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“I got a job!” my dad cried excitedly, bursting into the living room. It had been nearly a solid three months of rejections since the human plumbing malfunction, and I must say, my father had been more stable than any of us had anticipated. He had been taking better care of himself since the conversion and all of us were beginning to think that his newfound salvation was an improvement. In the evenings when he came home, he was pleasant, despite the string of rejections he had suffered. He was as affectionate with the rest of us as he had been when he worked at the factory, and my mom even reciprocated his passion.

While my father’s faith still burned white-hot, it was now at least confined to the burner of church and his prayers and the constant tutelage of my brothers, who were as enthusiastic as fans before a home game. But he was a little more tolerant of differing opinions on theological and other matters. The origin was probably his best friend David Salisbury, whose name I had always remembered by virtue of the steak that, he was quick to tell us, wasn’t named after him. I also remembered his son, Jacob, who, as far as I was concerned, was a ten year-old Fonz.

Mr. Salisbury had come over the week before for the poker games my dad hosted for his friends most Wednesdays. It was one of the few leisure rituals he kept despite his unemployment. Even us kids had a game night. While every night was a game night for my brothers, Jacob and I would Boggle all night long. Or at least until 9:30, when our guests would leave. The game nights had always been pleasant, and my mother and I were happy to see that my father was still socializing with people outside the church, which my mom constantly feared would choke off the circulation of reason that had always tempered his excess. He was sitting at the table with Mr. Salisbury (who brought pigs in a blanket), Phillip Andrews (who brought potato skins), and Luke Nelson (who brought chips and an artichoke dip), who he had all told about his new religion and who had all accepted it on the implied condition that he remain the tolerant, kind-hearted, and good-natured person he’d always been. The rest of the family watched joyfully; with the restrictions on media we had been subjected to, we were eager for entertainment.

My father’s lack of employment was no secret (although the situation did wreak havoc on his psyche and his confidence, which had made him susceptible to conversion in the first place), so possible solutions were often shared across the poker table (in fact, to the credit of his friends, in sympathy of the hard times we were in, they would gladly spot him).

That night, Mr. Salisbury, who my dad now admired for being the same religion as Jesus, made a momentous suggestion, “Tim, you ever considered approaching an employment agency? My cousin got a job as an administrative assistant for a law firm and after four weeks, they hired him on full-time!”

“But I don’t know anything about law, I was a factory worker!” my dad protested.

“Well, they have employment agencies for secretaries, salespeople, even lawyers; I wouldn’t be surprised if they have them for factory workers, too.” Mr. Salisbury, who owned a small business, encouraged. He continued, “Oh, three queens.”

“You know, Dave’s right,” Mr. Nelson agreed, “and I have a straight.”

“He is, my niece got a job as a wizard using a staffing agency…ppft, get it? But seriously, she did get her first job out of college using one,” Mr. Andrews said, “Oh, two high.”

“All right, I’ll give it a chance!” my dad said, “Ooh, hold on a minute.” He mumbled, stepping to the computer. He fiddled with it for a bit, then said resignedly, “Our Internet filter is kind of…blocking Google.” He continued, “Four of a kind…all of ‘em aces. Praise Jesus, He is in the cards!” He drew the chips to himself.

“You’d think he’d have a better place to be…like with a cancer patient or something…” Mr. Salisbury muttered, politely avoiding direct mention of my dad’s skill prior to his conversion, “But I anticipated this, so here’s the number,” he said, handing my dad a card with the contact information on it.

My dad called them first thing the next day and had a conference that afternoon. They sent him on a few unsuccessful interviews, but with their counseling and support, by the end of the week, he had procured himself a modest position that, even if it didn’t swell his coffers to bursting, it would at least swell his confidence to competence.

He came home Friday, and beamed, “I was hired by a non-profit agency called…” he looked at his contract, “The…Bates Foundation.” We sat to supper. It was taco night.

“That’s great!” my mother exclaimed as we built our sustenance from the banquet of toppings before us, “I’m so proud of you.” She sidled up to him adoringly, as if he were the only breadwinner. Indeed, to my mother, he was the only one that mattered. “So what will you be doing at your new post?”

“I’ll be an administrative assistant,” he boasted, taking a massive bite.

“I heard that’s just a secretary,” Eli said apathetically, focusing on a Mario game he was playing on his Nintendo DS, still bitter at the media purge.

“Ish not!” My father swallowed, “I’ll be…assisting with the administering of…stuff. Who told you that, anyway?” he demanded.

“Billy Gossip…a classmate,” my brother said, not even looking up.

“Yea? Does he have a job?” my dad demanded.

“He’s ten.”

“So, does he have a job?” my father reiterated.

“No…” Eli conceded.

“Then maybe he should just hush up,” my father sulked.

“Okay dear,” my mother interrupted, standing up, for the first time torn between her partner and her progeny. She fought the biological imperative to defend her children unconditionally and stood by her man, which, fortunately, also diffused the conflict with her son. “Okay, darling, let’s put you to bed so this evening can end as well as it started, okay?” she pleaded, escorting my father to their room.

That was the first time in my recollection that my father had gone to bed before me. I cried, confused and scared, blubbering and tugging at my mother’s dress as she came back into the dining room. I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. “Is…is daddy sick or something?” I inquired with eyes like lifesavers floating in pools of tears. I suspected I already knew the answer.

My mother paused for a silence that quickly moved past uncomfortable into the realm of torturous. “No, baby,” she laughed nervously, “of course he’s not!” she comforted, carefully avoiding eye contact.

I knew, even then, that she had lied.

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