The phone rings somewhere behind a door to my consciousness. My alarm clock blinks
“We read your resume and it looks to us like you’re the perfect candidate for the job! What do you think, Eric? Would you be interested in coming by for an interview?”
Who, what, is Sealed ASS? Gotta be one the hundreds of places I’ve sent resumes to recently. And no doubt one of the companies that received my “fake” resume, riddled with flagrant lies and banalities that multi-nationals find interesting.
...
“Hello?” Oops. It’s Pepe.
“Oh... sorry. I think there must’ve been a break up. I have this cordless phone, you see. Bad connection.”
“Don’t worry! No problem!”
“Yes. Absolutely. I’d like to have an interview with you.”
“So when does it suit you to come by? Let’s see, today around three in the afternoon we have a slot open. Then there’s tomorrow, around the same time. Any of those times sound good to you?”
“Ummm... well...”. Can’t sound too eager. I rustle my notes to give him the impression that I’m going through a date book. “Today at three doesn’t really work for me. But tomorrow sounds just fine.”
“OK GREAT! See you then!”
“Wait, Pepe! Don’t hang up. I need the address.”
“Of course. I don’t know where my mind was. You ready?”
“When you are.”
“It’s
Pepe’s exuberance didn’t rub off and I went back to bed and read two more chapters from a dog-eared Stalin biography, fell asleep, and woke up around
Walking to a cafe up on
I’m obsessed with what goes on around me... other people’s lives. My own goes to shit. Ah, but the interview tomorrow. I’m not gonna screw this up, no way. I send a text message to Gina - my on-again, off-again girlfriend - and tell her the good news. She replies: it’s about time etc. etc. and we decide to meet later. I notice my fingers are smudged with ink and coffee. Somewhere, in far-off desert sands, someone has just self-immolated.
After I finished with the papers I made small talk with a couple neighborhood freaks. Harry wandered by first. He wears a full neoprene ski suit and moon boots year round and always offers me crack. He’s not much of a conversationalist. Still, I’ve pried a few interesting stories from him. Through his grunts and mumbles that is. Like the time he bagged his friend after watching him get blown to pieces by a landmine. “Should’ve gone across the lake, not around it!” he always says. Talk about a nagging regret. Anyway, he was antsy and didn’t hang too long. Now there’s Ike, and he’s telling me about his latest scheme:
“Goddamn I had them mothers rollin in, chargin 10 bucks a head, double parkin the suckers until I had the whole fuckin lot filled!”
His new con is sneaking into parking lots after they close and posing as a parking attendant. He puts on a baseball hat and a serious expression and scribbles gibberish on a clipboard. The beamers and jags keep rolling in.
“Damn Ike! You gotta hook me up! That’s all tax-free! How much you pull in?”
Ike jams his desiccated brown hand into his pocket and his eyes dart furtively to the left, then to the right. He pulls out a thick green wad.
“That’s some serious cash.”
“Yo kid. Gotta go. Five-o.”
Ike walks off, and seconds later a squad car comes rolling by. I can’t ever hustle, no way, I’d never be a good conman. I’m too damn honest, and I don’t have that sixth sense - I can never predict cops.
As per our messages Gina and I met at the Metro bar after she got off work and celebrated my employment prospect with a drink. I had a Cuba Libre, she tippled a
The movie turned out to be a harsh critique on American revisionist cinema with strange, nonsensical editing, poetic dialog, and bombastic music. Nothing too original. As far as I’m concerned the director was just preaching to the choir. Anybody masochistic enough to sit through the film already knows the game is rigged, that it’s all a farce.
I’m walking home now, alone, trying to make sense of what I just saw, but it’s all too vague. Just images and impressions. At the corner I stop to say what’s up to Hamid and order a falafel sandwich. Lots of hot sauce, I say.
I’m walking up the stairs to my apartment, eating the steaming sandwich as I go. I’m thinking back on today, back on the events that led up to this moment. Nothing out of the ordinary. I always hang at the cafe, talk with the freaks, wander, read, then hang with Gina. When I remember, I eat. An ex girlfriend once called me a wandering spirit. I like to think I’ve been condemned to live in the modern age. Like a character in a Kafka novel. Or maybe I’m what you call a rebellious misfit, an iconoclast. No, those labels are way too cool to pin on myself. My ex-landlord, a Polish guy named Marius, put it best the day he evicted me: Fool. You are a total fool. Succinct and to the point.
I enter my apartment and see the note on my desk, reminding me about Sealed ASS. Tomorrow I’m gonna have an interview, a real prospect for work. No more trips to the unemployment office... Gina won’t have to pick up anymore tabs. Somewhere behind flecks of toothpaste and shaving cream smears I see my reflection and I mug a melancholic tough guy pose ala Jean Servais. Yes indeed, Eric Blair, tomorrow you are going to enter the world of the employed.
Been on the bus for over an hour, and the plastic seat is sticking to my sweaty back. The industrial belt is way out of town on the periphery of The City where the earth is cracked and baked, unexploited, except for a scattering of new buildings in the distance. The antithesis of the crystal jungle. The bus groans to a stop and the driver turns around and hollers:
“This is you!”
I get up and wobble towards the door.
“This is it? Where’s Sealed ASS?”
The driver points up ahead at some buildings in the distance. Then he snarls:
“Boy, you better get yourself an automobile. Don’t you see that everyone else got one? NO ONE rides this bus ‘cept the destitute and the clueless!”
The air door hisses shut and the empty bus roars off, leaving me in a stinky cloud of exhaust. I begin my trek along
I pass through a gate to a small building connected to the red block, press the buzzer and the door clicks open. When I enter the receptionist cups the phone and looks at me impatiently, like she has to pee.
“May I help you?” she asks.
“I’m here for an interview with ummm... with Pepe.”
“Pepe Hartmann, I presume.”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Your name?”
“Eric. Eric Blair.”
She prints my name in blocky caps on a pass and slips it into a plastic sleeve.
“Keep this pinned on at all times when you’re on these premises. Take those,” she says, pointing at a staircase. “Pepe is down the hall and to the right.”
The hallway is lined on one side with windows overlooking a large warehouse. Forklifts are whirring about with car-sized crates, men in hard hats operate them, or walk with ant-like purpose, point A to point B. An office buzzing with bobbing heads and telephone trills opens up at the end of the hall, and on my right, before all that, is the door the receptionist had told me about. I knock. Behind a window is an aging Barbie yapping on a phone. I knock harder and she puts the receiver down, gets up, and opens the door.
“Yes?”
“Pepe Hartmann? I’m here to see Pepe Hartmann?”
“Come in. Wait here.”
I enter and wait where she had indicated. She sits down and continues her phone conversation. I look at my watch. Three on the dot. A good start. Surrounding me is the usual office decor: a couple button-down types staring at laptop computers, dry erase board, safety and regulation posters, and behind the secretary a ribbon with gold print: “Miss Teenage New Mexico”. Next to it is an autographed picture of Russell Clooney, looking particularly dashing and shiny in his gladiator gear. I wait like this for five minutes, watching personnel flit in and out the office. Direct eye contact, acknowledgement, seems to be strictly prohibited. The secretary is still talking on the phone:
“Oh my gawd... really... that’s great... oh my... you’re kidding me! No!”
I approach the desk. She looks at me, her eyes two dark flames.
“What?”
“I... I had an interview at
She grabs a notepad, then a pen. Then, back to the phone:
“Hold on... no, I’ll call you back... OK... OK... yeah, I know! He he he! You’re kidding me! Really? That’s so grr-oss. OK... OK... I’ll call you back... buh bye.” Finally she looks at me.
“What’s your name sir?”
“Eric Blair.”
“OK. Just wait here. I’ll go tell him that you’re here. What was the reason for your visit?”
“An interview.”
She writes slowly, deliberately, I N T E R V I E W on the notepad. “OK. I’ll be right back.”
She walks about ten feet to a door leading to what I presume is Pepe Hartmann’s office. Through the window I can see someone typing on a computer. She enters, hands him the note and leaves, shutting the door behind her.
“He’ll be right with you,” she says, then sits behind her desk, picks up the phone and resumes her conversation.
It’s about another fifteen minutes before the door to Pepe’s office opens. He’s big, about a head taller than me, reminiscent of a well-fed beast, with thinning brown hair and a pencil line moustache. With his leathery, solarium orange skin I’d give him about ten more years than me - somewhere in his mid thirties. I step to him.
“Hello. I’m Eric Blair.”
“Who? What’s this?”
“Eric Blair for the
“Charlene? Did I have an interview scheduled for... what was it,
“Yes. Three,” I say.
The secretary clicks away on her computer, wrinkles her brow, and says:
“Yes. For
Pepe looks at his watch, then says:
“
“But I’ve been waiting since three...”
Pepe rushes out of the office without listening to the rest of my excuse. Disgruntled, I walk into his office and sit down. In front of me is a laptop computer. On the shelves are pictures of Pepe and woman in lush, beachfront settings, and trophies of all shapes and sizes. There are rows of manuals and data logs. On the desk in front of me is a worn copy of “Success and Popularity in Seven Proven Steps”. I wait. The secretary babbles on in the background. Pepe finally arrives, coffee in hand.
“Oh! It’s you! I forgot all about you! You must be...” he picks up a note on his desk, “Miguel Gomez.”
“No, I’m Eric Blair. I had an interview at
“Ah yes! Now I remember. Yes. We loved your resume,” then, palming the edge of his desk, he leans towards me. “You,” he pauses, locking eyes, “could be Sealed ASS material! Now, would you be so kind as to close that door? I can’t think with her yapping away out there.”
I close it and sit back down. Pepe meanwhile is rifling through some papers in his drawer. He pulls out my resume.
“Hmmm... let’s see. It says here that you studied Business Administration at St Jude’s
I’m caught. So they got the resume with the Business Administration nonsense. Not only am I without a degree, but I also invented St Jude’s College one semi-inebriated night in front of Gina’s computer. Luckily, I’ve been known as a raconteur under pressure...
“Ahh... I’m so glad you asked. Those were some of my happiest years. Heh heh. I know I might sound like an old fogey, here, reminiscing about the good ol’ days, back when I went to Jude’s. Well, what can I say? They were good times. Yes, indeed. Even though it was only a few years ago.”
Pepe combs his mustache with his fingers, attentive. I continue:
“Those were my formative years, you see. It was at Jude’s that I made some real, lasting friendships. After all, Mr Pepe... I’m sorry, can I call you that?”
“Of course! No formalities here. Mr Pepe will be just fine.”
“So, as I was saying, I think that is what going to school is all about. The friendships and the lifelong connections that you make with like-minded, ambitious young people.”
“Fantastic... fantastic!”
“You know, I just have to tell you... I know it sounds kinda silly... but I have to tell you about a good buddy of mine, Bill. He really taught me something important back there at Jude’s. Probably my most valuable life lesson.”
“Go on! Go on!”
“When I first met Bill he was a skinny kid with long hair, listening to loud, dangerous music, a master of truancy. I know it sounds strange that I would associate with this character, but lemme tell you, Mr Pepe, I have an open mind, and anybody has the potential to join MY team.”
“Great!” says Pepe, then he makes a note at the bottom of my resume. “Good attitude!”
“Well, as I said, Bill was a bit of an outsider. He really didn’t have the Business Admin look. He looked more like the kitchen help in the cafeteria than a studious scholar of that great educational institution. But, as with anything else, he evolved. It all happened after one particularly rainy night when he was walking home through the campus, back to our dormitory. Poor Bill did stand out, with his long hair and all, and he had the misfortune to cross with a group of drunken frat boys who naturally didn’t like his outlandish looks... and I don’t blame them. They called him a fairy and a fag, said he didn’t belong there on campus, said unrepeatable things about his mother, and then Bill had the nerve to contest them, something like: you guys should put your heads together, because with your collective effort you guys might actually sum up to an average IQ. Then maybe you could think of some more original putdowns than the ones you just said about my mother. Bill was beaten to a pulp and left there on the campus lawn. He stayed there all night, beneath torrents of rain, thinking about the things he had just said, about the beating he had just received, about his drifting attitude towards life, and had a revelation.”
“Hmmm... yes! Go on!”
“Well, I say revelation, but it wasn’t totally clear to Bill what he had to do at the moment. Some say, Mr Pepe, that he was struck by lightning that night... the bolt, they say, is what gave him the revelation.”
“Wow.” Pepe has both his elbows on the desk now, resting his chin on loose fists. He fingers his mustache thoughtfully.
“So he took it slowly, steps at a time. After he recuperated from his thrashing, he decided it was time to cut his hair, really what riled the frat boys in the first place. He came back one day looking respectable, I tell you. Then he decided to do something about his self-esteem. He might have changed his look, but his body was the same. Still the same weak shell that got beaten up a few weeks back. One day I went to his dorm room and saw a big bottle with HUGE written on it. Turns out it was one of those anabolic protein shake mixes that body builders use. I have to say that I poked fun at poor Bill. I kept crackin jokes about his HUGE shakes, things like: you gettin HUGE yet man?, but Bill just let it pass. He was patient you see, another great quality I learned from him. So, in a few months Bill transformed himself, literally. Bill started pumping iron, drinking his HUGE shakes, eating humongous portions of food, slowly changing his attitude towards life. Bill became so huge that he had to change his entire wardrobe, which was a good thing, I tell you. He threw out his Dinosaur Jr T-shirts, and opted for more respectable, conservative clothing. He never again missed a class, never again was picked on. In fact, he joined the fraternity and made friends with the very same guys that beat him up! They became his bros. He made life long friendships, and well, the rest is history. Bill is now pulling in six digits a year, and has one knockout of a wife, lemme tell you. If you’ll pardon me being informal Mr Pepe, she’s got a rack that’ll give you vertigo!”
“That is truly an inspiring story. The development, the drama...”
“Yes. It was Bill who taught me that you can do anything in life if you put your mind to it. I know it sounds old hat, but it is, after all, an aphorism, constructed with reason and understanding of the nature of humanity.”
“A fascinating story, and an equally fascinating interpretation, Eric. Let me see,” he says, scanning the rest of my resume, “it says here that after St Jude’s you started working for Maxmillian Options. Tell me about that.”
It’s true, at least, this part. I did work for Maxmillian Options, the securities and options broker, but my position was of the manual variety. Basically, I know all the ins and outs of the bathrooms and waste bins in their huge three story office in The City. I’d been working there as a janitor for about a year until they’d recently laid me off.
“Well, as you know, Maxmillian Options is one of the most respected options brokers currently operating. That is why I chose them, because I wanted to learn from the best and the most innovative.”
“Great. Great. Now what exactly did you do there?”
“I started out at the bottom, running tickets back and forth between our operators and our brokers on the floor. Eventually I worked myself up to where I was taking direct orders from the clients. I found the ambience fascinating, the market, the economy, and above all, the money.”
“Ahh, yes?”
“Yes, Mr Pepe. To be frank with you, I found that once I understood this animal, the possibilities for making money were endless if you were clever enough.”
“Hmmm... so then, what made you leave?”
“To be totally sincere with you Mr Pepe, it was my first job out of college. I know that there are so many possibilities out there for someone like me, and what I would like most is to carve my own way, with a little teamwork, of course.”
“I think I understand you, Eric. I think that we might be on the same track. You want to form part of our team, but you also want to help lead it.”
“Exactly.”
“Eric, welcome to Sealed ASS.”
“Really? Just like that?”
“Just like that. We need trailblazers like you. People that believe in Sealed ASS.” Pepe stands up, his chest puffed out, and waxes profound, “Pioneers... people with faith!” He sits back down and contemplates me, head bobbing. “Do you have any questions?”
“Ummm...”
The phone rings.
“Yes?”
...
“Of course. Of course. I’ll be right there.”
He hangs up. “You’ll have to excuse me, Miguel.”
“My name’s Eric.”
“Eric. I have to run along. Please feel free to explore our site, chat with your new teammates, and when you have a moment you can speak with Charlene. She’ll give you the necessary paper work.”
Pepe dashes out of his office, leaving me behind in his office. I don’t know what to think. I don’t even know what my new job is. What does Sealed ASS do anyway? How much money am I going to make? I guess that’s what I should be worried about. How much money I’m going to make...
I leave Pepe’s office and walk to the secretary’s desk. She’s on the phone again, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the mottled white ceiling. I clear my throat.
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes rolling down to me.
“Pepe said I needed to talk to you about some paper work.”
“Hold on a sec. I’ll call you back... OK... OK... you naughty boy you... OK... buh bye.” She looks at me as if I were a leper. “What was the reason for your visit?”
“I already had my interview with Pepe. He said I needed to talk to you about some paper work. He just gave me a job.”
“OK... hmmm... hold on.” She picks up a phone and dials an extension. “Hi Pepe! This is Charlene! How are you? Oh, you’re so silly. Uh huh. Yes... hold on,” she looks up at me, “what was your name again?”
“Eric Blair.”
“Eric Blair says that I need to give him some paper work. Eric Blair. Uh, yes, I believe so... OK... hold on,” again, she looks up at me, “You just had the interview with Pepe, correct?”
“Yes. I did.”
“Yes. That’s correct. OK. I’ll let him know.” She hangs up and starts typing. I clear my throat. She rolls up those bleary, dull eyes at me, again. “Yes?”
“The paper work?”
“Just come back tomorrow and we’ll have your contract ready for you.”
“Ooookay... can I go now?”
“Just one thing.” She stands up and gives me a soft, stubby hand. “Welcome to the team, Miguel.”
I leave Sealed ASS immediately. I don’t really feel like inspecting the Sealed ASS site, nor do I feel like associating with any of my future “teammates”. What I want most is to be back in The City, to get a bite with Gina at our favorite dive-bistro, and to tell her the good news.
After a good ten minutes of walking I’m at the bus stop, or what appears to be the bus stop; the sign, where I presume the bus schedule is supposed to be, is twisted and bent, probably the result of a car accident. The remains of the schedule are tattered and blanched, making it impossible to tell what time the next bus is gonna arrive. I can’t think of anything better, so I wait with this surrounding detritus while cars and trucks stream by, one after the other. Finally, I see a sheriff’s patrol car and hail it. The sheriff doesn’t seem to have a clue about the bus either. He isn’t even sure it exists. I protest:
“But it dropped me off here this morning!”
“That doesn’t mean that it’ll pick you up, now does it?”
“I’m sorry sir. I’m not really following you.”
“I don’t like stragglers in these parts, kid. So if you got some business to do here, make it quick. I don’t want you loitering around out here. It makes people nervous. And I don’t like nervous people. They make my ass itch.”
He peels off, kicking up gravel, leaving me abandoned at the forlorn bus stop. I might as well hitch-hike while I’m waiting for this mysterious bus. Sedans and trucks race by me, my thrust out thumb. With the growing dusk it’s getting noticeably colder, and my five dollar suit isn’t really keeping me warm. Plus it kinda itches. Oh man I hope someone picks me up soon. Out here, in the dark, no one’s gonna pick up a single solitary figure.
A tiny silhouette appears on the lip of the horizon. It gets closer and I realize that it’s a motorcycle, and a small one at that; I can hear the throttled out engine buzzing in the distance. I can see now that it has a sidecar attached. It skids to a stop a few feet away from me, and the rider plants his chafed riding boots in the gravel. He has a peppered beard, long, blown into tiny flames by the wind, and a leather cap with aviator’s goggles. He chomps on a fat, half-smoked cigar. Says through a cracked mouth:
“This ain’t no place to get stranded.”
“Yeah man, it’s bum fuck
“It’s your lucky day, I’m goin that way too. Lift up my duffel,” he says, pointing to the side car,” and hop in there.”
“Really?”
“What? Never heard of the kindness of strangers? Get in man, don’t have all day.” He guns the engine and looks for an opening.
I take out the duffel bag and shimmy into the sidecar. We take off, leaving the belt behind, the colored blocks getting smaller, and in the distance, ahead of us, the first signs of The City grow out of the horizon. Sometimes a car zips past us and we lurch, but the mad aviator seems to have it under control. His hand thrusts out in front of me with the cigar.
“No thanks. Don’t like cigars.”
“Go on kid. This is a good one,” he says, pulling out a Zippo from his left pocket.
I take it and flick the flint wheel in the sidecar and the bluish flame sparks to life. I hold it up to the cigar end and puff. I cough.
“Hey! Shit! This is a blunt!”
“Yeah man... good stuff. Some cats down in LA showed me how to roll these. There’s half an eighth in that fucker!”
I take another hit and hand it back to the rider.
“Nice bike you got here!” I yell, projecting my voice through the din.
The rider takes out the blunt and answers:
“Yeah. Good bike.”
“What is it... a Norton?”
“Yeah. Solid little sucker... been riding for years on this thing. Across whole continents.”
“Like Che Guevara, man.”
“What?”
“I said Che Guevara also rode a Norton.”
A semi roars past, blasting its horn, nearly blowing us over. I white-knuckle the rim of the sidecar. Where’s the oh shit bar when you need it?
“What?”
“I said, like Che Guevara.”
“Che Guevara was an idealist and I ain’t no idealist. I know better than too kill for an ideology. I’ve been there.”
“So you just ride?”
“I go places. I meet people.”
I look at the sides of his motorcycle. Scratches and dents spell out many miles, many years. There are stickers too, including one that says POW MIA. Prisoner Of War. Missing In Action. I think of Harry, the crazy cracked out vet from my hood. Everybody leaves him alone for it’s commonly accepted that the war had done some spooky shit to him. Spooky, irreversible shit. The rider half-turns his head and yells:
“What are you doing?”
“I’m working for Sealed ASS. It’s the big red building back there.”
“That’s not what I meant. Why are you alone out here in the middle of nowhere?”
Well, isn’t this the eternal question? The circumstances of my life have always been a mystery to me. The chain of events, the logical consequences of action or inaction have always escaped my comprehension. Being “out here in the middle of nowhere” is just another facet of the mystery. “I really have no idea.”
“Just a reed in the wind.”
“What do you mean?”
“THAT’S LIFE!” he yells through the wind. “But things change when you start asking yourself questions.”
We ride on, entering one of the city’s main arteries. Up ahead cars are backing up, congested around the main entrance to the city. The mad aviator rolls back the throttle and we lane-split all the way towards the heart of downtown. The cars are grazing past, and I’m scrunched up, diminutive, stoned and terrified in his little sidecar.
We’re coasting along now, surging ahead with the flow of traffic. I think back to our conversation, the mysteries of life, the mysteries of the organism. How can I take this guy seriously? He looks like cousin Strawberry from Up In Smoke for chrissakes. The roadmap of scratches on his bike, on his mad scowling mug, betray experience: but what does it offer me?
“Where do you want me to drop you off?” We’re in the midst of the metal and concrete beast, giant crystalline monuments to capitalism and sheer willpower shoot up into the heavens, dwarfing us, the two irrelevant beings on the motorcycle.
“Just up ahead. A couple more blocks’ll be perfect.”
He drops me off and disappears into the sprawling downtown grid, leaving me here on the corner covered with dust from the voyage. I brush myself off and look around and see Gina’s building a few hundred feet away. It’s too late to catch her as she leaves work. I text her and she replies with a message saying: Leo’s. That’s our dive-bistro. Best jug coffee and philly cheese steaks for miles around.
I walk into the fluorescent-lit diner - oldies are wafting through the french-fried air - and find Gina in a booth near the back. Her raven black French cut bobs up. She has the diner’s greasy copy of “Person” in front of her. Before the first syllable rolls off my tongue she hisses and holds up a finger.
“Just had to finish that part.”
I lean over and look at the open magazine. The horoscope section.
“Insightful reading?”
“Want me to read yours?” she asks, sliding her index down the list of star signs.
“Sure. Why not?”
“Capricorn. This month walk with caution, especially with your work relations and your pocket book. The crisis you are about to confront can be superseded by your tenacious character, however.”
“Man... I thought those things were supposed to be constructive and motivating. I might as well give this rat race up all together, go fight imaginary giants and rescue damsels in distress.”
“You’re not supposed to read into them that literally.”
“You don’t really take that stuff seriously, do you?”
“Astrology goes way back, the fundamentals of it can’t be wrong.”
“But what about all those billions of Chinese? To hell with their monkeys and rats?”
“I wasn’t born in
“You could just as easily have been born in
“You wouldn’t be saying that had I read you something positive.”
“Oh for chrissakes Gina... look at that guy over there,” I say pointing to a homeless guy that just came in. “Do you think he cares?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
I cup my hands around my mouth. “Hey! What do you think... Billions of Chinese or some crazy kooks wearing togas?”
He leers at us and grumbles something that sounds like Oh grrrrrrrrshhhtickkk!
“I think that settles it.”
The waiter comes over and takes our orders: a classic philly-cheese and a side of fries for me, and a couple coffees. Gina is looking out the window at the city folk passing by.
“You seem pensive. What’s up?” I ask.
“It’s nothing. Forget about it.”
“Oh c’mon. You can’t do that. You can’t just leave me hanging.”
“Well... it’s something that’s been bugging me. I think I have to tell you.”
“Go ahead.”
“About a month ago when we split up for like the tenth time we had a little party at our house, my roommate and I. You know, just one of those random things when people show up... and all of a sudden it’s a party. You know Beaver One?”
“Oh yeah.... he’s that little rapper kid that always popped by your place. Yeah.”
“So he came over with a backpack full of you name it, but he also had some E and we decided to take some. Sandra and I and her friend Lowrah.”
“Who’s that? Who’s Lowrah?”
“Oh just some French guy. A friend of Sandra’s. So we put on some music and Beaver One started freestyling and all of us were just chilling on the couch...”
“Is this going anywhere? Did I miss something?”
“Oh yeah. You missed something all right. As I said Beaver One was freestyling, going off about ‘The man’ and his ‘niggaz’...”
“I thought he was white...”
“Will you just let me finish? So we were chillin on the couch watching Beaver One freak out and pretty soon we dimmed down the lights and we were all dancing together, I mean the four of us. So Beaver One starts putting the moves on Sandra, and... well, you know how it is. You just get so touchy-feely. You go on with everything.”
“But Beaver One... I mean... not to be an asshole or anything... but he looks like an insane little duck!”
“You know... you don’t think in terms of ‘this guy looks like a duck’ when you’re on that stuff!”
“I guess... I don’t really know...”
“So Beaver One and Sandra went off to her bedroom. I don’t really remember. Just that all of a sudden they were gone. So that left Lowrah and me alone in the front room.”
“Wait... what does this Lowrah look like?”
“Oh he’s tall, with dark curly hair, deep blue eyes, he’s really built too, and he’s quite intelligent...”
“No don’t go on... it’s too horrible...”
“Well... I mean... what would you do?”
“What would I do? What would I do? I’d probably start freestyling, reciting a monster putdown on his ass! What the hell would I do?”
“I mean, if you’re with someone, like that, and they’re all right looking... anyway. We kind of hooked up. There on the couch that night.”
“No. Are you serious? I’m shattered. I don’t know what to say.”
“But we’d split up! I thought you wouldn’t care!”
“I mean, if it was Beaver One it would at least be ridiculous... I’d be able to rhyme about it or something. But some French Adonis, some big beefy blue-eyed stud...”
“I wouldn’t go that far...anyway, here’s the best part.”
“I can’t wait.”
“We only did it for like a couple minutes... because even though I was tripping I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I made him stop because I was thinking about you.”
“Oh man... I don’t know what to say... thanks?”
“It didn’t mean anything! Isn’t that great?”
“Gina. Why did you just tell me this? I would rather not have known. Now I’m gonna have nightmares with you and Beaver One and some French stud in some kind of preternatural mating ritual... it’s just too wretched to think about.”
“You don’t care do you?”
“No, of course not! I’m just gonna stick my head in Leo’s oven and gas myself. With my luck it’ll probably be electric and I’ll just slowly grill myself.”
The waiter brings our coffees and my philly and sets it all down in front of us. Gina mixes in her two exact spoonfuls of sugar, cream, and sips. Then, matter of factly, she asks:
“And you? I almost forgot. What about your interview?”
“I am now a legitimate tax-paying citizen.” I don’t know why it makes me proud to say this. Maybe I’ve been trained to like it. “Yours truly has just been hired on to the Sealed ASS team.”
“Sealed ASS. What’s that?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, ‘I don’t know’? You’re working for them!”
“That’s what I mean... they hired me but I have no idea what I’m supposed to do, or what exactly they do. That’s great isn’t it?”
“Sealed ASS. Sounds kinda sketchy to me.”
“Baby... now we’ll be able to go to all the restaurants we’ve been wanting to go to. Every night! I mean Leo’s is cool and all but... you know. I’m gonna get paid!”
“How much?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“I don’t know.”
“Now we can take that trip to the
“Don’t start dreaming yet. That costs alot of money, and you don’t have ANYTHING saved up, as usual.”
“Why do you always have to bust my balls? Huh?”
She refuses to answer me and I can’t think of anything else to say. If we go on, we’re bound to argue more - the typical, circular, nerve-racking arguments that we seem to have predilection for - and I don’t have the energy right now, and I suspect, neither does she. We walk to the register and Gina picks up the tab and we walk out into the brisk night. We take the subway and split up when we get to my stop, departing with the perfunctory kiss. Tomorrow is Friday and we’ll both be in better moods, hopefully forgetting our petty arguments.
Reading the last chapter of the Stalin biography. It’s something I picked up from the second hand store, and its old yellow pages have that fusty second hand smell. Stalin it seems, was a real son of a bitch. I read somewhere that he holds the record in the Guinness book for mass murder. All for the proletariat. He was probably an idealist, like the crazy vet said. I make a note of this and the vet character:
Today met vet that looked like cousin strawberry from the cheech and chong movie. Riding beat up bike with sidecar. Smoked blunt. Talked philo. Said nothing is worse than an idealist. Seemed like he knew what he was talking about. He said something about asking myself questions. Should I take the job at Sealed ASS? Do I have a choice?
Nothing else comes to me and I fall asleep.
I’m barefoot in the Russian tundra, surrounded by familiar faces from my childhood and there’s Kolya, the man of steel, driving us like sheep... I hear an appalling electronic shriek: my alarm clock. I hit snooze three times before springing out of bed. I barely have enough time to catch the bus to the industrial belt.
