Until the song is over, my name is no longer Samuel. It is Phillip, or Jake, or Spade, or I go without a name, with only the title of my profession–and I’m not talking about being a student or a petty locksmith; I’m talking about solving crimes, putting the yeggs in the can, tracing the calls so I can find the kidnaped daughter of the rich man. The song plays, and I wish there were a million other songs like it, so I could further my imagination, and create my own world like this one. I am the Op, the Gumshoe, the sad but strong icon of a lost age, standing in contrast with the sad and weak icons of this age. I am–well, the song is over now. Back to Macroeconomics.
    Of course, the image is stronger than reality. Would I really like to be in the shoes of Marlowe, uncovering gruesome crime rings only by acting like I want to fit into them? Would I prefer a blackjack over reason? Would I use violence for good guys or the crooks, just as long as I get the job done? Play it again, Sam.
    The image stands by itself, alluring, underneath a streetlight on a foggy street, somewhere in some run-down urban paradise–he is lighting a cigarette (always the cigarette, and we don’t wonder about lung cancer for the Private Eyes or the Sleuths, because– it’s the image, man!), he is scuffing his shoe, his is looking around as he takes a drag, and he is checking his watch as he exhales and adds tobacco smoke to the fog. His eyes would probably be bloodshot from lack of sleep (“I’m going to take a long, long breath after this joint is pulled”), his face unshaven, unless the job calls for him to look sharp, say to get into a strict-admission club, and he is not happy, never happy, quite the opposite of happy.
    The image of this intrigues me because of the authority that comes with the jobs. The wit is sharp, the comebacks are smart, the conclusions drawn are smart. The life of the P.I. has to be smart, I guess. Or at least the image that he puts up when he’s on the job.
    But how much substance is behind this image? Is there purpose in the life of a Shamus? There’s plenty of lingo, lots of sharp wit, and usually seduction, but is there purpose? I can hardly imagine a private investigator seeking the will of God or the meaning of life on his downtime. There may be some real-life ones who do, but the job is enveloped in pulling up the roots of people’s motives, and those roots are muddy and ridden with grubs. Without the character of a saint, what could a private investigator (or anyone who fits into any of the film noir archetypes) do to keep himself unstained by all the things he is paid to uncover? And, with the character of a saint, would he want to keep the job?
    “It’s a job like no other, but someone has to do it.” Sure, that’s logic for you, but how sound is it? True, there have to be plumbers and ditch-diggers and dog-trainers, but there need not be any prostitutes, drug-pushers or crime-lords. Those are all less-than-desirable jobs, but the first set are still moral in essence. The problem is not necessity here, but trying to fix all of our collective problems after the fact. Proverbs 21:3 has a good thing to say to this: “To practice righteousness and justice is more acceptable to the Lord than sacrifice.” This is practical in any life: it’s better to not make the mistake in the first place than to have to clean it up. (Of course, it is so much heavier for us Christians, and it is likely that non-Christians will not care as much as we should.)
    The root of the issue here is the image of an unnecessary and dark profession, which I still enjoy. Have I defeated myself? Well, I see that the image is not directly linked to depravity, although there is an association. And I definitely wouldn’t pass myself off as a matrimony detective in public, much less consider becoming one. Will I despise the image of American society today–the blue jeans, the t-shirts, the sneakers, the sunglasses–just because we have so many problems as a society?
    The difference between the image of the private detective and the image of the drug dealer he’s trailing is different. Even if it’s only the 1940’s dress-casual look, with the fedora, the suit, the Florsheims, and the fancy lighter, the aura of the character is still appealing for the better parts. The wit, the problem-solving, and the snappy attire are all good.
    Maybe I just like the image because of those things. Maybe if I knew that someone had a problem with that image, I would drop it. If I had to choose between having someone think I had an interesting hobby and having someone think that I dabbled in the world of the booze, floozies, and drugs, I would go without it. But as for now, well, let’s just say I’d rather appreciate the look of Sam Spade than Obi-Wan Kenobi or John Wayne.
    By the way, the song ended a long time ago. I just got a little carried away.