I showed up the next day and set my bags on the floor next to my chair. Then I started a tape on each recorder, pressed record, and got a cup of tea from the kitchen. When I got back, one machine was on 3:00, and the second was on 3:23. I put a CD into the player, put on my headphones and pressed play. Then I picked up the newspaper and started reading the story in the top right. After two minutes, I removed the teabag and threw it away. The CD played. I read another newspaper story, and during it I stopped first one DVD player, then the other, and set up two new tapes. The CD played, and I read. Laura tapped me on the shoulder and said something to me, then I put the headphones back on and continued listening to music. I read another story.

Then I heard my name called over the intercom. It was time to meet the G-man.

I stopped the CD, put down the newspaper, and asked Laura to watch my clips. She took my seat, and I walked down the hall and turned toward the front desk, past a row of offices where stuffed shirts yell into phones all day. When I got to the reception area, I saw a tired-looking man with close-cut hair, wearing a full suit and a badge with his picture on it. "Mr. Green?" he said. "I'm Greg Delitros." It was the same voice from the phone. I scanned his face, and thought he looked about thirty-five, with something of a gee-whiz, guys, I'm an investigator! attitude. "Can we use this room? It won't take an hour," he said to the receptionist.

"Go right ahead," she said, and smiled. I looked to her for support, as though she could protect me from this weirdness, but she is Marie, the receptionist, and she had already turned her head down and was engrossed in her computer screen, unaware of my existence.

The investigator and I walked into the conference room, and I sat down in the middle chair in the row facing the entrance. He turned on the lights and shut the door behind him, and then sat down across from me. "I'm going to interview you as part of your investigation before you're granted clearance. It's a normal part of the process, so don't worry." He sounded like he was already reading from a script, but also as though the task really excited him. "Before we begin, do you have any questions? Once I start, I'll have to write down anything you say. I'm so used to these things now that I forget sometimes that you're probably a bit nervous. I always try to think of how I felt when I was first interviewed. So, do you have any questions?"

"Well, first, who do you work for, again?"

"Ah, of course. I'm with the Office of Personnel Management. I was going to show ID when we started." He flashed his badge, too quickly for me to examine it.

"OK, the OPM. And, I was never sure what end result would be. It's for a contracting position, and they told me it was some sort of contractor's clearance. You said it was for security clearance?"

"Yes. It's a national security investigation before you're granted security clearance."

"So, actual secuirty clearance? Does it transfer to any job? Like, if I apply to jobs with the federal government, I could say I have security clearance?"

"That's right. Do you have any other questions? I know you said that you're not interested in the job any more, but once the process has started, it has to continue. I checked with your company, and they said that they had requested it. It's being paid for by the taxpayers, so you might as well take advantage of it. Okay. So you don't have any more questions? Let's begin. I'll try to make it quick, so you can get back to work. So, first, do you have ID?"

I showed him my driver's liscence. "OK, good." He glanced at it, and wrote the number down. Then he peered at the form sitting in front of him and said, "So you work for Nancy Adams Personnel? From oh nine oh five to the present?" He spoke quite quickly and formally, and asked the questions like television investigators conducting a lie detector test; somehow his tone and body language implyed disbelief and even mild scorn.

"Yes. At this job site, Quality Associates." He wrote down simply "yes". "And, does anyone here have reason to question your integrity?" I wasn't sure what that meant, but I said no. He wrote down "no". "Do you work with any state secrets, or any matters involving national security?" "No." "Do you discuss matters of national security with anyone at work?" "No." "And your supervisor is Laura Paul? And is she here?" "Yes." "Good. Okay. And the phone number, 443-525-9684?" "I don't . . . is that the number I put down? Then I guess it's right." "Okay. Moving right along. From nine oh three to five oh five you worked at the Meem Library? And did anyone there have any reason to question your integrity?"

This went on for several minutes, with these same questions about every job I have had. At one point, he said, "you look a bit distracted. Are you alright?"

"Yes," I told him, "I'm just trying to follow all the numbers."

He put his pen down and said, "it's ok if it's even, say, four months off. As long as the year is correct, really. So you don't have to worry about that."

"OK."

"So, from four oh oh to nine . . ." When he was done with jobs, he moved on to placed I'd lived. "613 Genessee Street, Annapolis, MD, 21401. You lived there from five oh two to seven oh two."

"Yes."

"While there, did you have any contact, personal or formal, with any foreign nationals?"

I goggled at that a bit, but said, "no." What is a foreign national, anyway? Anyone who isn't a U.S. citizen? Because, well, yeah, of course I had contact with foreign nationals. Everyone does. But, well, contact? I mean, Amanda's boss at the Fashnique had immigrated from India, and I spoke to her a few times. Was that contact? I didn't really care, so I answered "no" each time. "What were you doing there? I assume you were going to Anne Arrundel Community College?"

"No, to St. John's College."

". . ."

"Isn't that on the form?"

"I haven't heard of it." He looked. "Ah, yes, St. John's College, Santa Fe and Annapolis. So they're conjoined campuses?"

That made me think of siamese twins. "Sister campuses, yes."

"Okay."

When he got to Los Angeles, he asked who I lived with, and I told him I was living with my then-girlfriend. He asked for her name and wrote it down. Then he said, "Could anyone blackmail you becauese you lived with a girl outside of wedlock?"

"No."

"While at this address, did you have any contact, personal or formal, any kind of contact, I don't care, with any foreign nationals?"

I spoke to an Armenian dude while Tiffany was waiting in line to pay a fine in traffic court. Does that count? I said, "no."

"Good. OK." After all the addresses were done, he asked me for the names of people whom I see at least once a month, and I named Scott, Jess and Anne. He wrote your names down, but didn't ask for addresses or phone numbers. They're on his forms, of course, but he didn't know that, as far as I can tell. "Finally, if I ask around about you, no one's going to say, 'Ah, Mr. Green, yes, I get drunk with him all the time?'" "No." "Or, 'Yeah, he just bought some crack off me last week!' It's okay to smile, I'm only joking."

"I guess I've had a boring life."

"Not boring, just by the book." Then he thanked me and shook my hand, and he left. I went back to my chair, put on my headphones, pressed play, recorded more tapes, and read the newspaper until my ten o'clock break. Then I slipped across the Syrian border to discuss matters of national security with foreign nationals.