Circles of Confusion (7 page)

On the way to her desk, Claire passed a homemade sign on purple poster hoard that was taped to the wall. In wobbly lines of gold sparkles it spelled out You did it!!! The triple exclamation points particularly grated on Claire. She could imagine Roland, the tip of his tongue protruding between his crowded teeth, as he struggled to keep the three lines of Elmer's glue parallel to each other. The poster celebrated the month of September, when they had managed to meet their "quality target" for issuing vanity license plates within a certain number of days after the application was filed. Roland and Ed, who was the manager for the entire division, never did any of the actual work involved in issuing license plates themselves. Instead Ed went to a number of "meetings" (most of which the office had long ago discerned took place in his parked car, where his only company was a paper-bagged bottle from his glove compartment). And Roland spent his hours devising a series of "motivational tools" for his staff of three. Hence the poster.

Despite management inefficiency, their little section was a lucrative one. For a fee, Oregon motorists could order license plates containing their chosen word or phrase, up to seven digits. People were vain, but that vanity brought in a lot of money for the state. There were 78,988 vanity plates on Oregon vehicles, each of which had cost $45 initially and then $30 a year to keep.

Most requests for personalized plates were for a person's hobby, occupation or first name. Others were more creative. That was where the problems began. People were always trying to slip something past you.

It was Claire and her co-workers' job to approve or deny the applications, deciding if words were obscene or otherwise objectionable. Their tools were a set of dictionaries (including specialized ones for slang and obscenities), the bathroom mirror, a good eye for vulgar and otherwise offensive words, and a Rolodex. The Rolodex held the numbers of various people who knew specialized slang, like the doctor who could advise them if a proposal was an obscure word for a certain body part.

Doing this job required a dirty mind and a big vocabulary. In ten years, Claire had learned how to say "fuck" in thirty-eight different languages. When she first started, the process had seemed interesting. Claire knew a little bit about everything, which meant she caught on to the hidden reasons behind plate requests faster than anyone else. Unfortunately, most people weren't very clever. Take the request that was waiting on top of her in-basket: COWPOO. The applicant had tried to justify this witticism by claiming he was a cowboy.

First stop for any new application was the "Vulgar List" of several hundred forbidden words, phrases or alphanumeric combinations. Each had either been rejected outright or recalled after a citizen complained to the department and a second look determined that a word or phrase was offensive.

In addition to the obvious no-no's, the Vulgar List included "ethnic" words, if they referred to a definable class of persons and ridiculed or supported superiority of that class. A few years before, it had taken Claire several hours to decide if VIKING counted as an ethnic word. She finally approved it. GOD was on the list because it had been deemed a bit sacrilegious. But there were always gray areas. The whole task of rejecting or accepting these messages involved detecting perceptual crime, a difficult area for the government to regulate. No bathroom vocabulary was allowed—but what about PP DR for a urologist? Claire had been inclined to allow it, but had been overruled by Roland.

COWPOO, however, was an easy call. Claire stamped rejected on the form and tossed it in her out-box. The next applicant wanted BUNDY, the last name of the Northwest's notorious serial killer. Rejected. GETNAKD. Get real. What did people think the department was going to do? There were kids out there learning to read by looking at these plates, and older people who didn't have a sense of humor about some of this stuff. The next applicant wanted RESQ ME. On the optional explanation lines, the applicant had written that he was a fireman, which made the plate even more appropriate. After checking it out to make sure it didn't contain any hidden messages, Claire stamped Approved on it and tossed it in her out- basket.

The year before, a woman had appealed for the right to use a feline nickname on her set of plates. She had even sent a photograph of her car—a Mercury Lynx adorned with cat decals and with stuffed kitty toys in the back window. A nervously giggling Roland and a blase Ed had finally approved the plate, with the result that the state of Oregon now had a PUSSY roaming the roads.

Claire spent the first part of the morning approving DEVORSD, SWMR, and IMHERE, plus applications from two people requesting their first names who were lucky enough that they weren't already taken. Then she came upon a more problematic request.

"Frank?" she called over the gray burlap cubicle wall. To stay on Frank's good side, Claire made it a point to occasionally ask for his advice. "What do you think I should do with 'Y-R-U-F-A-T?'" Too late, she realized how it might sound to him.

She heard his sigh and the squeak of a chair being pushed back, and then his slow footsteps around the corner. Finally he appeared at the entrance to her cubicle, nearly eye to eye with Claire although she was still sitting. As if to make up for his height, Frank had gradually gained weight over the years they had worked together, until now he was nearly square.

"Here's what you should do, Claire." Frank, like a used car salesman, tended to insert his listener's name frequently into any conversation. "Deny it."

Even though that was exactly what she had planned to do, Claire felt herself rebelling. "On what grounds? It's not on the Vulgar List."

Frank shrugged, considering the case already closed. "So what? Claire, if we approve it, then chances are someone will complain, it will be yanked, and in six months YRUFAT will be on the Vulgar List anyway."

"Maybe I'll talk to Roland," Claire said, not intending to do any such thing.

"Maybe there's no need to talk to Roland." Frank gave her a knowing smirk.

"Why not?"

"Maybe pretty soon there won't be any Roland to talk to."

"What do you mean? He's leaving?" Claire felt a lightening in her bones, No more arm around the shoulder in the guise of "team- building." No more clumsy comments about her hair or clothes, no more looks that lingered on her legs.

"Not exactly. I hear he's being kicked upstairs."

"Promoted? Are you serious?"

Frank nodded, his expression managing to convey both the smugness of an insider's knowledge and a patronizing amazement that Claire was out of the loop.

"Promoted to what?"

"I heard they were letting Ed retire on disability. Roland's got the experience to replace him."

"Experience? How can you say that? He's twenty-five and he's only been here two years. The only reason we have a Roland is that the state believes people can't make decisions on their own. What does he do all day besides stay in his office coloring and sprinkling sparkle? It's like being managed by a first grader who somehow acquired a college degree."

Frank had folded his arms during this outburst, his expression unreadable. Now he said, "I've never said this before, Claire, but I think those charts add a lot of value. It's like Roland has helped us all to know where we are going and what vehicles we need to get there."

Too late, Claire saw which way the wind was blowing. "Who do you think they'll replace Roland with?"

"You have to admit it's a fantastic opportunity for the right person."

There was no question as to who Frank saw as the right person. "If that's what you want, you should go for it." Might as well stay on the good side of the man who would probably be her new boss. Claire switched the subject to buy herself time to think. "Um, did you have a good weekend?"

"It was great. Liz and I have decided to make it permanent."

Liz was Frank's longtime girlfriend, just as short and pale as he was, although she was thin and also very quiet. Over the years, Claire had seen her at a variety of strained staff picnics and Christmas parties. Each time the woman had done nothing but mumble hello while keeping her eyes downcast.

"Congratulations! When are you two getting married?"

"Married?" Frank echoed incredulously. "We're getting tattooed. That's the only thing that's really permanent."

2RU LUV, Claire thought, making a mental note to tell Lori at break time.

The fifteen-minute midmorning coffee break was religiously observed by everyone who worked for the state. Managers stayed in their offices, while the rank and file drank stale coffee in the glow of the break room's vending machines. Today, Claire and Lori traded sections of the Oregonian while Frank sat at a table in the far corner of the room, reading a science fiction paperback and eating an overripe banana, the same snack he had had every day for the last ten years. Claire felt a little guilty taking a break when she planned to pad her lunch hour, but if she didn't take one everyone would notice and ask her about it.

"Hey, Lor, weren't you supposed to go to the doctor this morning to see what was wrong with your stomach? What did he say?"

"Oh, yeah, that was real useful," Lori said, resting her hand on her abdomen, which was perfectly flat even when she was sitting down. Her hair hung down in two dark wings, a contrast to last week's bleached blond Madonna look. Every so often, boom, Lori was a brunette. Or she came to work a redhead. Claire had no idea what her natural color was. Lori continued, "No wonder my stomach hurts. According to this booklet the doctor gave me, my digestive system is run by tiny cartoon elves."

"Elves?"

"And they've got it in for me. The booklet has illustrations that show how these elves can turn the wheels so everything goes faster or instead go on strike so nothing works at all. I guess mine are evil elves."

Claire had a quick image of Lori's insides populated by elves that looked like the Snap! Crackle! Pop! trio, only with their smiles replaced by sneers.

"My stomach's not doing so hot today, either. Just the thought of seeing Mr."—Claire pitched her voice soft and high—"Mr. 'Maximize the Output So We Can All Avoid Redundancy' this afternoon makes me feel queasy." She was good at mimicry, but Roland's prissy way of equally accenting every syllable made it easy. She tapped the front of the Metro section. "Do you think there's something wrong with Portland? All the local stories are about sex. Here's a guy, this social worker, who had sex with a thirteen-year-old client. His defense is that it was her idea. And this story here says the city's prostitution-free zones are just pushing it out into the suburbs. And here's a school superintendent who got fired for using school money to buy pornography."

Lori leaned over to read out loud. "Including videos entitled The Adventures of See More, Virtual Vixens, and Mom, Sis and Spot." She grinned. "That one should be a question on Jeopardy! 'What X-rated video violates at least three sexual taboos in its four-word title?' 'Alex, what is Mom, Sis and Spot?"

A disapproving sigh came from Frank's corner, which they both ignored.

Claire pointed to a story below the fold, next to an ad for bargain fares to New York City. "At least this one isn't about sex. Animal Rights Activists Demonstrate Against the Wienermobile."

"The Wienermobile?"

"You know, that car that looks like a giant hot dog in a bun? They were holding auditions at the Coliseum for a new kid to sing the Oscar Meyer wiener song in the next commercial." Claire read aloud from the article. "A costumed 'pig' and a companion 'butcher' greeted the Wienermobile to protest what People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals called 'cruel intensive pig farming.' But Oscar Meyer representatives were on hand to give the youngsters a 'warm wiener welcome.'"

'"Warm wiener welcome?'" Lori raised one eyebrow. "Are you certain that story isn't about sex? When I was in college, all the guys were hoping to give you a warm wiener welcome." She turned to the comics. "Oh, I clean forgot to ask you. Did you find anything interesting in your aunt's trailer this weekend?"

"Most of it was junk. There was a little painting I liked a lot, though. And my aunt's diary of when she was in Munich after the war."

Lori perked up. "A diary? Really? That's cool."

Claire had impulsively tucked the diary in her backpack while she was getting ready for work, and she pulled it out to show Lori.

She flipped it open at random. A fusty smell rose from the pages, which were etched with a delicate filigree of blue-green mold. Claire read aloud.

***

May 27, 1945

Rudy [that was her boyfriend] gave me the most beautiful inlaid bracelet today. It's a silver cuff etched with flowers. At the center of each flower is a blue stone that he says is lapis lazuli. He traded a pair of boots with a DP for it.

We got in an argument, though. I said I didn't know if it was right to take advantage of someone who had nothing.

"Do you know what a DP is? Was?" Lori shrugged.

Claire looked over at where Frank sat, still engrossed in a battle between the mutants and the humans on the planet Zorgan. "Frank, aren't you a World War D buff?"

He spoke without looking up from his book. "Troop movements, battles. I've re-created the battle of Arnhem in my basement."

"What?" Claire was beginning to lose track of the question she wanted to ask.