“I’m sure it will,” I agree.
“And look, I don’t want you to be disturbed or anything, there’s going to be a film crew following me around tonight. I know it’s a dreadful bore, but it’s one of those things we have to endure, you know, for publicity.”
“A film crew?” I ask, surprised.
“Yes, don’t worry, we’ll just carry on as if nothing’s happening and they’ll do their job, keep out of our way, sorry it has to be on your first night, but it’s just one of those things.”
We talk some more about tonight, but he keeps looking at his watch. Before he goes, though, I ask him about Mrs. Mulholland, whom Klimmer didn’t mention at all as a staffer. He laughs and says that Amber isn’t supposed to be here at all, she’s just helping out for the next couple of weeks because they’re incredibly short-staffed. She’s a wonder, he says, and I can’t help but agree. Does she know she’s married to a murderer? Or that her brother-in-law is a murderer, or maybe it’s both of them. Or maybe she knows and doesn’t care. Or maybe she’s Lady Macbeth behind the scenes. Charles stops talking. My eyes must have glazed over for a moment.
“Everything clear?” he asks me with a look of concern.
I nod. “Everything is great,” I say with enthusiasm.
“Good. I’ll get you your clipboard and your fact sheets and then Abe will get you to fill in your tax details and show you how to doorstop and how to do the rap. Tonight when you go out, probably Abe or myself will be looking after you, so you’ll have a good time. Is there anything else you want to ask?”
“Uh, no, just, I don’t know, about money, maybe?”
“Oh, sure, hasn’t Steve told you?”
“No.”
“Ok, you get a third of all the money you make over quota. Quota is eighty-five dollars. If you make under that, you get a flat rate of forty percent of what you raise. But don’t worry about that. Most people make about three fifty a night, which means they get, what’s a third of that?”
“One twenty.”
“One hundred and twenty, that’s not bad, is it?”
“Yeah,” I say, and I’m doing the sums in my head. One hundred dollars is about sixty pounds, which isn’t bad for a couple of hours’ work. Not bad at all. Thinking about this cheers me up again. Abe comes out of the office with a clipboard and some fact sheets. He’s a kid my age, fat, ginger bap, wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt. I talked to him briefly earlier. Seemed ok.
“Ok,” he says, “let’s get you started.”
Charles departs, casually swinging his key ring, Abe brings me into his office, sits me down.
“He told you everything?” Abe asks in a New York accent.
“Yeah, although he was a bit vague and mysterious about personnel problems. Some kind of tragedy?”
“Oh, shit. Look, Alex, Charles wants us to draw a line under it, look to the future and all that, but I should tell you that we had two terrible things happen to us in the last month.”
“Oh, yeah?” I ask.
Abe tells me all about Victoria and Klimmer, explaining that they’ve caught one of the killers and are looking for the others. He tells me not to bring it up with anyone at CAW. He seems a bit upset, especially talking about Victoria, and I’m considering him an empathetic ally when he adds that one of the worst aspects of the whole thing is that now he can’t wear his Warren Zevon “Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead” T-shirt around the office.
“Is there anything else before we get down to business?” Abe asks.
“Well, Charles said there’s going to be a film crew following him tonight,” I say.
“Yes, yes, there is, he tell you why?”
“No, he didn’t, said it was publicity.”
“Well, if he didn’t tell you, I can’t tell you,” Abe says.
“What’s the big secret?” I ask.
“We’re not supposed to discuss it, in fact, I’m not even supposed to know, so if you don’t mind I’d like to leave it there, ok?”
“Ok,” I say, not minding because Abe looks like the sort of guy who couldn’t keep a secret to save his life.
Abe pops the fridge, gives me a Coke, and explains the “rap.” Tonight we’re going to be asking people about the preservation of the old growth forests of North America and if this is an important issue to them. The rap has to be memorized. He does it for me a few times and I believe I’ve got it:
“Hi, my name is Alexander O’Neill, I’m from the Campaign for the American Wilderness, I’m in your neighborhood tonight campaigning to preserve our ancient forests, is this an issue that concerns you at all?”
If they say no, I’ve learned a set of answers, if they say yes, I’ve learned answers. It’s like a computer program.
“No, I’m too busy,” Abe says.
“Well, sir, this will only take one minute of your time, one minute to preserve our nation’s heritage,” I say.
“Good,” Abe says.
Abe role-plays me through a set of situations. A woman with a baby, a man on a phone, an angry man, etc. Always in every situation I am to be “closing the loop,” bringing the conversation back to the issue of preserving the old growth forests but allowing for logging in the managed forests, highlighting the shortsightedness of the Greenpeace policy of no development, explaining that logging companies plant more trees than they cut down, further explaining that Congress is choked by environmental pressure groups and that a voice for Wise Use, commonsense use of our natural resources is sadly lacking.
All the time he’s talking, I’m thinking about the Mulhollands. Charles — funny, nice, Robert cold but sympathetic, Mrs. Mulholland, Charles’s wife, the beautiful mirror of Victoria. A troika of evil? Hmmm. Maybe I was way off. Way, way off.
It’s six o’clock, we’re on a clogged highway heading south. We’re in a van. Over a dozen of us. All white, students, bubbly, irritating. No blacks, Asians, or Mexicans. Only one person I recognize from this morning’s set of interviews. Both of us new hires have been introduced to all the others. The others can’t be that veteran either, considering CAW only moved here a couple of weeks ago.
Charles is driving, and beside him in the front seat is Amber, twisting her hair into little ringlets, not being coy, just bored. Beside me in the back is Abe and another girl, who told me her name but I’ve already forgotten it. She’s young and skinny and looks like a student.
I don’t see the film crew and I wonder if both Charles and Abe were joking about that.
As we drive through the traffic, Abe keeps asking people to do tonight’s rap. He doesn’t ask me, which is good, because I’m still trying to remember it. That and all the facts and the angles. First question you’re supposed to ask is whether the issue of the forests concerns them. Second question (while you pretend to fill something in your clipboard) is their political affiliation. If they’re a Republican, you talk about waste, how the mining companies and timber manufacturers are going bankrupt; if they’re a Democrat, you talk about deforestation and why we have to cut down the tropical rain forests, because nutty environmentalists won’t let us use our own forests for managed growth. The tropical rain forests have a hoard of untapped medical potential. If a Democrat woman opens the door, you’re supposed to tell her about the breast cancer drugs they found in the Amazon. If it’s a man, you’re to talk about prostate cancer or heart disease. Whatever’s relevant to the person at the door. The most important thing of all, Charles tells us, while he’s driving, is always to be closing the loop.
Charles shifts lanes expertly and looks at us in the rearview mirror.
“Ok, folks, everyone’s favorite time, the getting-to-know-you questions,” Charles says.