The Waiver

The Job


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The Waiver (2)
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"Is that all you're going to do all day?"

Cassie loomed over me, her hands on her hips. I looked up at her
sheepishly.

"Um . . . yes?"

I was sitting on the couch in my apartment watching the "transvestite
stud" tell his/her boyfriend he was cheating on him with a traveling carnie.
Cassie had walked in with a bundle of mail under her arm. (I had long
since given her a duplicate key.)

"Look at this, Jake. 'Department of Defense . . . U.S. Army . . . .
U.S. Air Force . . . United States Military Academy-

"But that's in New York!"

" -National Security Agency . . . CIA!'." She glared at me. "Jake, you are
getting a job," she said sternly.

I sighed. "But why? I have enough money from that book to live, quite
comfortably, for decades. What the heck do I need a job for? Lose
my Medicare benefits?"

Cassie sat down next to me. "Jake, what's your purpose in life now?
What's your reason for getting up every morning?"

I sighed and looked away.

"Seriously. I know you worked hard, we all did." She stopped for a moment
to let that sink in. "But, that doesn't mean you can just waste the
rest of your life sitting on the couch and hanging out with your friends."

I figited. "Cassie, I always . . . I mean, since we got back together, I
just sort-of assumed, . . . you know.

She smiled at me. "Yeah, I planned on us marrying too. But there's no way
I'm gettin' 'hitched' to slacker-couch-potat End End of story."

I looked up at her half-pleading (and half-serious) "B-But, but-"

"No 'but's" Mister." She said playfully.

I slumped my shoulders in defeat.

I had to get a job.

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The tour guide led me deeper into the complex. The tour guide being an
Army Captain. We turned the corner and passed through several security
kpoikpoints before reaching a large metal door, which looked like it
could withstand a nuclear blast.

"- and if you accept the army's generous offer," he said in true sales
pitch style. "This would be your office, Sir."

He swung the door open and offered the room a broad sweeping gesture with
his arm. Something told me this guy was getting a serious commision if
he managed to hire Jake Berenson.

It had been three weeks since I was on my couch.


Happy.

Now, I roam place to place turning down offers left and right. After this I had
two more stops to make on the serious offers before I turned to the "B" pile.


The stack of letters whose jobs were a little less tempting.

"Senior Marine Recruiter" (anotherwords doing promos for the Marines as a celeb.)

"Basic Training Unit Commander" (the last thing I needed was to get attached to even
more kids and then send them out into the world.)

"Commander- U.S. Aircraft-Carrier 'Yorktown'" (In my book I described part of the mission on
the GW, now the Navy wants me too.)

Well, the main point is, that the world saw me as the toughest human alive
and every service wanted to boast that "Berenson the Badass" was their boy.

"Now, how exactly would I qualify to be an Army Public Relations Specialist?"
I asked plainly. "I haven't graduated high school, Captain."

He smiled broadly. "Well, I'm glad you asked that, Sir. See with these new,
shall we say, immigrants to our society, U.S. public opinion is swaying from
the military. They say there's no need for us right now." He laughed
nervously. "We've been, well, getting some misinformed press releases that
denounce some of our more potent programs we've been develping."

He coughed and cleared his throat. "Now with these Andalite-whose-a-whatzits
running around spreading THEIR ideals into human culture, Americans no
longer see it acceptable for the government to have classified programs."
He patted my shoulder. "But with your support, hopefully they'll
acknowledge that things are kept top-secret for they're own personal
safety.

I pondered that for a moment. "So you want me to use my good public
standing to tell the people that the military is a big brother to them?
Keeps them out of trouble? I don't think they'll respond well to that."

The Captain just laughed. "Sir, our studies, here at the Pentagon, show
that since you've never endorsed anything before, whatever you say is gospel."
He looked back down to the clipboard he was carrying.

"What's the first program I would be supporting, anyways?"

The Captain looked up. "Huh? Oh!" He quickly sorted through his papers.
He stopped at one. "Here it is. Um . . . 'Bio-Weapons Testing in the
North Pacific". See, these enviromentalist people are- Hey! Where are
you going? Sir?!"

Cassie would have killed me.


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I arrived at the Twenty-nine Palms Marine Base by Hum-vee. Lately,
terrorism had grown into a serious problem.

It was anti-govermentalism regime who called themselves 'R.E.B.E.L.',
(Radical Elements Boycotting Elitist Lies) against the DAA
(Department of Andalite Affairs) REBEL believed that the DAA was slowly working
the Andalites into our society to take over sneaking through the back door,
Yeerk-style.

Then, there was the Holy Order of the Fist who believed I was the anti-christ
who prevented eternal bliss to be brought by Yeerks, against the Protectors
of the Faith who believed I was the ACTUAL christ, risen again in the form
of an unknowing child.

Add on to that all the racist, beer-slugging, shotgun-toting retards of the
world . . . and you have a "serious problem."

I opened the door half-way and was about to hop out when, "Bam!" The door
was slammed back shut. An appolgetic corporal said very politely, "Sir,
we'd appreciate it if you remained in the vehicle until this area is
properly secured."

I nodded and leaned back in my seat, watching the commotion. It looked like
we were an attacking force, assalting the base. Everyone in the area had their
military ID's checked, then their Classified Project passes . . . then their
Social Security card . . . and Driver's Licence.

"Damn! How long is this going to take, corporal!" I demanded.

The corporal looked at me plainly. "Sir, a lot of very angry people want
you dead. My job is to make sure they don't succeed. Please let me do
my job, Sir."

Lord help me, I was starting to like this guy.

I smiled sincerly. "I just might do that corporal. My health is in your
hands."

The corporal risked a quick, fleeting smile, then returnedthe the task at
hand. Still it was taking too long.

Twenty minutes later . . .

"Okay, Sir! We're all set."

"Are you sure? Shouldn't you cavity search them first?"

The corporal moved to his left a bit, then hesitated.
"Was that a joke, Sir?"

I blinked. "God, yes, it was a joke! Now let me out of this car! It's a
hundred-ten outside!"

The corporal looked at me plainly. "But, Sir, it's a dry heat."

I glared at him, then, as if on command, we both burst out laughing.

I was escorted into a large hanger with jets and Black Hawks all
arranged in neat little rows. In front of me was scattered metal
folding chairs. In the chairs were a hard-looking bunch of soldiers
in mixed uniforms. Some had arrived in camos, others sporting white belts
with gold buckles and a snappy beret. One was actually in a full dress
uniform, sloping hat and all.

The second I entered, all conversation stopped and I found thirty pairs
of eyes staring at me in wonder and hero worship. I was standing in the
opening to the hanger, with the sun shining behind me so all they could
see was my silouette, I had my hands on my hips and my feet firmly planted
wide. I realized that my dramatic posture probably wasn't helping things,
but I was a little tense starting my new job, and that's how I stand when
I feel stressed.

From off to the side, someone gathered their wenouenough to shout:
"Atten-Hooh! Officer on Deck!" The men and women quickly jumped to thier
feet and a man off to the side wearing a red beret (I assumed he was the
one shouting) saluted me. I walked over to him slowly and returned the
salute. "Sir! Test-Project 'Team Delta-Seven' Ready for this block of
instruction, Sir!" He shouted quickly. I could hardly understand what he
was saying. But, I had studied enough Army manuals before arriving to
know what to do.

I addressed the class. "Take seats."

Twenty-nine people obediently sat in unision with one "Thud" while
thirthirty-ith ran to the back of the chairs and stood at attention.
Apparently the Red Beret was my second in command. A teacher's
assistant or something.

"As you know, your governments have chosen you, each the most capable in
your country, to participate in this project. My mission is simple, take
the hard-trained soldiers given to me, and teach them the aspects of
the 'Tactical use of Xeno-Warfare'"

I found that a chair had been set up for me and I eased down in to it,
while still talking.

"Now, I would like to remind you, you've already been through all the
physical and mental training you're gonna need. This is NOT basic training.
I am here to teach and evaluate. Not pulverize and embarass. This is just
a class and it's gonna be the toughest class in your life. But, I have
full confidence that with some hard work, we'll both be just fine."

A woman wearing blue camo's and a blue beret raised her hand hesitantly.

"Yes, you?" I said pointing to her.

She snapped to attention. "Uh, Sir? If you're teaching Xeno-Warfare, does that
mean we can call you 'Proffesor X'?"

A few people in the group had the courage to snicker. I glared at her until
she was visibly nervous. (which only took about three seconds) and then smiled.
"Well, duh. Of course, you can."

This time the whole class laughed, realizing that I was not the hard, tough
badass, the press potrayed me to be.

"Alright, have you all been screened and processed in with the Escafil? Yes?
Good." I slapped my hands together and rubbed them. "Let's do it."

They never wore uniforms to my class again.

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