No Beast So Fierce by Edward Bunker

the armed services.”
    I shook my head.
    â€œWhat did you do?”
    â€œI was in prison.”
    She was looking down. Her eyes flashed up in surprise. Her pink lips formed an astonished O, and her eyes looked at me rather than through me. I stared into them and she blushed. They were dark blue eyes, with tiny coronas of gray around the iris. She averted them quickly. She pursed her mouth. Her long fingernails tapped a rhythm on the form.
    â€œI need a job pretty bad,” I said, gratified that I’d become a person to her. Superficially I’d told her the truth in order to comply with Rosenthal’s rules, but a deeper need was to elicit precisely this response—this acknowledgment of some identity.
    â€œWell, I guess we can leave it blank,” she said, looking up with a sincerely warm smile. “We’ll get you some work, don’t worry. Do you have a telephone?”
    â€œYes, but I don’t have the number with me.”
    â€œCall in and leave it with me. I’ll call you a day in advance and tell you where to go. What about transportation?”
    â€œI have a car I can borrow,” I lied, sensing that it would open more jobs to have transportation.
    â€œThat does help,” she said, marking the form. “Well, this is Thursday. Tomorrow and Saturday we usually get calls for the following week. I’ll keep your name right here on top of my desk and you should hear from me over the weekend.” She went on, “I don’t mean to be personal, but … what, why were you? …”
    What crime might sound other than a crime? Now she saw me as a sufferer, but if I aroused the wrong image she would see me as a perpetrator. Compassion would turn to horror if the truth were known.
    â€œI … had some marijuana.”
    â€œ That long for that?” She was incredulous.
    â€œThis is California. There was a public panic about marijuana.” My lie could have been the truth. A jazz musician I knew had served ten years for possessing a speck of marijuana so small that it had to be placed in a jar of clear oil and floated so the jury could see it.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
    I muttered something unintelligible, ducking conversation. Other employees were beginning to filter back from lunch. The girl gave me her business card. Her name was Olga Sorenson.
    While riding down the elevator, I felt as if an actual physical weight had been diminished. The work would be too trivial sooner or later, but for now it was a lifesaver.
    Wilshire Boulevard shimmered in heat bounding off glass and concrete. The asphalt radiated heat waves, and the sidewalk burned through the soles of my shoes. My eyes ached in the harsh glare. A clock read 12:20. At 2:00 another possible employer was holding interviews for salesmen on the sixth floor of a Hollywood hotel. It was half an hour away by bus, which left me an hour to kill.
    Hancock Park was nearby. I decided to rest on the grass for a few minutes and tour the county art museum, which was in the park. Sweat was running down my back as I found a shady spot beneath a tree and sat down. My shirt collar was wet and limp. The cheap suit had gone shapeless and would have to be cleaned and pressed during the weekend. My feet throbbed. Removing my shoes, I found that the heel blisters had burst. The flesh was raw. New blisters had formed along the ball and big toe. It was ironic. I’d anticipated all kinds of problems on getting out, but not blistered feet. And they were crippling me. The art museum was out of the question. Art can hardly be appreciated with pulsing blisters.
    In the distance I could see the hills above the Sunset Strip, a short bus ride away. The idea came that I could go there, look up someone I knew, and get some money from them. They would feel obliged, if not on their own initiative, then on urgings with implied threats from me.
    I sat a few more minutes,