Quiet Recognition

I know you think it isn’t a big deal when you get a phone call from the Secretary.

You know, we’ve--I remember coming up at a time when you could hear something unusual, and you would--You would write it off. It was a conspiracy. It sounds crazy. It is crazy. It’s crackpot. You sound like a crackpot. That’s how it was when I first moved here. We used to make fun of people who talked about watching what you say in public. Even people with high clearance. Even people working on--you know--projects that weren’t even verified. If they were in a booth at a restaurant--as long as the place was busy enough--they just talked. They didn’t--you know--watch their words. Why would they? It was mutual assured whatever whatever. Who’s going to rat you out for talking about a classified project? Everybody had a classified project. We were all just talking.

And--you know--if someone happened to be sitting nearby that, uh, worked for the press, or just--I don’t know--if it was someone, a citizen, who could potentially hear something they’re not supposed to? You just didn’t worry, because what would they be able to do with what they heard? Most of us could fly low back then. People know who the President is. They know who the Vice-President is. Maybe they know a Cabinet member. Maybe. They know who their favorite popstar is, sure, but they don’t know the people down the chain. It used to be that if I took out my phone and started talking about a top secret matter, I would, uh, parse some words, sure, but I wasn’t worried. I’m some guy sitting in a restaurant. Even if you’re a reporter, and you overhear me, what are you going to do with that? It’s some guy in a restaurant. He’s talking about something that sounds important. Okay. Okay? It’s not going to get you anywhere, right?

Then last month, I’m at my office, and I get a call. It’s the Secretary. Come see him. Be quick. I feel my gut shrink a little, but not much, because, you know, what could it be? The Secretary calls you in when you’ve messed up bad. The thing about me is, I don’t mess up, and I sure as hell don’t mess up bad. I go into the office, right away, like he said. He’s behind the desk. I’ve maybe been in this office four times in all the years I’ve worked here. You never want to be in that office. The only reason I was in it before was because someone else messed up bad, but I had a feeling that wasn’t what happened this time. I could tell from the tone of whatever lackey summoned me in. I sit down in this very expensive, but very uncomfortable chair. The Secretary licks his lips. He looks like he’s about to unhinge his jaw and swallow me whole like a damn cobra.

You got red on you.

Part of me thinks I should run. If you get red on you, there’s an eighty percent chance you’re going to be dead in the next five minutes. I don’t even know why I’m sitting there. I should be in the back of a van with a bag over my head. How did I get red on me? I don’t get red on me. I say that. I say--

Sir, with all due respect, I don’t get red on me.

That’s when he tells me about the software. Software we only heard about, but we thought it was only being used in-house. Government only, and even then--you know--very few people with access. Wrong. I was on the phone in my car. In my damn car. Sitting at a red light, I guess. Windows down. It was a beautiful day. Guy pulls up next to me. His window is down. He picks up his phone. Did I even see him? If I did, would I have thought anything of it? It’s just a guy with a phone. Probably texting. Probably telling his wife he’ll be home in an hour, and does she want him to pick up dinner? But see, he wasn’t texting. He was taking my photo. Because he heard what I was saying and it sounded interesting. He wanted to find out who I was.

Takes the photo. Uploads it with this software into this database. What comes up? My photo from when I was an intern. The last public photo of me--I thought. From when I worked on projects nobody cared about. Healthcare stuff. Public amenities type stuff. But see, they had more. From that photo, they have me at fundraisers. Political galas. They have me in the background at this Senator’s barbecue. They start getting pieces and then more pieces and then more. Then, they get me in the background at this concert, and who did I take to the concert?

The guy working for us who they think is working for them.

I won’t clarify the ‘us’ and ‘them,’ but I’m sure you can figure it out on your own. The Secretary tells me the only reason I’m still breathing is because this was a departmental failure at every level. Not knowing the software was accessible to the public. Not knowing it had this kind of scope. The guy who took the photo sent what he found out to a local newspaper, but we can bury it. We just have to give them something we’ve been holding onto until now. Something about the Vice-President’s son and how he enjoys going to houses of ill repute whenever he’s in Brazil.

The thing is--you know--we can’t let this happen again. So when I found out your photo popped up, because you were on your phone at a gas station, I felt bad. I really did. Because--you know--you should get the same grace that I got. You didn’t think talking at a gas station would be that big of a deal. The same way you must have thought the Secretary was calling to promote you, because you did such good work on the 407 Initiative. I sympathize. I really do. But you got that memo. You heard about being careful. Being overly careful. It’s a shame. It really is.

I don’t know why people can’t just mind their own business.

I don’t know why everybody can’t just hear something strange, think about it for a second, and then--you know--forget it.

If people did that, we’d all be better off.