Chapter 32

The second Monday in July was the Jesus’ first day of work at The Ridgeland Post. He showed up at the office at 8AM and was promptly told to wait in a reception area where he remained until just past 10:30, when Chris Waters in a short sleeve white, teal, and orange button up and black bow tie approached him. With the pompadour haircut, he held a startling resemblance to some species of exotic tropical bird.

“Good morning, Mr. Castle, and thank you for your interest in The Post, if you could please, wait until we’re ready to see you,” Chris said.

“The name is Castillo,” Jesus said, but the office door was already shut. He looked for sympathy from the receptionist, an attractive young black woman with an intimidating hairstyle, but she was ostentatiously pawing through some text hidden behind the cusp of her desk.

“Excuse me, ma’am, do you have-” He began. The phone rang, and she answered it languidly, making no indication of hearing Jesus.

“Thank you for calling The Ridgeland Post, this is Alisha, how can I. Oh he-e-e-y Rob. Oh, nothing. You know. Are you serious? No way! She wouldn’t,” The receptionist said.

Jesus settled back into his chair and resigned himself to obscurity. Every receptionist plays a little dance of dominance, and will only let you through the gate once they’ve established themselves as the bigger person. Patience is key in dealing with these sort of situations.

“Mr. Waters will see you now,” She said in a false sickly-sweet tone, a tone that guarded just a hint of irony and sarcasm.

“Thank you,” Jesus said, just sharp enough to return the same caliber of passive aggressiveness.

He walked into Waters’ office, which was organized in such a way to make the guest feel small. He sat down in a chair that was a touch more uncomfortable than he would have expected from a business of this caliber.

“Mr. Castle, am I correct in presuming-”

“It’s Castillo.”

“Right,” Waters said, “I am to understand you are seeking employment in The Ridgeland Post, is that correct?”

“I thought I had already been offered a job.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves now,” Waters said, “Have you come with a resume?”

“Well, no, I haven’t,” Jesus admitted. Chris scrawled something down on a sheet of paper hidden from Jesus’ sight. Jesus looked up at a strange cat-shaped clock. Its tail swung with the passing seconds.

Its elliptical eyes seemed to bore down on Jesus.

“Right, and what is your work experience in journalism?”

“I haven’t any. This would be my first job in the field,” He said.

“And writing experience?”

“I attended Baja Leai University studying English and composition.”

“So no real job experience?” Chris said.

“No,” Chris scrawled another invisible note. Jesus wondered if he was actually writing anything or just trying to intimidate him with a meaningless gesture.

“And did you graduate this University?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why not.” Chris said. The question was flat, almost rhetorical.

” … Personal reasons,” Jesus said, slowly.

“Such as?”

“Such as murdering Rodrigo with a rock, you idiot,” Said Chris.

Jesus blinked.

No, that wasn’t real.

“I moved to be closer to family,” Jesus said.

“So you have family here?” Chris replied. In reality, Chris had not, and would not ask a single question he didn’t already know the answer to. To him, it was a power game, and he was winning.

“No, I don’t. Not at the moment,” Jesus said.

“Then how could you move to be closer to your family?” Chris countered. It was the first time he had gone off script. Chris always vetted his new hires.

“Technically speaking, I am closer to family,” Jesus said.

Chris nodded. “Right. Now we usually aren’t in the habit of hiring, shall I say, junior writing staff, but the position you are applying for has unusual demands.”

“I understand.”

“During a ninety day probationary period after which you’ll be put under review for further employment, we want you to write a small column. Six hundred words, twice a week appealing to a more youthful, liberal perspective. Mr. Greymaker is of the opinion that we need to court the attention of a new generation. That’s where you came in,” Chris said.

“You’ll be here five days a week from nine until five. You have an hour for lunch. When you’re not writing, I expect you to help the office staff with whatever duties they require of you. Understand that this is a junior position,” Chris said.

“Yes, of course, I understand completely,” Jesus complied hastily.

“Well then, I’ll have my assistant insure that all of your paperwork is in order and provide you with the exact details. Your salary is four hundred a week. Good day,” Chris said. Jesus took the cue to leave, brimming with joy. He practically skipped out of the office and pulled out the required paperwork in a haze of relief. He had made it into the big leagues. Things were finally looking up for him.

That day, he stayed at The Post until nearly six in the evening. Jesus wanted to get acquainted with every aspect of his new business: Editorial, design, writing, even publicity and distribution. Chris’s pep talk had inspired a sense of urgency in him, almost fear based, and in return, Jesus made it his goal to take advantage of every opportunity that was offered to him. One writer in particular, Melissa Grimes, a thin, stern-looking middle aged brunette with her hair pulled in a tight bun reminiscent of a woman half her age, took a particular liking to him and explained the details of how The Post’s writing team operated.

It was still a mystery to Jesus how he managed to secure such a position. He seemed to be the only one of his immediate peers without a college education. He was the youngest by far, even with the falsified age on his ID. He decided to head across the street to The Rooster to see if John was working, and he could thank him.

John was working, as it turned out. When Jesus arrived, he saw him talking to a huge bullheaded man in a grey suit at the bar. Jesus sat down and waited at the barhead. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the rings glittering off of the huge man’s bearish hands. He heard the soft clinking of chains when he moved. An aura of fear radiated off him. He could feel it from John, present in his tone of voice, seeping out of his pores. He noticed John pointing in his general direction, and Leroy nodding in agreement. The two walked over to where Jesus sat from opposite sides of the bar.

“Jesus, this is Leroy White. He’s a business man that works with your father and now a partial owner of The Rooster,” John said. Leroy was ever more intimidating up close. When Jesus reached out to shake his hand, Leroy’s enormous paw dwarfed his, almost crushing him.

“So, you’re Winston’s kid, yeah?” Leroy said. He spoke in a low, gravelly voice, full of thumbnails and cigarettes.

“Yes, sir,” Jesus said.

Leroy looked over at John, “He calls me sir, how about that?” He chuckled softly as if Jesus wasn’t there at all and took his time before returning to look at the boy in front of him.

“Congratulations on the new job, I hear,” Leroy said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I want you to write one about me. Picture this: ‘Local millionaire saves doomed dive bar,’ what do you think, John?” Said Leroy.

“As long as it mentions the enigmatic general manager, I’m fine with it,” John said.

Leroy leaned in towards Jesus, “Hey kid, wanna know a secret?” He said. Jesus nodded in affirmation. “Out of everybody in the world, only maybe one out of a hundred care about anything but themselves. And those aren’t the cops, lawyers, and judges. They’re the damned schoolteachers and ministers. You know what that means? That means it’s all made up. It’s all a lie. All this shit around us,” He motioned his hand wildly, “All this shit, this bar, this block, this whole damned city is built on promises. Words, imagination, it’s all a goddamn fugazi, and if you step up and take what you want, no one will stop you. Your father knew that. The only rules that are real are the ones that you impose on yourself. Don’t buy into their bullshit. Make your own rules. Think with your balls, not your brain.

That was always your father’s problem. He thought too much. He was too damn smart to take the easy way out. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, it’s kept him alive, but sometimes he would be better off a man with less intellect. He doesn’t know how to reach out and grab things. You don’t have to ask permission.

You only have to do what’s necessary for your success. People will see this, and they will not hate you for it. They will gravitate towards you, because you did what they couldn’t, what they’ve always wanted to. Don’t be like them. Don’t be a sheep. Be like me, a wolf. A wolf in bear’s clothing,” Leroy leaned back and let his words take effect. Jesus didn’t understand half of what he meant, but it was impressive at the least.

“Another thing,” Leroy added, “I own a club down on Broadmoore. Tell your girlfriend that if she ever wants to make a little more money than working at a pizza joint, she can come there.”