Trouble Man

"Get me Marcus Betts!"

The plea sounded like a command to Marcus Betts even if it wasn't. He shuffled his feet in place with his hands stuffed inside the pockets of his black nylon jacket, wondering if he was in trouble. He just spent $80 on these orthopedic black sneakers. You need good shoes in a job like this.

"He said that? He said my name? I didn't even think he knew my name."

"Those were his exact words. He wants you, Marcus. He asked for personally. Can you believe it? Isn't it exciting?" The idea certainly was exciting to Marcus's supervisor, the overeager-to-please Vince Graves, who saw whole new worlds of professional possibility opening up in the entertainment business because of it.

Unfortunately, the idea wasn't all that exciting to Marcus Betts himself, who didn't see what the big deal was and why the Singer wanted him and him specifically. Marcus was a fifty-five-year-old security guard, and he wasn't even an armed security guard. Marcus was the type of security guard that was a distracting presence, a human speed bump, a body posted outside a residence or office building to let everyone know that someone was at least watching what was going on around the place. This wasn't a specialized position. Marcus wasn't fighting any real crime. The only thing he had to defend himself was the cell phone that would call 911. It wasn't even a good cell phone.

"Get someone else to do this," Marcus said, firm. "He's trouble, man."

"He doesn't want anyone else. He wants you."

"Me? Why does he want me?"

The Singer could have anyone or anything he wanted. Marcus called him the Singer because that's how he separated out his different jobs. Over the years he'd worked for the Banker, The Sports Guy, The Restaurant Owner, the CEO, and the Record Company Guy before coming to work for The Singer. Marcus didn't know the particulars of the jobs these people had and quite frankly, Marcus didn't care. It didn't matter what the people whose homes and businesses he watched over did for a living. They could have been the fry cooks at McDonald's. He got paid the same money no matter what they did. That indifference was a big part of Marcus's appeal.

"He likes you, Marcus."

"Well, I don't like him. I don't like the way he treats people. I told him that, too. All the money in the world don't buy you manners and class."

Vince was mortified. "You said that to him?"

"Nobody else would," Marcus replied.

The thought sent shivers down Vince's spine. If he could get things right with the Singer, it would lead to the kind of high-profile entertainment jobs he craved and would bring his business into the big time. That's how things worked in this town. Once they see you working for someone, then everyone wants to work with you. But you only get one shot, and you better get it right the first time. Marcus's attitude wasn't helping.

"I need you to go back," Vince told Marcus.

"Give me another post," Marcus answered. "I don't want that one."

"There are no other posts, Marcus," Vince said. "This is the post. You don't take this job, I'm out of business, do you understand that? Just talk to him. Sort things out, and I'll see what I can do for you on my end." It was a promise Vince had made before, but only because Vince knew he had leverage. He knew that Marcus didn't want to change companies again this late in life, where he'd lose all his seniority and have to start over at a lower salary than people who were thirty years younger than him.

"What if I still don't like it?" Marcus asked.

"If you still don't like it, then don't take the job," Vince answered. He didn't say it out loud, but there was something underneath what Vince said it that made Marcus believe that if he didn't like it, he wasn't going to have a job much longer.