The Things I Do for My Company

Every year, thousands of college graduates are ritually deflowered by the most ruthless, exacting and unforgiving corrupter of all: Corporate America. Some hold out as long as they can, putting off their passage through the gilded gates of careerdom with vacations, overseas excursions and in the worst cases, even more liberal arts schooling. But most are eventually compelled to heed the tolling of the iron bell and begin their slow indoctrination into corporate culture.

Last year I embarked on my own trek toward increased responsibility and gradual surrender of soul. Throughout the past 15 months, I've learned to "manage client expectations," "keep my boss' powder dry" and throw around phrases like "value-added" and "touch base" with relative ease. And to be honest, I was fairly proud of these accomplishments in a world for which my talents seemed ill-suited and my mentality mismatched. Proud, that is, until three nights ago, when the trade-off for this "success" became frighteningly clear: Getting a real job has ruined my enjoyment of James Bond movies.

This sad story, like so many these days, begins in front of a television. I was thoroughly enjoying You Only Live Twice, a movie whose reliance on the concept of suspension of disbelief is roughly on the same scale as an automobile's reliance on gasoline. After all, the film features:

• A bullet-shaped spacecraft, designed and manufactured by an international espionage ring, that when launched in concert with a manned U.S. or Soviet space capsule, not only overtakes and literally swallows the other craft but also returns to earth undetected for an upright, dry-ground landing inside a fake crater in Japan.
• James Bond destroying four machine-gun-toting attack helicopters with a vehicle that closely resembles a kayak with a model airplane propeller. To its credit, the flying kayak is outfitted with a precision flame thrower, its own machine guns (apparently with properly trained sights, as opposed to those of Bond's attackers) and four (count 'em, four) heat-seeking missiles.
• Bond kicking the crap out of no less than 20 thugs in one extended chase sequence. Luckily for 007, the Far Eastern notion of one-at-a-time assault was strictly adhered to by this particular gang of dock workers.
• Bond having sex with two different women within hours of meeting each of them (one of which has been assigned to kill him) and groping a third while sputtering lines like "Oh, the things I do for England."
• Bond wearing eye makeup, sporting a wig and uttering "Konichiwa" intermittently in a thick Scottish brogue in an attempt to appear Japanese, training to become a full-fledged ninja (which takes him all of three days, or two minutes for the viewer) and then going undercover in a small fishing village (motto: tall Scottish strangers welcome).

All of this was coming together quite nicely in my opinion until the final climatic scene. As Bond was scaling down the inside of the crater housing S.P.E.C.T.R.E.'s secret lair, I noticed that all of S.P.E.C.T.R.E.'s goons were scurrying about the facility in matching red jumpsuits. Suddenly, twenty years of 007 viewing pleasure was wiped out by one simple, seemingly harmless question: Where did they get the jumpsuits? I didn't know. And thanks to my recent "real life" training, I automatically began to explore the issue and its possible logistical implications. Were the jumpsuits put together by somebody in-house? Or did S.P.E.C.T.R.E. get a sweet deal from some distributor? Maybe they had a few firms come in to model them. Maybe red won out over chartreuse and mauve. I can just hear the presentation: "These striking red suits cut a bold figure. And they're made of a poly-cotton fabric that stands up to the most spirited tussles, all the while keeping the wearer calm and cool, even when the detonator's inside single digits. Notice the reinforced knees and elbows. It's got extra room in the seat, and the pockets are just cavernous!"

These innocent observations (not the plot holes and ridiculous special efffects) began to erode the movie's credibility with stunning swiftness, and in turn spurred other questions as well. Like where did S.P.E.C.T.R.E. get its logo? Who designed that? Maybe someone in the organization had a designer in the family: "Yeah, Andy, how's it going? Hey I've got some work for you, if you're interested. We're starting this international espionage and extortion ring aimed at world domination. Yeah, it does sound cool doesn't it? Anyway, we need a logo. I'm thinking of something that's menacing, evil and fresh. It' s got to be fresh. Yeah, a laughing skull sounds cool, but I don't know if it says the right things about what we're trying to accomplish."

S.P.E.C.T.R.E.'s personnel recruitment and management is yet another gray area. I mean, who hired all of these people? And were did they find them? From the agents to the accountants, and on down through the custodians and the truck-washers, they all had to come from somewhere. Which leads me to believe that S.P.E.C.T.R.E. must have one hell of a human resources and recruiting department. In fact, it's probably composed of all the good-looking women who couldn't pass the agent test. They take care of the recruiting -- hitting the best political prisons, checking the exile wire, wining and dining disgruntled CIA and Secret Service agents, and of course smiling and glad-handing at the obligatory college career fairs. And when prospects are slim, they take to the classifieds.

Calling All Misanthropes!

Tired of law and order? Looking for something more than the
usual 9 to 5? Try international espionage! If you hate all that's
good about humanity and long to see it cower under the force of
terror and oppression, plus have skills with firearms, explosives,
and PowerPoint, we've got a job for you! Get in on the ground floor.

We offer:

• Travel
• Advancement possibilities
• Competitve salary
• Great benefits

Who knows? Maybe Jaws, the seven-foot metal-mouthed goon, started his S.P.E.C.T.R.E. career as a walk-in. At first they probably just handed him a jumpsuit and a broom and said, "Here you go, Big Man, knock yourself out." And he probably proved a competent janitor at first, keeping fresh cakes in the urinals and responding quickly to vomit calls from the cafeteria with oil-dry and a mop. But then maybe he handled himself well in a couple of intelligence raids. Or maybe he just caught someone's eye with the glint off his teeth. With this big break in hand, he began to slowly work his way up the ranks, until finally, by the time Moore took over for Connery, he was ready for the big-time.

And once you've "joined the S.P.E.C.T.R.E. team," or "come on board," what exactly is the pay and benefits package? Do agents get 10 percent of any funds that they are instrumental in extorting? Or do they get stock options? Maybe there's a Christmas bonus for confirmed kills. And for the grizzled veterans, maybe a 401(k)? Worker's comp probably leaves something to be desired, though, as the only settlement is that of your shredded carcass at the bottom of a pool of piranhas.

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