Sort of Backstory!
Hayes tells his parents about his recruitment. Or tries to, anyway. Warning for lack of any actual point. Also confusing writing, for Sares is of the inept.
Hayes would wonder afterwards why he hadn’t told them over the phone, preferably in a message on the answering machine. Or, at the very least, why he hadn’t chosen a time when Aunt Elizabeth was not visiting. It might have gone more smoothly. Possibly. Very improbably. But the possibility was there.
As it was, he found himself forced to announce the news while sitting on the living room couch, doing his best to ignore his seatmate’s incessant fidgeting.
At a suitable point in the conversation, he coughed and said, “I’ve got a job.”
“Fine,” said his father.
“Good. Just so long as you can manage your time,” said his mother.
“No,” said Hayes, squirming uncomfortably. “You don’t it get it. I’ve got a job, full time--“
“You’re dropping out of school?”
Hayes wondered if it wasn’t too late to make a hasty retreat out the back door. “Well, yeah, sort of, it’s complicated--“
His father cut him off before he could continue. “What sort of job?”
“Well, um, it’s called T.H.E.Y.--“
“They who?” his aunt asked.
“No, T.H.E.Y, t-h-e-y.”
“I know how it’s spelled,” said Aunt Elizabeth, giving him a Look that, in his younger years, had sent him sprinting into the next room in fear. Now Hayes had to settle for practically scooting back into the sofa.
“It’s an acronym,” he said, rather proud to find he wasn’t squeaking.
“What’s it stand for?”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“Don’t know? How can you not know who hired you?”
“CIA,” Matthew declared solemnly from his seat next to Hayes. “Clarence’s got a job with the CIA.”
“I’m not working for the CIA!”
“Or the FBI,” said Nick.
“Nah, has to be CIA. It’s why he’s being all secretive and stuff.”
“Come on, he can’t be CIA!”
“Why not?” Matt asked, evidently offended at having his theory challenged.
“Clarence can’t wear suits.”
Hayes bristled indignantly. “What do you mean I can’t wear suits?”
“Point,” said Matt, ignoring him.
“He looks like an idiot,” said Nick.
“Same in sunglasses.”
“But he might be a special operative. Maybe they don’t all need to wear suits.”
“What?” Hayes said, wondering how thirteen and eleven year old cousins could possibly be getting the better of him.
“Is it really the CIA, Clarence?” his mother asked, rescuing him from adolescent terror, but dropping him right back into a parental interrogation. He winced.
“No!”
“He wouldn’t say if it was!” Nick called out gleefully.
“Shut up.”
“Clarence!”
“Sorry, Aunt Elizabeth.”
“They came by recruiting, didn’t they?” said his father.
“No,” Hayes repeated, “the CIA didn’t. T.H.E.Y. did-“
“Who’s they?”
“I said. It’s an acronym!”
“And what does this job entail?” his father asked.
“Going… places. Peacekeeping stuff. Er.”
“CIA,” his father said again, with the air of one daring anyone else to disagree. “But your cover story’s bull, Clarence.”
“It might not be a cover story,” said his mother gently.
“I’m telling you, he’s been recruited by the CIA! Why else all this secrecy?”
“We haven’t really given him a chance to explain.”
“Then what’s he really talking about? Eh?”
“You still don’t have to jump to conclusions.”
Hayes opened his mouth to argue some more, stopped to watch his parents, joined soon by Aunt Elizabeth, debate whether or not he was working for Central Intelligence Agency, and if not what other clandestine organisation had forced him to join up, and shut it again. There were some battles one had to admit were lost from the outset.
He relaxed, laying his head back against the top of the couch, and stared at the ceiling, smiling slightly. His family, he decided, was hopeless.
Someone poked him in the ribs. He looked down.
“Will you show me your gun? Once you get one?”
Hayes, who had never touched a firearm, and rather feared the results if he ever were to, sighed. “Sure, Matt. If I’m not too busy with all my secret agent stuff, okay?”
END
Hayes would wonder afterwards why he hadn’t told them over the phone, preferably in a message on the answering machine. Or, at the very least, why he hadn’t chosen a time when Aunt Elizabeth was not visiting. It might have gone more smoothly. Possibly. Very improbably. But the possibility was there.
As it was, he found himself forced to announce the news while sitting on the living room couch, doing his best to ignore his seatmate’s incessant fidgeting.
At a suitable point in the conversation, he coughed and said, “I’ve got a job.”
“Fine,” said his father.
“Good. Just so long as you can manage your time,” said his mother.
“No,” said Hayes, squirming uncomfortably. “You don’t it get it. I’ve got a job, full time--“
“You’re dropping out of school?”
Hayes wondered if it wasn’t too late to make a hasty retreat out the back door. “Well, yeah, sort of, it’s complicated--“
His father cut him off before he could continue. “What sort of job?”
“Well, um, it’s called T.H.E.Y.--“
“They who?” his aunt asked.
“No, T.H.E.Y, t-h-e-y.”
“I know how it’s spelled,” said Aunt Elizabeth, giving him a Look that, in his younger years, had sent him sprinting into the next room in fear. Now Hayes had to settle for practically scooting back into the sofa.
“It’s an acronym,” he said, rather proud to find he wasn’t squeaking.
“What’s it stand for?”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“Don’t know? How can you not know who hired you?”
“CIA,” Matthew declared solemnly from his seat next to Hayes. “Clarence’s got a job with the CIA.”
“I’m not working for the CIA!”
“Or the FBI,” said Nick.
“Nah, has to be CIA. It’s why he’s being all secretive and stuff.”
“Come on, he can’t be CIA!”
“Why not?” Matt asked, evidently offended at having his theory challenged.
“Clarence can’t wear suits.”
Hayes bristled indignantly. “What do you mean I can’t wear suits?”
“Point,” said Matt, ignoring him.
“He looks like an idiot,” said Nick.
“Same in sunglasses.”
“But he might be a special operative. Maybe they don’t all need to wear suits.”
“What?” Hayes said, wondering how thirteen and eleven year old cousins could possibly be getting the better of him.
“Is it really the CIA, Clarence?” his mother asked, rescuing him from adolescent terror, but dropping him right back into a parental interrogation. He winced.
“No!”
“He wouldn’t say if it was!” Nick called out gleefully.
“Shut up.”
“Clarence!”
“Sorry, Aunt Elizabeth.”
“They came by recruiting, didn’t they?” said his father.
“No,” Hayes repeated, “the CIA didn’t. T.H.E.Y. did-“
“Who’s they?”
“I said. It’s an acronym!”
“And what does this job entail?” his father asked.
“Going… places. Peacekeeping stuff. Er.”
“CIA,” his father said again, with the air of one daring anyone else to disagree. “But your cover story’s bull, Clarence.”
“It might not be a cover story,” said his mother gently.
“I’m telling you, he’s been recruited by the CIA! Why else all this secrecy?”
“We haven’t really given him a chance to explain.”
“Then what’s he really talking about? Eh?”
“You still don’t have to jump to conclusions.”
Hayes opened his mouth to argue some more, stopped to watch his parents, joined soon by Aunt Elizabeth, debate whether or not he was working for Central Intelligence Agency, and if not what other clandestine organisation had forced him to join up, and shut it again. There were some battles one had to admit were lost from the outset.
He relaxed, laying his head back against the top of the couch, and stared at the ceiling, smiling slightly. His family, he decided, was hopeless.
Someone poked him in the ribs. He looked down.
“Will you show me your gun? Once you get one?”
Hayes, who had never touched a firearm, and rather feared the results if he ever were to, sighed. “Sure, Matt. If I’m not too busy with all my secret agent stuff, okay?”
END