Hard Rain Falling - Don Carpenter [119]
But it was not going to be easy. For one thing, Jack did not get the carpet-laying job that promised to go to ten thousand a year. Perhaps the man doing the hiring didn’t like his face. So while the money they had lasted, Jack looked around for work. At Sally’s suggestion he applied to Federal Civil Service, taking the general entrance examination with hundreds of others, and despite the nervousness epidemic in the cafeteria where the tests were given, Jack thought he did pretty well; he felt almost certain of a rating of at least GS—6, and perhaps even higher. Meanwhile he and his parole officer looked for other kinds of work (Jack hadn’t told him about the Civil Service exam), and nights and afternoons he and Sally worked on their new apartment, trying to make it habitable.
When they were settled, there were paintings and drawings on all the walls, drapes on the windows, books and small objects on the shelves, food in the kitchen, and, somehow, perhaps through the expense of work they had put into the place, a sense of belonging, of habitat, that made them both feel comfortable and cozy just being there. The rent was $65.00 per month, and they paid their own gas and electricity, but the heat and garbage were free. They got a telephone at the cheapest rate, unlisted, and they were home.
Jack found a job parking cars for a nightclub on Broadway, and they waited for the answer from the Federal Civil Service. When it came and Jack read it out in the foyer of the building, he was not really surprised. Sally, however, exploded.
“If the fucking Federal Government won’t hire ex-convicts, how in the goddam hell do they expect anybody else to?”
“What did you expect?” Jack asked. He had not really felt irritated until Sally read the letter. She was standing in the kitchen, and he was leaning in the doorway. “They think I’m a rotten vicious criminal; would you hire a rotten vicious criminal?”
“What do they mean, `Untrustworthy’?” she blazed. “How would they know? Jesus Christ!”
“No use blowing your stack.” He took the envelope and letter from her hand and dropped it into the garbage sack under the sink. “I was a sucker to shoot for it.”
“That’s the goddamndest criminal piece of horseshit I ever saw in my life!” she yelled. She stooped down and retrieved the letter. “I’m going to take it to the American Civil Liberties Union! We’ll see what we’ll see!”
Jack was amused, but still angry. “That’ll do a lot of good. Listen, forget it.”
She stared at him. “Forget it? Why should I? It’s a criminal injustice. We have to do something about it!”
“Oh, come on. Sure it’s an injustice. It’s even a crime. So what? Don’t you think society ever commits crimes? Hell, they do it all the time. And get away with it. Listen, I committed some crimes, too, you know. And if I can, society can. They aint no better than me, and I aint no better than they are. We’re even, dig? Do you think I could look myself in the face if I didn’t think society was a crock of shit? God damn!”
“What’s getting to you?” she wanted to know. Jack’s face was red and his eyes burned angrily. He tried to pace up and down in the living room, but there was too much furniture in the way, and after stumbling twice, he threw himself into a chair.
“Whaddya mean, what’s gettin to me? Jesus! You act like you got rights or something? Are you out of your mind? Listen, I gave this a lot of thought, baby, and there aint no justice and so you might just as well forget it, and do what you can. Dig?”
“I hate it when you say `dig.’ That’s a disgusting word.”
“I’ll quit sayin it if you’ll stop yelling `fuck’ every three minutes. Okay?”
She stamped out into the kitchen, but came back in a few minutes still holding the letter. “The ACLU will tear these bastards apart,” she said. “The idea of prison is to reform people,