In the following week, there was a whirlwind of getting orientated at Griffin Security. The first thing on the agenda was to look the part, marking my first real taste of the lifestyle of the rich and famous. We were outfitted in tailor-fitted, bulletproof suits, which was nothing short of amazing, especially when you think about the prestigious clientele who had also worn them. I was absolutely in awe when we were informed that even presidents had suits made from here. They didn't specify which ones, though. I’d wager they were referring to the cool young Democrat guy because he always looked sharp in his suits, not like his successor who wore his suit like a saggy diaper, and certainly not the even older guy after him who probably lounged around in his pajamas all day taking naps.
The suit felt like it was worth a million dollars. During the orientation, they shared a story that highlighted a defining moment for our security company. There was an incident where a deranged gunman attempted to shoot a VIP client. Remarkably, one of our security team members, heroically stepped in front of the client and took a bullet. Despite being shot, he managed not only to stay on his feet but also to disarm and neutralize the threat by using the gunman’s own weapon.
This level of dedication and such a compelling story put our company on the fast track to prominence. Seeking similar results, the owner insisted we wear bulletproof suits. This requirement wasn’t just about making us look sharp — it was about putting our bodies on the line for our clients, or as I like to put it, the buckaroo. The materials in these suits were no joke, crafted from advanced, lightweight ballistic fabrics such as Kevlar, Twaron, and Dyneema. These fabrics are renowned for their impressive strength-to-weight ratio, capable of stopping bullets while ensuring the suit looks no bulkier than your average high-end business attire.
The suits cleverly married classic style with cutting-edge protective technology. They integrated traditional suit fabrics with these robust ballistic fibers, resulting in a garment that wouldn't look out of place in a boardroom yet could potentially save your life in a gunfight. The arms and legs of the suit were also fortified, being both stab-resistant and slash-proof, adding an extra layer of security for those of us in the field. They even issued us ceramic plates that were pretty hefty and required a special undergarment to wear. We were advised to use them sparingly, seeing as being assaulted with a rifle was deemed low risk.
The way I got along with the tailor was something unexpected. You wouldn’t think it, but my military background in ballistic protection gave us plenty to talk about. As for the cost of these suits, I had a sneaking suspicion that I’d be paying it off through small deductions from my paycheck for a very, very long time. Nonetheless, suiting up in that gear, knowing the level of craftsmanship and protection it provided, made you feel almost invincible. Ready to face whatever the world, or rather the clients, could throw at you.
But good gosh, were they a trial in the scorching heat. Most of my time was spent on duty, looking after the gilded views of the wealthy or escorting them to their lavish gatherings. Sure, the black sedans and sleek limousines we rode in were kitted out with top-of-the-line air conditioning systems, making them a chilly haven. However, these rides were as cramped as a miner's lift during shift change.
I’ve always been more at home with a rifle in hand, specifically an AR15, but that kind of firepower wasn’t exactly fitting for a black-tie event. So, tucked away beneath my suit, resting against my ribs, was my trusty Sig220 Combat TB. Chambered in .45 ACP, it was a hefty beast of a handgun, a parting gift from my father that had saved my hide more times than I cared to count. Though it wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of comfort when squished into a limousine seat, it was a compromise I was willing to make.
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The tailor had cleverly integrated a custom shoulder rig within the suit, designed specifically to conceal and provide quick access to my Sig. Adapting to this new method of carry took some doing—back over the sandy dunes and city ruins, my gun was always cradled in my grip or dangling from a sling across my chest. Here, the gun felt hidden, almost out of reach despite being just under my arm.
Navigating this new world in my tailored suit and concealed Sig, I felt part James Bond, part wanderer—a stark contrast to my days in fatigues and combat boots. Yet, despite the discomfort and the constant alertness the job required, there was a thrill to it, a sense of duty and exhilaration that reminded me, oddly enough, of my time overseas. Every party, every gala was a mission of its own, with high stakes camouflaged under the sparkle of chandeliers and the clink of fine china. My old life and this new one, seemingly worlds apart, were bound by the same thread of vigilance and protection, just dressed up very differently.
The job did have its perks, big ones. Clients of Griffin Security were the fancy folks who only graced premiere events, and they had this knack for arriving fashionably late every single time and partying till dawn. This meant my schedule was flipped—nights turned into busy hours and sunrises meant bedtime. Most weekends, I found myself wide awake until the birds started chirping around 6:00 AM, and the sun creeping up meant it was finally time to hit the sack, often not rolling out of it until the late afternoon.
These clients weren't your run-of-the-mill rich folks sporting 30-40 foot yachts. No, sir, they splashed out on massive 100-foot monsters that seemed more like floating luxury mansions than anything else. These people were filthy rich, living in a world soaked in money, a level of wealth that was incomprehensible and, frankly, a bit sickening.
I quickly found out that my special forces training was the sole reason I had been hired.
"I know I'm fairly good-looking, but when you're bunked with 30 guys, your looks really don't matter. I wasn't used to getting all the attention from the ladies, even though there are women in the 'green machine.' I had always kept my focus on the mission, adhering to the motto: 'Don't shit where you eat.' Enlisting early and being mostly homeschooled made me quite awkward around women, embarrassingly shy, you could say. Not that I didn't have any experience; there were always weekend leaves in the last few years. And we can't discount the fine education I received from the neighbor's daughter. Mary Anne had taught me well that a woman always comes first, and sometimes second as well. She broke my heart, a typical sad story of an adolescent young man.
The female clients were the worst, but the clients' daughters, girlfriends, and sometimes wives could somehow tell I was fresh meat. I guess I wasn't jaded and discouraged by the LA lifestyle yet, a breath of fresh air for these gold-digging women. To say that I was hit on would be an understatement. "It felt like being a lone lighthouse standing tall on a foggy night, with countless ships vying for my attention, each signaling their presence of in the sea of signals, I stood there, both a beacon and a witness to the relentless waves of advances." I resisted the temptation with strong mental discipline, as I wanted to keep my job and avoid causing drama for the company. Some of our first training sessions at the security company emphasized 'keeping it in your pants at all times,' and they weren't talking about your sidearm.
I totally stayed away from the clients and married women. But I'm not infallible, and I met some pretty amazing and interesting people on the job, from bar staff and waitresses to other attractive professional women. "The most memorable evening occurred during a party on one of those yachts I previously mentioned. I got to meet most gorgeous Captain. She knew how to raise a sail as we sailing into uncharted waters we had amazing time anchoring in a private cove.
