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You saw the movie right? So you know Perry plays by the book. He is neat; precise to the point of being anal, if you’ll excuse the pun. I bet you can imagine what kind of boss he is, right? Sheesh.
Hello, by the way. It’s me, again. Harry Lockhart, at your service.
So you know Perry gave me a job. My official title is Personal Assistant to Mr Van Shrike. Unofficially I am his apprentice (unofficial due to the fact I am unlikely to ever get my own PI’s license due to my priors, and as Perry put it, I’m dumb as a rock and couldn’t get motivated to pass my GED, never mind run a successful company. Harsh. Kinda true though. Ouch).
It is all above board though. Perry had me sign a contract and everything. He even went through it point by point with me so I understood what I was signing, like I am that much of a moron. I vaguely remember, in between him delivering slaps to the back of my head and yelling “pay attention fuck-up” in my ear, the words “probation”, “performance, “appraisals”. Yak, yak, yak.
So about six months after I found gainful employment under the world’s scariest boss (or exactly six months later, as it turns out), I finished a night time surveillance with a split lip and a black eye (lesson learned okay? If I’m trailing someone, I don’t have to be like, four feet behind them? Got it).
Perry was patching me up with that look on his face, his lips all thin and his eyes so narrow you can’t see what colour they are (sort of green, in case anyone gives a fuck). He dabbed a cotton ball soaked in alcohol against my lip with a little more force than was maybe necessary.
“Ow,” I commented, casual as you like. Perry huffed through his nose, which is a bad sign. It’s about one step away from him yelling in my ear again.
He finished up and said stiffly, “your six month review is due, so come to my office for a meeting tomorrow at 9am sharp.”
“What? I mean, what’s that? Review?”
I could practically hear Perry grinding his teeth. He rubbed his fingers over his eyes like he’s really, really tired, even though it’s only 8pm.
“It means your six month probation period is up so we have a meeting to discuss where we go from here. One of three things will happen. Either I offer you a permanent contract, or I extend your probation.” He stopped.
Just that word probation makes my stomach twist. Like how I react when I see a cop on the street even if I haven’t done anything illegal. Recently.
“What’s the third thing?”
“Or you’re fired.”
I swallowed. “Can’t you tell me now? Am I fired? Are you firing me?” I started to babble. I do that. You might have noticed.
Perry stood up and did that suave move where he adjusts his cuff links. Slick bastard.
“No, Harry. We’re going to do this properly. Tomorrow morning at 9.”
God, I hate surprises. Like, any kind of surprise. “Surprise! Happy birthday!” “Surprise! You’re fired!” Shit.
That night I sat cross-legged on my bed in the room I rent from Perry, with a yellow legal pad I’d pilfered from Perry’s desk and I wrote down the reasons why I should absolutely not be fired.
It wasn’t going well. So far I had:
1) I know how Perry likes his coffee
2) I know where the good dry cleaning place is
3) I’m cheap
That was it. Shit. Double shit.
Thinking back over the past six months, sure, there had been a few hiccups. Like three months in when Perry found over 200 packs of obviously shop-lifted gum in my desk drawer and he came down on me so hard, I’m a little ashamed to say, I cried. Well, excuse me, have you met the guy? Scary. Seriously.
Then there’s my medical bills. Getting shot and losing a freakin’ finger last Christmas was just the beginning. Since then I’ve broken my collar bone, cracked three ribs, taken 32 stitches (not all at once) and had four concussions. Each hospital bill has caused Perry is threaten me with “this is coming out of your pay check, ass hat” but he never takes it.
I decided to try a different approach. Perry is always complaining about my lack of self-awareness. So I turn over my page and wrote “Things I need to be better at.” That list was a hell of a lot longer.
***
The next morning I got up early, partly because I had barely slept anyway due to worry and partly because I knew I would have to make a good impression if this meeting was going to go my way.
I showered then shaved carefully. Jeez, my eye had darkened overnight and my lip, well, it was not pretty. I combed my hair (which was essentially a wasted effort; years and years of sleeping on floors and couches has given me permanent bed head, what can I say?)
I put on my Nice Pants and Nice Shirt (either of which are actually that nice, especially by Perry’s prissy standards). I only own one tie, black, which I bought for Harmony’s sister’s funeral. My pants are navy blue and even I knew I was committing a fashion faux pas and I’d be kidding myself if I thought Perry wouldn’t notice. I could only hope he wouldn’t fire me solely based on my lack of style.
I was dressed and ready by 8.45 so I went downstairs with the folded sheet of yellow paper in my pants pocket to make a pot of coffee. Perry was nowhere around. I resisted the urge to go out into the yard for a cigarette. Smelling of smoke wouldn’t go in my favour, that I was sure of.
I poured a mug of coffee to take to Perry, if anything just to back up my point number one.
The office is on the mezzanine floor (fancy, huh?) so there is no door for me to knock on. I went straight up and called “knock, knock.” I carried Perry’s mug in both hands.
“Morning, Harry.” Perry didn’t look up from the papers on his desk. It was probably a long list of my fuck-ups, I guessed.
I put down the mug on his desk (on a coaster, I’m not suicidal) and Perry glanced up. He did a double take.
“You’re wearing a tie,” he said and Perry rarely states the obvious, unless he’s trying to make a point about how stupid I am.
I realised I was blushing. I suddenly felt ridiculous. If Perry had decided to toss me out in the street, he had probably already made his mind up. As if a tie was really going to change anything. And I was pretty sure I’d tied it wrong (wrongly?).
What would I do if Perry did fire me? I’d be homeless, unemployed. Friendless. Basically, I’d be fucked. I sat down opposite him and resigned myself to my fate as an ex-assistant to an LAPI.
Perry’s eyebrows knitted together. “Are you alright?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay. Right, Harry. How do you feel like things are going?”
Wait. Perry was asking me? Since when did Perry consult me on my opinion of anything?
“How do I feel? Me?” A trick question, surely. “Um. Um.”
I remember the list so I pulled it out of my pocket and smoothed it out on the desk. I cleared my throat but Perry snatched it from me before I could start. He contemplated my chicken-scratch and I tried not to fidget.
“Coffee. Dry cleaning. Hmm.”
“Yeah, well, you know. Turn over.”
“Pardon me?”
“The page?”
He did, turn it over I mean. As he read, his eyebrows rose. Like, right up.
“Okay, well I can’t say I disagree with much here, Harry. But it doesn’t answer my question.”
I scratched my head. I knew I wasn’t helping myself when I asked, “what question?”
Perry sighed. “Let me make it simple for you, Harry. Do you like the job? Are you happy?”
“Um. Um.”
“Harry! Talk!”
I sat up. “Well, I have no reference for comparison but yes, I like it. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.” That last part I said before I had a chance to censor myself. Story of my life.
I coughed. And then I carried on talking, because, you know, that’s me.
“I mean, I know that I’ve made a lot of mistakes, Per. But I am learning. And I know that I’ve caused you some trouble. Well, a lot of trouble. And I guess you’re still pissed about yesterday. But, um.”
Truth be told, this job is the first legitimate, paying job I’ve had since I took that paper route so I’d have an excuse to swing past Harmony’s house every day after school. I was 14. Now I’m 36 with no clue how the tax system works. Thank fuck Perry deals with that side; the last thing I need is to add tax fraud to my rap sheet, you know? Anyway.
Perry leaned forward, putting his elbows and forearms on the desk. “This job really means something to you doesn’t it?” he said, in a soft voice, I’ve only heard him use once before; at Christmas when he said I wasn’t a punk.
I had a feeling if I spoke my voice would come out like I was actually 14 again, so I just nodded.
In the end, Perry didn’t fire me. He lectured me for what seemed like a year on being more conscientious and being less dumb. Then he had me sign a new permanent contract, with only a little less yelling than last time.
So I’m still in California. Perry took the liberty of putting my “Things I need to be better at” list on the fridge like a proud parent of a below-average child. Every now and again, he’ll point sternly at the fridge, snap his fingers and say “Harry, number three! Concentrate!” Or, “hey! Dumbass! Number nine! Now shred that and start over.”
Number thirteen Perry added himself, in his super-neat cursive: Stop narrating!!