never anticipated that anyone, save for a few friends, would be interested in anything I have to say. It's puzzling to me why strangers would enjoy reading stories like those about my tragically comic job interviews (there are enough of them to fill a half-hour stand-up routine). Having an audience has distracted me from what I had hoped to achieve. If I cannot muster the mental discipline to ignore the audience, and focus on writing about topics that inspire me, maintaining this blog is pointless.

The simplest solution would be to bleem this blog into infinity, start afresh, under a new pseudonym, and keep the address private. Yet, I have never been one to choose the path of least resistance. This propensity tends to leave some scars, but those fade with time, while the lessons learned on the journey remain vividly etched in my mind. So, after a long respite, I now intend to write here again.

"Attended by some spies" (Part II)

Reacap: I am being interviewed for a job with a U.S. intelligence organization by one I am calling Mr. Flag. It's not going well. Despite the fact that I barely made it through one semester of Calculus with a C, the less-than-brilliant screening device developed by said intelligence organization suggested that I had a future career in cryptography. But wait. The humiliation continues....

Mr. Flag was not particularly pleased to learn that I did not have the math skills which my test apparently promised I must have. He acted indignant, and asked many probing questions, as if I would lie about the indignity twenty-one-year-old me felt about receiving a C in maths? Nonetheless, Mr. Flag reassured me that headquarters had interest in me for other jobs. We talked about those prospects for some time. Then, he handed me the papers--the release papers to allow the government to probe every nook and cranny of my life thus far.

Me: What this release says is that I give you permission to hand over every bit of information you learn about me, and everyone you interview about me, to local law enforcement, correct?

Mr. Flag: That is a good question, Sinister. In fact, it is one no one has ever asked me that question before.

Me: But what is the answer?

Mr. Flag: I don't know. But it's a good question, so I will ask headquarters.

The conversation suddenly seagued into a discussion about how I would have to swear, under oath, that I would break off all contact with foreign nationals. More cause for pause.

I spent my senior year of high school as an exchange student in Austria. I lived in the home of a repsected architect, with his wife and four children, the oldest of whom was 13 when I lived with them. Teenage me put some work into debauching the two older boys: I let them stay up late and watch "adult films" (allowing them watch Phaedra, of all things, got me in trouble) and tacky Jerry Lewis movies; I never ratted on them for sneaking some of their Dad's cigars and a bit of liquor; and I became the infinitely cool "older sister" by dating their tennis instructor. So,I take this job, and I'm not allowed to talk to this family, ever again? What about all the friends I made during that time?

With my head spinning a bit, Mr. Flag wanted to get back to the business of my security clearance, so we could schedule my lie detector interviews. He was not pleased that I refused to sign the papers. I knew my somewhat sullied youth was going to be an issue.....

"I fear I am attended by some spies." (Part I)

The Two Gentleman of Verona: V, i

I never considered a career in espionage until I saw the announcement hanging in my college's career placement office. I had reached my senior year, and I waffled between seeking graduate degrees in several areas, but did not have the money to pay for more classwork. So the announcement’s promise of a good salary and paying my way through graduate school seemed well worth sacrificing a Saturday to take a test. Besides, there was no way to anticipate the questions to study in advance.

It is not that the concept of espionage was wholly unfamiliar. My much-loved great aunt took a leave of absence from her college professorship to serve as a cryptographer for Naval Intelligence during World War II. My grandfather, her younger brother, had served the US war effort in a somewhat more clandestine capacity. From the bits I could gather, it was related to the development, and ultimate use, of nuclear weapons. He never spoke of it. Whatever he did, whatever he saw, changed him for the remainder of his life, or so I have been told.

The Agency examination itself was actually fun. Several of the sections involved solving puzzles. Another part required translating back and forth between English and an imitation language. It was a long time ago, and I am sure that the examinations have changed somewhat since then.

A few months later, I received a package in the mail informing me that I had passed the written examination, and needed to attend an orientation interview before taking my trip to Agency headquarters to start oral interviews, all to be done with me attached to a lie detector.

On the appointed day, I showed up wearing something suitably staid and conservative. (Not a suit–I don’t think I owned one at 20.) Now, I remember very little of my interviewer, except he was tall, had clipped graying hair, and wore a navy blue tie sprinkled with tiny American flags. For purposes of this story, I will call him Mr. Flag.

Mr. Flag’s first order of business was to review my test scores with me, and discuss what the Agency anticipated might be areas where I could best serve it.

Mr Flag: Sinister (he called me by my last name throughout the interview), the Agency was very interested in you because of the test scores you received in particular areas. I need to ask you about your background in mathematics and computer science.

Me: I barely made it through one semester in calculus–I thought I could catch up, but never managed it. I also never took a course in computer science, although sometimes I did suggest some ideas to friends in engineering majors, and they said the ideas helped them with their projects. Some of those ideas actually worked in the execution.

End Part I.

"Subjects afore thee like a flock of wild-geese...."

King Henry IV, part I: II, iv

Still, tonight I write of geese.

I live on the bank of an estuary, although it's styled a "lake." Because the water is a mix of fresh and salt, I often see pelicans swooping and diving in the distance while herons placidly wade at the shore. My lake is an oasis of calm in the midst of the concrete, exhaust fumes, and rampant vandalism which seem inevitable components of urban life. The swathe of green grass and shade trees which encircle the lake provide a pleasant contrast. At night, the dark waters reflect a ring of tiny amber lights strung round.

Considering these attractions, it is no surprise that copious numbers of Canada geese decided to give up the exhaustions of migration and planted their fat asses here year-round. At first, I thought it somehow rustic that I awakened each morning at dawn to the sounds of honking geese flying overhead. Now, the noise is the least of my objections to the fat, feathered freeloaders. Can you tell that I do not care for these geese?

Not long after moving here, I was taking an early-morning run on the lakeside path when I slipped in goose shit, tumbled down the bank, and tore several tendons in my ankle. For those unfamilar with Canada geese, they spend much of their time grazing. As a result, they produce prodigious amounts of poop. Traversing those lovely green lawns is akin to making one's way through a minefield. Although I did not fall, I stepped in goose shit today, which inspired this not-so-small rant. Did I say I hate these fucking geese?

To make matters worse, many well-meaning neighbors, many of whom do not speak English, dump all of their stale bread in the parks. Somehow, they do not understand that these offerings will not lure the discerning ducks, herons, egrets, and cormorants to come ashore. Instead, they simply add grist to the goose-shit mill and attract rats, both winged (aka pigeons) and whiskered. If I was not so determined to exact vengeance against the geese, the pigeons would have serious cause for concern.

The other day, while walking over the bridge which spans the lake's remaining outlet to the bay, I saw an announcement that the local officials have adopted a "Master Goose Control Plan." What stale hell, indeed. The last brilliant plan devised to decimate the local goose population was to import badgers, who presumably would eat the goose eggs before they hatched. Although an intriguing concept, the lake is a waterfowl preserve. That issue aside, I would be the first to vounteer to work with the ninja-assassin badgers to rid my neighborhood of the blubbery bastards. Unfortunately, no one can train badgers to distinguish between goose eggs and those belonging to the other species of waterfowl that inhabit the area. I remain skeptical about the city's newest strategy. I wonder if anyone in these parts sells harpoons made goose size?

Thus far, a modest proposal sent by letter to the city strikes me as the best solution: herd and gather a majority of the geese; then serve them for dinner at Thanksgiving and Christmas at the local homeless shelters. Roast goose is particularly tasty served with sauteed apples and red cabbage.

"And here is a pot of good double beer, neighbour"

King Henry VI, part II:II, ii

Thursday evenings, I usually join my local chapter of the Hash House Harriers for a game of hare and hounds, followed by several frosty draughts of beer. (A local microbrewery most generously donates a weekly keg.) For those unfamiliar with the game, one runner, designated as the "hare," sets a trail, marked by flour or chalk, depending on the terrain. After allowing the hare a headstart, the remainder of the group, the "hounds," follow the trail in an attempt to capture the hare. Bored members of the British military adapted this traditional children's game to the extent that the Hash House Harriers now describe themselves as "a drinking club with a running problem."

Once the pack has completed the trail, the group joins in a circle to drink beer, sing ribald songs, and socialize. During the circle, various folk are called forward to chug "penalty drinks," called "down-downs" for Hash crimes both real and imagined.

As an important part of the Hash ritual, regular attendees receive a special nickname. Many of these are lewd, rude, and socially unacceptable. Some hashers I know received their nicknames because of their professions: "Morning Missile" is a rocket scientist; "Cock Exchange" is a stockbroker. Some names are self-explantory: one friend is "Splat," and 'nuff said. Others receive their Hash names because of events: "Mannisex Destiny" received his name from his east coast Hash when he announced he was moving west; "Hit 'Er in the Shitter" resulted from...let's leave that to imagination.

Because Hash clubs exist worldwide, and visitors from distant shores often visit, or become part of a small, local group, it often reminds me of the internet. There are people that I chat with on a regular basis, and I consider friends in many respects, but I don't know their true names. The camaraderie exists, but for its own purposes. The breadth and depth of the friendships remain in question.

"With bated breath and whispering humbleness, say this;..."

Merchant of Venice I, iii

I have just finished a sleepless night plucking at my harp strings, to compose a ballad for a merchant who lives in the adjoining shire. He was anxious that I complete the work by Friday morn’, so that he could present it, as commanded, to the noble who rules those parts.

Anxiously, I awaited word from the messenger who delivered my missive, to ensure that it had arrived safely, and on time. Much to my ire, the messenger informed me that the merchant had taken his family on a journey to enjoy the entertainments of a fair kingdom to the south, where dwell fair princesses, evil witches, and odd creatures, including some say, a giant rodent who speaks.

With piss and vinegar levels running high, I drew a draught of ale and sat to read the news of my friend R and his band of merry bloggers. "Ah, to be baited with the rabble’s curse." [1] Suddenly, a madness fell upon me. My harp seems nigh to playing itself.

Some time ago, a lady blogger mused, "What does baited breath mean?" Tongue-in-cheek, I replied, "That one has dined on sushi the previous night, and forgotten to brush their teeth before bed." A quick slip of the pen made for a merry jest.

I have had subsequent occasions to play with this gaffe. When asked by an intrepid highwayman if I could stand nose to beak with a masked marauder of the skies, I replied surely I could, for berried breath only would I encounter, not that "bait breath" what seems to ail so many. The highwayman guffawed, and professed that his beguiling lady companion herself had a fondness for anchovies.

My awareness broadened, today I realized many "greedily devour the treacherous bait." [2] What anguish! "To be thus taunted, scorn’d and baited at...." [3] As an avid fisherman, my friend R surely knows that to catch a fish, one’s hook should be baited. But as to whether one will catch a fish, in anticipation, his breath is bated.




[1] Macbeth: V, viii
[2] Much Ado About Nothing: III, i
[3] King Richard III: I, iii