Marmot Goes Job Hunting
April/May by Michael Wolcott
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" Background check, huh? " |
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Author's note: This story is fictional. Characters depicted bear no resemblance to actual persons - living, deceased, or anywhere in between. In the real world, people like Ranger Marmot are fitted with radio collars and monitored daily by government security professionals, to ensure your safety.
It was the FBI stuff that tripped Marmot's trigger. He should keep his mouth shut, he knew. The woman on the other end of the line was offering him a job. A job Marmot wanted. Well, sorta.
(Honestly, Marmot had forgotten all about the seasonal ranger gig at Ancient Kiva National Monument. He had completed the application on the federal jobs website - a mind-numbing task - one grey day last February.)
But that was dark winter, when he had been broke. It was now April in the desert. Things had changed. Marmot had received a small inheritance and no longer really needed a summer job. Still, the message on his cell phone this morning had been a pleasant surprise. Maybe he would take the job.
He had found Kyrstin's message after returning to his truck from the Inner Sanctum (a made-up name for a real place - in one of the hottest parts of Arizona.) Or maybe the Inner Sanctum is in Mexico, he had thought, on the climb down. The whole idea of political borders bothered him.
What is Mexico, really? he thought, shoving his butt and torso into an easy chimney. The crux - an exposed low-angle face - was just below. A straight hundred-foot drop put you splat on the deck - cholla, barrel cactus and shattered rock.
The blank, chalk-white cliff face was tricky in spots, but familiar. His mind wandered. What is Mexico? he mumbled, again, then waited for his own answer. "It's all drainages, just like here."
He thought of dry washes sweeping north and south from Homeland Security border ops - scrub-filled and pocked with footprints. He thought of hungry Mexicans taking on the helicopters, night-vision goggles, and 120-degree heat, because they had to. The ease of his own life was an embarrassment.
Dropping to all fours, he traversed the smooth white granite, using a few little chicken-necks until they thinned out to nada. After the crux he sucked in a full breath, scrambled easily to the base, and walked back to the truck.
. . . Where Marmot now stood, cell phone in hand, talking to Kyrstin at Ancient Kiva National Monument.
"How's your Sunday going, Kyrstin?"
"Great! Even better now that you've called."
"Glad I can help. So what's the job?"
"It's 50 percent front desk duty, 50 percent patrol and interp talks. A little light maintenance at the trailheads."
Easy money, Marmot thought. The park was way too close to the Interstate highway, but it had a dusty charm. Visitation should be mercifully light in the furnace of mid-summer. Marmot figured he could handle it.
"I'm definitely interested," Marmot said. "When do you need someone to start?"
"If we get the background check started now," Kyrstin said, "we should be able to bring you on around the first of July."
"Background check?"
"Standard stuff. Fingerprints, police record, an FBI check . . ."
Marmot felt his jaw tighten. He tried to squelch something rising from inside him, but it was too late. Sometimes Marmot was dangerously talkative, capable of career-limiting off-the-cuff statements. Stuff like this could tumble out of his mouth:
"Background check, huh? I've worked for the Forest Service for 10 seasons, and never had one of those. I wonder what those FBI files look like. Could I see mine, I wonder? I mean, since it's my background?"
The silence at the other end was polite, but just a little bit Code Yellow. Kyrstin said she understood Marmot's questions, but implied (through careful avoidance of saying so) that she did not share his concerns. She couldn't really remember her own background check. It was no big deal.
Marmot saw Big Brother everywhere, especially since September 11. And he knew that just because you're paranoid doesn't mean people aren't trying to get you.
"Oh, I'll submit to one," Marmot finally found the good sense to say. "I just think, you know, there's a potential for violation of privacy . . ." His voice trailed off. He had veered recklessly off- message, once again. But their talk lurched on.
Marmot said he hoped to work for the Park Service, and would certainly enjoy giving interp talks to tourists. Kyrstin said she would call again, if they needed to schedule an interview. Marmot knew that probably wasn't going to happen. Not now.
Michael Wolcott is a Flagstaff writer who has the C.V. you would expect of a nature mystic with poetical leanings and an old Toyota truck. His e-mail address is angelpass12455@hotmail.com.
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