Chapter 5

Stars and Stripes: The Pentagon announced the awarding of a large contract for admission services for the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, CO. Validation Services, a wholly owned for-profit subsidiary of the New Baptist Convention (NBC) won the highly contested bid to solicit, screen and confirm new admissions to the Academy. Brett Smithson, CEO, released a statement saying, "The company is humbled by the responsibility that the Air Force had bestowed upon us and is looking forward to joining a remarkable team, building a better, ever more dedicated military."

"Frickin' atheists are ruining this country!"

Brendan looked over at the old man who was scowling into a newspaper. The man had liver spots on his bald head and was missing his bottom two front teeth. His rheumy eyes gave him the appearance of a walking ghoul.

Brendan's arm was getting tired from holding the overhead bar in the crowded bus. He had already had his fill of being jostled and jerked as the bus made turns, hit potholes, and dodged traffic. The only good point was a pretty Latina woman who was sitting in his line of sight. He would catch her stealing looks at him. When they chanced to make eye contact every once in a while, she blushed and looked back down at her tattered paperback. He noticed her nice legs sticking out of her skirt, which wasn't as long as currently fashionable.

The old man was grumbling aloud again. Brendan had no doubt that the thick fake gold chain around the man's neck ended in a garish gold cross to match the pin on his frayed lapel with the NBC logo of the New Baptist Convention on it. It had to be a cross because Catholic crucifixes were definitely on the "no-no" celebrity list of jewelry fashion according to the Newark Advertiser Brendan had read earlier. Besides, the lapel pin matched the "God Bless America" button pinned to the other side of the man's jacket with an American flag and a cross behind the words.

The bus driver called out Brendan's stop and he gladly pushed his way to the door. The sickly fumes of the departing bus filled the air on what would otherwise have been a sunny early-autumn morning. He knocked on the side door five minutes early, stifling a yawn as he waited for the door to open.

"Mr. Teacher," Oscar said at the doorway. "You pass the first test. Get your ass in here and shut the door."

The doorway led into a workroom. One wall was lined with furniture sitting on shelves or hanging from metal hooks, three rows high. The far wall had lengths of various sizes of woods, most of them short. There was a room that stuck out into the workshop area that had no windows and a secure door. Foam was stacked in thick layers. Otherwise the rest of the floor was filled with machines, tables and stools. Big windows with security grates that ran the length of the building let in natural light near the top of both walls.

Oscar walked towards the front, motioning Brendan to follow him. On the left was the back of the doorway that Brendan had seen yesterday. To his right were two offices with windows that looked out onto the small reception area. Each office had a desk with an old computer and piles of paper.

Snatching a form from a pile, Oscar handed it to Brendan, "You can read this?"

Brendan glanced at the W-4L and nodded. "It's an IRS form for payroll tax and a loyalty oath."

"You know how to fill it out?" Oscar asked.

"Yeah, the instructions are right here. Do you have an employer number?"

Oscar held open his hands with incomprehension.

Brendan said, "The IRS issues your business an employer number for income taxes, payroll taxes, and whatever else they want to tax. You have to put your employer number on the form or else the IRS will reject the form and come after you."

"That's not good," Oscar said. "Marisol will be here in an hour. You help her find the number. You clean up shit in here." Oscar tromped off to his own office and sat down heavily in a chair, their springs protesting.

"Okay," Brendan said as he took off his thin jacket. He tossed it in a corner and began by checking out the piles of paper, mail and catalogues that were spread across the shelf in front of the darkened window. There was no space anywhere to sort piles. The only available surface was out front on the long counter. Brendan gave a glance at his boss who was punching numbers on a cracked plastic desktop phone and scooped up an armful of piles. He marched into the front room and dumped it on the counter. He repeated his trek three times.

He sorted first by English and Spanish. He piled catalogues on the floor in stacks. There were catalogues for lighted business signs, safety equipment, playground equipment, and Employee signs like "Wash your hands" and "Remember your pledge." Any magazine that related to wood or fabric he dropped in a separate pile.

Oscar stomped out of his office and went to the front door with his key. After unlocking the door, he looked down at the stack and picked up a Precious Wood catalogue and took it back with him to his desk.

Brendan was sorting out "City of", "State of" and "United States Dept of" envelopes when a middle aged Latina woman stepped through the front door. She had wide hips, a little stomach, and bright red lipstick. Her hair was protected under a scarf.

"Er, hi," Brendan said as the woman stared at him without speaking.

"Hola," she replied. "You are the new white man hire, Mr. Teacher."

"Yeah, my name is Brendan," he said without moving from behind the counter. He noticed that she was wearing black slacks and sensible shoes with a small heel. Her purse was large and bulged.

She didn't respond for a moment. "You know what happened to the man before you?"

"Yeah."

"Then you don't fuck with Marisol and you will be okay. Where is Oscar?"

Brendan pointed to the man's office. He watched Marisol walk past him and through the doorway. He went back to sorting, wondering how such a sensibly dressed, motherly woman could curse and threaten death so blithely. He whittled down his first piles and went back to retrieve more. Marisol looked at him but said nothing. As Brendan sorted and stacked, the door opened and three men, all Hispanic, walked in looking tired and unhappy.

Each of them gave him a hard look and walked to the back without commenting. Brendan felt like the loneliest man in the world.

By midmorning, he had sorted everything from the top shelf in Marisol's office. He walked up to her desk and asked, "Are you ready for me?" as he gestured at the piles on the other side of the window. She took off her reading glasses and gave him a hard stare.

"Okay, Mr. Teacher, what have you got?"

A century ago Brendan would have cringed at the misuse of the word "got" in good English. Now, it was just another irritant and reminder of his new station in life.

Brendan led the way to the front. He explained how he had sorted out everything and organized the letters and documents into some sort of order.

"What do I have to do with these letters?" Marisol pointed at one pile. That question began a long day of reading and making clear how each document had to be addressed and how the government worked. Not that Brendan had any experience with government bureaucracy, but Marisol had little clue of what was even expected.

"It would be a lot easier if I did it, rather than spend a lot of hours explaining it to you," Brendan said, trying to helpful.

"The last white man said the same thing. I listened to him, but I learned my lesson. You're a teacher, so you teach me," Marisol said.

Brendan heard the saws and drills being used in back. The side door slammed a number of times and the delivery door next to it raised and lowered at least two times. Brendan saw nothing of what came or went. Everything that he saw looked like it was on the up-and-up except for government forms, but there could be things going on out of sight so he had no way of knowing. In the other office, Oscar answered the phone a lot, always with a sweet "hello" and then followed up with a dour "hola." He would speak in a serious business voice often but other times with a screaming tirade of demand and insult in Spanish.

Lunch rolled around and Brendan's stomach had long taken up growling. Oscar walked through the office and out into the workshop. About this time, Marisol unearthed a document detailing their EIN number.

"EE-EYE-EEN?" she asked.

"Employer Identification Number: that's how the federal government and New Jersey track everything that Oscar does. They keep track of how many people work here, what he pays them, how much business he does, and whether the loyalty oaths are current." Brendan couldn't keep the grimace off of his face.

Marisol laughed and Brendan looked up confused. What had he said that was the least bit funny?