The ineluctable workings of economic law once deposited Hal on the doorstep of a bottled water distributor in Alhambra, a smog-choked and land-locked city in the San Gabriel Valley that shares borders with South Pasadena, San Marino, and San Gabriel, a blighted landscape of strip malls, outlet stores, dull housing tracts, new car and RV dealerships, and liberal arts colleges.

In the waiting room, along with about ten other hungry-looking applicants, Hal filled out the application for delivery driver. He was informed by his “intake counselor” that he would be schooled for six weeks as an apprentice, with full pay, while he learned how to drive the monster truck, carry the 100-pound bottles of water without ending up on Disability within a week, collect payments from deadbeat customers while still remaining a nice guy, and complete billing paperwork to Accounting’s satisfaction. It all seemed so complex for such a simple job, Hal thought as he turned his application in, but he had yet to meet Mr. Greer.

“Listen up!” Mr. Greer shouted when he had the eleven applicants seated in student desks in a windowless conference room in the main annex of the Greer Springs Water facility. This was their orientation session. “Does anyone here know what the role of the pitcher is in  baseball?”

Hal studied Greer, standing next to a chalkboard at the front of the room. He was short, squat, wearing tight jeans and a LINDA LOVELACE FOR PRESIDENT T-shirt that had seen better days, as had Mr. Greer. Spittle glistened in his gray beard and a stale cigar, soggy at the butt, hovered in the corner of his mouth. “Well … ?”

Hal’s arm jutted in the air. “The pitcher’s job is to throw the ball?”

Greer stabbed the air with his unlit cigar. “Wrong! The role of the pitcher is to initiate the action. And you, as water carriers, are setting a chain of events into action every time your truck full of bottled water rolls out of that warehouse and onto the streets. Here’s how it works, people: we are at war. I’m not talking about Iraq or Aghani-fucking-stan or Iran and whatever oil-grabbing lie is on the back of that forthcoming invasion — the motherfuckers — I’m talking about the water wars. The west is dying, ladies and gentlemen, and water is our most precious commodity. You will be expected to protect the water you carry on your personal vehicle as if those bottles contained the blood of your family, as if the very DNA of your existence was contained in each molecule, because as sure as we fill each bottle with a water hose you can bet your ass that, as we speak, the reservoir Greer Springs draws from is going dry and so goes reserves all across the west. There may come a time when we might have to equip our drivers with firearms to protect their cargo. So, you have only one question to ask yourselves before proceeding any further … are you a warrior in the water wars or just another thirsty motherfucker looking to stay above ground another day in the desert. Well …?”

Hal squirmed in the student desk and raised his hand once again.

“Yes?” Greer considered Hal with the condescension reserved for an unruly student asking permission to use the bathroom.

“I was just wondering … do you offer time-and-a-half for holidays?”