leaders—FDR, Truman, Caesar, Hitler—didn’t need to wrap themselves in the cloak of simple-minded rhetoric.)
Most important, of course, is how my job helps me with my hobby. No, it’s more than that. It’s vital.
My particular situation is good, very good. I can usually get away when I want to. With some juggling of commitments I can find time during the week to pursue my passion. And given who I am in public—my professional face, you could say—it would be very unlikely for someone to suspect that I’m a very different person at heart. To put it mildly.
I’m often at work on weekends too, and that’s one of my favorite times—if, of course, I’m not engaging in a transaction with a beautiful girl like Myra 9834 or acquiring a painting or comic books or coins or a rare piece of china. Even when there are few other sixteens present at the office, on a holiday, Saturday or Sunday, the halls hum with the white noise of wheels moving society slowly forward—into a bold new world.
Ah, here’s an antiques store. I pause to look into the window. There are some pictures and souvenir plates, cups and posters that appeal to me. Sadly I won’t be able to return here to shop because it’s too close to DeLeon 6832’s house. The odds of anyone making a connection between me and the “rapist” are quite minimal, but . . . why take chances? (I only shop in stores or scavenge. eBay is fun to look at, but buying something online? You’d have to be mad.) For the time being cash is still good. But soon it’ll be tagged, like everything else. RFIDs in the bills. It’s already done in some countries. The bank will know which $20 bill was dispensed to you from which ATM or bank. And they’ll know you spent it on coke or a bra for your mistress or as a down payment to a hit man. We should go back to gold, I sometimes think.
Off. The. Grid.
Ah, poor DeLeon 6832. I know his face, from the driver’s license picture, a benign gaze at the civil-servant camera. I can imagine his expression when the police knock on his door and display the warrant for his arrest on rape and murder charges. I can see too the horrified look he’ll give to his girlfriend, Janeece 9810, and her ten-year-old son if they’re home when it happens. Wonder if he’s a crier.
I’m three blocks away. And—
Ah, wait . . . Here’s something unusual.
Two new Crown Victorias parked on this tree-filled side street. Statistically it’s unlikely that this sort of car, in such pristine shape, would be seen in this neighborhood. Two identical cars are particularly unlikely, and factor in that they’re parked in tandem, with no flecks of leaves or pollen, unlike the others. They’ve arrived recently.
And, yes, a casual look inside, normal passerby curiosity, reveals that they’re police cars.
Not predicted procedure for a domestic dispute or break-in. Yes, statistically those infractions occur pretty frequently in this part of Brooklyn, but rarely, the data show, at this time of day—before the six-packs appear. And you’d probably never see hidden unmarkeds, only blue-and-white squad cars in full view. Let’s think. They’re three blocks away from DeLeon 6832. . . . Have to consider this. It wouldn’t be inconceivable for their commander to tell the officers, “He’s a rapist. He’s dangerous. We’re going to go in in ten minutes. Park the car three blocks away and get back here. Pronto.”
I casually glance down the closest alley. Okay, getting worse. Parked there in the shade is an NYPD ESU truck. Emergency Service. They often back up police arrests of people like DeLeon 6832. But how did they get here so soon? I dialed 911 only a half hour ago. (That’s always a risk but if you call too long after a transaction, the cops might wonder why you were only now reporting screams or that you’d seen a suspicious man earlier.)
Now, there are two explanations for the police’s presence. The most logical is that after my anonymous
Most important, of course, is how my job helps me with my hobby. No, it’s more than that. It’s vital.
My particular situation is good, very good. I can usually get away when I want to. With some juggling of commitments I can find time during the week to pursue my passion. And given who I am in public—my professional face, you could say—it would be very unlikely for someone to suspect that I’m a very different person at heart. To put it mildly.
I’m often at work on weekends too, and that’s one of my favorite times—if, of course, I’m not engaging in a transaction with a beautiful girl like Myra 9834 or acquiring a painting or comic books or coins or a rare piece of china. Even when there are few other sixteens present at the office, on a holiday, Saturday or Sunday, the halls hum with the white noise of wheels moving society slowly forward—into a bold new world.
Ah, here’s an antiques store. I pause to look into the window. There are some pictures and souvenir plates, cups and posters that appeal to me. Sadly I won’t be able to return here to shop because it’s too close to DeLeon 6832’s house. The odds of anyone making a connection between me and the “rapist” are quite minimal, but . . . why take chances? (I only shop in stores or scavenge. eBay is fun to look at, but buying something online? You’d have to be mad.) For the time being cash is still good. But soon it’ll be tagged, like everything else. RFIDs in the bills. It’s already done in some countries. The bank will know which $20 bill was dispensed to you from which ATM or bank. And they’ll know you spent it on coke or a bra for your mistress or as a down payment to a hit man. We should go back to gold, I sometimes think.
Off. The. Grid.
Ah, poor DeLeon 6832. I know his face, from the driver’s license picture, a benign gaze at the civil-servant camera. I can imagine his expression when the police knock on his door and display the warrant for his arrest on rape and murder charges. I can see too the horrified look he’ll give to his girlfriend, Janeece 9810, and her ten-year-old son if they’re home when it happens. Wonder if he’s a crier.
I’m three blocks away. And—
Ah, wait . . . Here’s something unusual.
Two new Crown Victorias parked on this tree-filled side street. Statistically it’s unlikely that this sort of car, in such pristine shape, would be seen in this neighborhood. Two identical cars are particularly unlikely, and factor in that they’re parked in tandem, with no flecks of leaves or pollen, unlike the others. They’ve arrived recently.
And, yes, a casual look inside, normal passerby curiosity, reveals that they’re police cars.
Not predicted procedure for a domestic dispute or break-in. Yes, statistically those infractions occur pretty frequently in this part of Brooklyn, but rarely, the data show, at this time of day—before the six-packs appear. And you’d probably never see hidden unmarkeds, only blue-and-white squad cars in full view. Let’s think. They’re three blocks away from DeLeon 6832. . . . Have to consider this. It wouldn’t be inconceivable for their commander to tell the officers, “He’s a rapist. He’s dangerous. We’re going to go in in ten minutes. Park the car three blocks away and get back here. Pronto.”
I casually glance down the closest alley. Okay, getting worse. Parked there in the shade is an NYPD ESU truck. Emergency Service. They often back up police arrests of people like DeLeon 6832. But how did they get here so soon? I dialed 911 only a half hour ago. (That’s always a risk but if you call too long after a transaction, the cops might wonder why you were only now reporting screams or that you’d seen a suspicious man earlier.)
Now, there are two explanations for the police’s presence. The most logical is that after my anonymous
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