I am now a master of Solitaire, Hearts, and Minesweeper - for, in the two months I’ve been working at Sealed ASS, I’ve done nothing at all. Two months of utter idleness, the most inert I’ve been my entire life, and ironically I’m getting paid for it. It kind of bugs me sometimes, but things are generally cool, like with Gina, and the paychecks are steady. I’ve come to accept that certain aspects of my life are shrouded in mystery, that not everything is as I would like it. This is status quo, and status quo doesn’t need to be broken unless it’s really bad.
Pepe pops out of the office and with lightening post-Nintendo reflexes I shut the Hearts window on my computer and sit at attention.
“Miguel? Can you join me in my office?”
This is strange, anomalous behavior and I’m wondering if it means something bad. The gig is up! No more joy-riding at Sealed ASS. I enter Pepe’s office and shut the door.
“Miguel, you seem like you know a little bit about computers. Maybe you can help me with this.”
Pepe nudges the mouse on his desk and the screen warms up, revealing a list of documents.
“I need to find a file that one of our clients sent us, dated from a couple months back. But as you can see, with all these thousands of files, it’s almost impossible.”
“That’s easy. You just have to do a sort by date.”
“Huh?”
“Look,” I say, reaching for the mouse. I point it at the list icon and choose sort by date. “There you go.”
“Amazing!”
“Now you just have to scan the list and find the date you want.”
Pepe scrolls down the list, making several passes before he finds what he’s looking for. “Great. Here it is!” He pauses, squints, thumbs his chin.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well, now I need to send it by email, and I have to rename the file. Oh Miguel, it’s so confusing!”
I’m thrown for a loop. No, he’s probably just testing me or something. There’s no way he could be my boss and not know basic computer skills. Pepe is trying to point the mouse at an archive, but seems to have trouble zeroing in on it. Well, maybe not. Maybe he is totally clueless.
“Mr Pepe. Look.” I take the mouse and point at the file and press the button down to highlight it. “Go ahead. Now you can name it whatever you want.”
“Incredible Miguel. You know, I had a feeling about you!”
He renames it and mops off a sweaty forehead. “Now I have to send it by email!”
“That’s easy, Mr Pepe. All you have to do is add it as an attachment.”
“I... don’t know...”
I open his email for him and show him how to attach a file and send it.
“Miguel. I am more impressed by your stellar performance with each passing day. Thank you so much. You know, we need to talk... business. But not right now. I got a couple things to do.”
I leave his office and walk back to my desk, somewhat shaken by an actual “work” experience. Charlene, stricken with an unusually rabid case of logorrhea is blabbering away. The zombie twins are having staring contests with their computer screens.
Besides my Solitaire and Hearts games, I’ve taken to amusing myself with my co-workers. I guess you can call it my own personal Psychological Crusade. For example, I’ve noticed that Charlene always keeps her desk perfectly ordered. Everything has its place. Like the figurines she has arranged around her computer, like her pictures, like her collection of highlighters and pens. The average person walking into Sealed ASS probably wouldn’t notice her obsessive habit of placing everything in exactly the same place, every single day. I try to ignore her as much as humanly possible, but one day, I guess I was bored or something, I watched her arrange her figurines as she yapped on the phone. In subsequent observations I noticed that she has the same habit with all her other belongings. By now I know all her sordid affairs and have heard them three times over. It would make for the most crass and wholly unoriginal dime store romance novel you could possibly imagine. I decided, for the sake of the human species and my own personal sanity, that I would have to do something about this.
One day I waited for her to leave, six on the dot. I approached her desk and analyzed the arrangement. Her pens and highlighters are always on the right side of her desk, lined up next to some date books. On the left side of her desk she keeps her reading glasses and a calculator. I reversed everything, putting the glasses and the calculator where originally she had kept her pens and highlighters. It was subtle, but I had a great silent laugh the next day watching her scratch her head in bewilderment. I decided to move it up a notch and concocted an even better psychological stumper. A few days later I rearranged her figurines, some absurd collection of characters she had probably gotten at a fast food restaurant, free with her meal. There is one, a sort of yellow clown, that I bent into an all-fours position. There is another one, representing some sort of happy purple monster, that I put behind the clown, effectively creating a “consummation of the opposites”. I took the rest of her figurines and put them in similarly provocative poses and ended up with a truly scandalous arrangement. If you can imagine Bosch’s “
I guess the thrill of this victory went to my head. I struck jackpot on my first try, and it seemed the rest would come easily. The zombie twins had been a nagging presence ever since my arrival. Initially, I went out of my way to be courteous, saying “Good Morning, Afternoon”, etc. etc. They never once acknowledged my presence. One day I was going through the company directory and came upon their extensions. When I was younger, my friends and I had perfected the art of prank calling, and suddenly, upon seeing these extensions, I felt a wave of inspiration. I have to say it started out pretty lame, with some hang ups, or the classic 9/star key buzz-out (for those of you that don’t know, the combination of the two buttons is supposed to create an unbearably piercing tone on the prankee’s end. I’ve never corroborated this, and somehow doubt its truth). My magnum opus, however, was the day I called the two zombies and Charlene and connected them all on a conference call.
“Hello?”
“Hello?”
“Ummm... hold on... I have another call. Hello?”
“Hello?”
In unison, they looked up, at each other, then again at the phone. They each spoke into the receiver, realizing what had just happened, and hung up. The two zombies looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. Charlene, however, was incensed, chili pepper red, and she scrunched up her mouth in indignation.
“You! You! I bet you did it!”
They both shrugged their shoulders.
“I don’t know...”
“... what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t sit there and deny it! You’ve been playing with my toys!”
Pepe, hearing the commotion, came bounding out of his office.
“What’s going on here?”
“They,” said Charlene, pointing at the zombie twins, “are amusing themselves at my expense!”
“Is this true?” he asked the zombies.
“We don’t know...”
“...what she’s talking about.”
“They’ve been prank calling me. They’ve also been...” She whispered the rest of the sentence into Pepe’s ear. He covered his mouth.
“Is this true? Jack, Zack, this is highly disturbing and I’m going to have to reprimand you with unpaid overtime. Now you’re going to get some work done! Instead of molesting Miss Charlene! Look at Miguel,” he said, pointing at me in the corner, “a model employee. And to think that you two are the veterans here. It’s a shame!”
I glowed, felt happy as a well-fed cat, and Pepe walked back to his office muttering to himself. The zombie twins looked at each other and shrugged, then continued staring at their computers. It was sublime, seeing the two of them react to something, confirming my suspicion that they are human beings.
Sitting , bored, wandering through my neural networks, searching for more masterful pranks. But the creative juices aren’t flowing in the right direction so I get up to take a leak. Afterwards, I go to the warehouse for a coffee break. Alvaro is also here.
“Hey Alvaro, what’s up?”
“Here workin man. What’s up with you?”
“I actually worked today. Pepe had me show him how to send an email with an attachment.”
“Sheeet. Even my nine year old daughter knows how to do that!”
“It just confirms my suspicion...”
“Bout what?”
“Thing is... every job I’ve ever had... every boss I mean... has been totally inept.”
“I know what you mean.”
“But I mean surprisingly inept. And I’ve come to the conclusion that that is one of the characteristics inherent in people with those positions.”
“What... being inept?”
“Well, let’s put it this way. They are usually social people, probably a friend of the BIG boss, mediocre in most aspects, unopinionated...”
“What do you mean?”
“Meaning they don’t challenge their superiors, ever.”
“You mean they never ask questions.”
“Yeah. They’re loyal to the last. They have no scruples, and wouldn’t think twice about screwing someone over simply because they are in a lesser position. They’ll just say, ‘Sorry, it’s not my fault. It’s company policy’ or ‘the boss told me to do it’.”
“Those are called yes-men.”
“And worst of all they grow big egos because they’re earning all that dough...”
“Drivin big cars, and eatin in fancy restaurants...”
“Leavin shitty tips, no doubt.”
“And they probably charge it all to the company, or write it off their taxes.”
“Exactly,” I say. We sip thoughtfully on our machine-made coffee. Then Alvaro says:
“Man, I’ve been workin here for three years and I’ve seen em come and go. Pepe came in around the same time. They say he’s been here longer than any other director. I think Sternislouse might’ve found his yes-man.”
“Who’s Sternislouse?”
“Sternislouse? Sternislouse is the guy who owns Sealed ASS. All of them around the world.”
“Sternislouse? That’s weird. I’ve never heard of him.”
“Man, in all the time I’ve been here I haven’t seen him once.”
“Damn.”
“They hire and fire people, change policies... but they always say sorry, Sternislouse made me do it.”
I take the last sip of my coffee and crumple the cup. Alvaro gets up and says:
“I gotta get back to work. Gotta move a bunch of boxes before I finish my shift.”
I walk back to the office, the enigma of this Sternislouse figure floating in my mind. So that’s the big boss man. Sternislouse. Maybe if I can find out about him I can solve the mystery of Sealed ASS once and for all. I sit down, about to play Solitaire when it occurs to me that although I don’t have internet access, I can get into Sealed ASS’s homepage. I click on the internet icon and up pops the company logo. It dissolves to reveal the index page. There are links to location sites, company policies (which I suspect are those pesky Sealed ASS commandments), up-to-date Dow Jones statistics, and finally a link that says “El Caudillo”. I click on it and another page pops up with “A Word From Sternislouse. President of Sealed ASS, Inc.” in cursive script. I click again and get a nondescript photo of Sternislouse in a factory. He’s almost in the background, near some heavy machinery, wearing sunglasses and is facing the camera, but has the rest of his body in profile. I’m reminded of the infamous Patterson footage, of Bigfoot emerging from the forest. Here he is, Sternislouse, all blurry in the background like the mythical man-beast of American pop culture. That same enigmatic cheesiness. Below the photo is a heading, A Brief History of Sealed ASS:
Sealed ASS is the brainchild of Clement Sternislouse, oldest child and heir to the Sternislouse dynasty. Although the Sternislouses made their name and fortune in the bottled soft drink industry, probably best known for the now ubiquitous Choochi Cola beverage line, Clement decided to forge his own way. Using his powerful connections and natural talent, he decided to found Sealed ASS, Inc. - now recognized as the leading distributor of sealed products. Sealed ASS, Inc., under the adept guidance of the enterprising and resourceful Clement Sternislouse, is proud to announce that in the third trimester of the past year (finishing
I scroll further down to an interview with Sternislouse, which first appeared the past October in The Daily Times:
DT: What do you feel are the main strengths of Sealed ASS, Inc.?
CS: The strength of our company lies in its passion. Its passion to succeed.
DT: And how have you succeeded over the years?
CS: Again, because of our passion for the business. Also because of our adaptability to the ever-changing needs of the market place. I, Sternislouse, have assembled a quality team that insures that Sealed ASS remains a brand of choice among our customers.
DT: What were the most important developments of 2001?
CS: For one, I, Sternislouse have recently installed a Jacuzzi in my private jet, the first of its kind...”
[laughs]
CS: No really, I think some of the most important changes of last year have been, for one, reducing expenditures by optimizing our Sealed ASS plants, and reducing personnel to fit these new needs. You know, I, Sternislouse have always been an entrepreneur. I have always wanted to go forward and do new things all the time. With the Sealed ASS team I think I can do that.
DT: You are loved and respected by many people for your indisputable talent as a young entrepreneur. Do you have a message for the general public?
CS: Yes. My father wasn’t the best, but he did have a knack for ingenious sayings. He used to always say, “ the glass is never half-empty, it is always half-full”.
DT: Wise words from the great Clement Sternislouse...
CS: Wait. I have another one: The early bird gets the worm. All snoozers will be losers.
DT: Thank you so much, Mr Sternislouse.
CS: Merci. Au revoir.
I’m more baffled than ever. In fact, the Sealed ASS enigma is even greater. I scroll up the page and look again at the Sternislouse photo. Yup, there he is, the very image of the aloof and untouchable leader. A bizarre, modern day demagogue. I shut the window and reach for the phone to call Gina and tell her the latest news. Just before I can pick it up my extension rings. It’s Pepe, summoning me to his office.
“Yes?”
“Sit down, Miguel.”
“You’ve been here for what...”
“A couple months now.”
“A couple months now. I am very pleased with your work, very pleased. Tomorrow, if you don’t mind, I request your presence at lunch time. On the company, of course. Just to talk business.”
“Sure Mr Pepe. Sounds fine to me.”
“Thank you, Miguel. That will be all.”
Back at my desk, rocking the Solitaire module. I win three times, lose twice, and I’m done for the day.
In all my time here at Sealed ASS, never once have I been able to catch a bus back to the city. Nevertheless, my trek to the bus stop has become routine. From here I hitchhike back to The City. I’m here now, waiting with my thumb thrust, wondering who the next character is gonna be. They seem to get more eccentric as the months go by. I’ve been taking notes of these freaky encounters, compiling them for a future novel.
After an hour of fruitless endeavor a yellow Pinto sputters to a stop beside me. Why is it that only guys in clunkers pick me up? Big modern European and Japanese cars roar past this relic, honking, mocking their obsolete predecessor. A pallid young man with round, wire-frame glasses rolls down the passenger side window. I lean in.
“You goin to the city?”
“Goin by it, yeah,” he says, baring tobacco stained teeth.
I get in and he accelerates along the side of the highway and swerves into a narrow opening. A Porsche slams its horn and roars past.
“Have you been waiting long?” he asks.
“No. Not too long. At least not today. Normally I have to wait a couple hours for a ride.”
“What do you do out here?”
“I work. Back there at this place called Sealed ASS. You know, it’s that big red building.”
“Oh, really? Must be tough without a car. Hitching everyday.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it. There’s supposed to be a bus going back. But I have yet to see it.”
The car is filthy, and the windshield is suffused with dust where the wipers can’t reach. I ask:
“You been drivin much?
“Since
“
“I had to visit some colleagues there,” he replies, dead serious.
Best not to ask anymore questions. He has that wiry, tense air about him, like he could snap at the slightest pretext. He keeps his eyes fixed on the road and asks:
“So, you from the City?”
“Born and raised. Only life I’ve ever known.”
“What do you do? Don’t tell me... what was it, Sealed ASS? Don’t tell that.”
“Nothing really. Just work there. Hang out with my girlfriend.”
“That’s what you call doing something?”
“Sometimes I write, I guess.”
“Ahhh... what do you write? Journalism? That kind of stuff?”
“Nahhh... mostly just stuff about myself. I mean, like fiction, but really it’s about myself.”
“Take this,” he says, handing me a non-descript white business card. It reads: Brigade for the Oppressed. Below it is an address that I recognize. It’s a couple blocks away from my apartment.
“What’s this for?”
“That’s our headquarters. We need writers like you.”
Whatever. This guy bugs me. Reminds me of one of those guys selling the Communist Call newspaper on the street corners. One time I bought a copy out of curiosity. The whole thing was specious, filled with maxims, practically every sentence ending with an exclamation point. I couldn’t get through one article in the whole issue.
“I don’t know anything about politics,” I say.
“It doesn’t matter. We need a worker’s perspective. You will be paid on commission.”
I shrug my shoulders and stuff the card in my pocket. The city is growing up on the horizon, and there’s a looming traffic jam up ahead. In a few moments we’re going to be part of it.
We’ve been inching forward in this mass of honking cars for half an hour now. The guy next to me is getting visibly agitated, gripping the steering wheel, muttering under his breath. The car behind us is honking its horn incessantly.
“This is bad administration. People shouldn’t have to drive. To wait in this mess. Public transportation should be free and convenient for everybody!”
“Yeah but it’s nice to have a car sometimes. It makes you an individual.” I like to play devil’s advocate.
He ignores me and spins around and shakes his fist at the car behind us.
“
Then he gets out, puts his hands on his hips and stares at the driver behind us. Now he backs up a couple steps, puts his hands on the hood of the Pinto, and hoists himself up. He scrambles from the hood to the roof. I get out and look around at the other drivers. I shrug my shoulders and point to the madman on the Pinto. Who me? I don’t know this guy. Don’t ask me to stop him.
“Comrades!” shouts the young man, cupping his mouth. Now he sweeps his hand at the mass of cars around him. “We are here, today, witness to the disgrace of the modern capitalist state! Bad administration, crafty international finance capitalists, and corrupt governments have conspired to give you, the proletariat, the very substance of their economies, the key to their financial success, the rotten fruits of their trees, while they, the conspiring businessmen make off with the ripe, nutritious fruit. Comrades! Join me and raise the brigades against the tyranny that conspires to enslave you!”
The cacophony of honking horns and epithets is overwhelming. Everybody wants the impassioned orator to shut up and get back in his car and move along with the traffic, however slow it is. He pontificates:
“My comrades! This is what they want! But just wait! Soon you will be doing more than merely honking horns...”
I leave the babbling would-be demagogue and walk along the cars to the off-ramp, into the city. Once in the downtown grid I hop on an inner-city bus. In my notebook, in-between bumps and jolts:
Revolutionary kid picked me up today. Going off about the system, the conspiracy. Wants me to write for a newspaper he puts out. Could be my first paying gig. But I don’t like this guy. He rubs me wrong. Idea: story about a guy stuck in traffic. He gets so pissed off that he just gets out of his car and walks. Traffic backs up for miles and miles because of his car. When he finally gets to the city it is empty and he can finally hear the birds sing.
I get to Leo’s just in time to meet Gina. She’s sitting in the back, in one of her favorite booths, reading a copy of The Daily Times, one of The City’s daily papers. I sit down opposite her.
“What’s shakin?”
“Nothin. Just reading an article about Lars Von Trier.”
I order a soup and salad special and a beer. Gina orders a tea.
“Oh yeah? Any good?”
“Hold on a sec.” She finishes and folds the newspaper. “It was just a short interview with him. He was talking about that movie that came out a while ago, ‘Dancer in the Dark.’.”
“Oh yeah, I remember seeing a trailer for that one.”
“It’s all shot on digital camera and Björk is playing the role of a blind Czech immigrant in
“Sounds like fun for all. What about it?”
“It was a big hit at
“I personally think that’s a good thing. And all the controversy goes along with it...”
“He confesses to having a fear of flying, so they had to shoot the whole movie in
“So he’s making a critique on
“He says that 80% of the movies and television he watches are American...”
“Ahhh... so now he’s an expert..”
“And there’s more... it’s a musical.”
“Oh man. We have to see it. I can’t believe I passed this one up. Since I’ve been at Sealed ASS I don’t know where my mind has gone to!”
“Wanna rent it?”
“But let’s watch it at my place this time,” I say.
“Awwww...”
“Why not?”
“Your place is a mess!”
“I cleaned up a couple days ago. Come on.”
“Why not at my place? It’s so much better!”
“Yeah but we stayed at your place last time. Besides, we have to share the video with your roommates, and they’re always walking in and out of the living room. I wanna concentrate on this one.”
“You just wanna take advantage of me, you pervert!”
We take the subway, get off at my stop, and walk to the local video store. It’s an independent store, so amongst the usual commercial stuff, there’s an agreeable smattering of independent, underground, fetish, porno, and art-fag movies. Luckily, someone has just returned a copy of “Dancer”, so we rent it and walk a couple blocks to my apartment. We climb the six flights to my apartment because the elevator is out of service.
“I thought they fixed this thing,” says Gina.
“They just fixed it and it just broke. But I don’t care. It gives my building character.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
I enter my apartment first and turn on the lights. I almost trip over a pair of shoes near the entrance, but, other than this, the hallway is relatively clean. Suddenly, I’m self-conscious about the state of my apartment. I’m looking at everything through her eyes now, and I’m amazed that I could let things go this far. Clothes, which I’ve judged not too smelly, therefore still wearable, are hanging around the room: off my speakers, off my couch, off my bicycle. A couple days ago I jammed the rank ones in a duffel bag which I’ve been planning to take to the laundromat. Books are everywhere, not to mention notes of all kinds with phone numbers and jotted down inspirations. My kitchen is overflowing with dishes, and glasses are all over the apartment: on top of my television, in the bathroom, on the coffee table, like monuments to my slovenliness amidst a wasteland of notes, newspapers, and magazines.
“Oh, my god! Jesus Eric! You call this clean!”
“Man, you should’ve seen it a couple days ago.”
“I’m glad I didn’t...”
“I mean, had I known you were coming I would’ve straightened the place up a bit more.”
“I don’t know why you guys always have to be such pigs!”
“Hey! There’s a difference between being a pig and being messy.”
“Like my ex-roommate, Albert. The guy was such a slob... leaving his dishes everywhere, his clothes... and it was such a pain in the ass to get him to do his fair share of the cleaning.”
“That, to me, sounds like a pig. I mean, look at my place. OK, I’ll admit, it’s all messy, but, the difference between me and a pig is that I don’t leave food out to get spoiled, and the dishes never pile up too high. Underneath it all I’m a sanitary person. A little disorganized, but sanitary.”
“Your kitchen doesn’t look that sanitary to me.”
“All you see there are a couple plates and some glasses... and if you look carefully you won’t find anything filthy.”
“As long as you keep it to yourself. I don’t think I could live with anyone who keeps their place like this.”
“Wait a second. If I lived with you it would be different. I would respect your right to cleanliness. You can’t expect me to be Mr Clean.”
“How can you be so misogynist? We have a right to keep our places clean! It’s your duty to help us clean it up!”
“No way. I don’t agree at all. How can you say it’s misogynist if we don’t conform to your lifestyle? We men can just as easily complain and say: why can’t you be messy like us? Remember what that French guy said? There is no right and wrong. It’s all relative...”
“Give me a break. You can’t expect two people living together to live in this kind of mess.”
“But that’s the point. If two people live together they have to adapt to each other. Find common ground.”
“So if we live together that means you’re gonna continue being a slob, and you’re not gonna help with the cleaning?”
“No. And I’m not a slob. I’m disorganized. I’m saying that if we live together I will clean, and organize, probably more than what I do now...”
“I hope so.”
“... and that you’ll probably have to let things slide a bit more and accept some of my disorganization.”
“Whatever. You’re not really convincing me.”
“You can say whatever, but it’s not misogyny. It’s our nature.”
“I’m gonna stop this discussion right now because I can see it’s going nowhere. I’m gonna make this place somewhat habitable so we can at least watch this video.” With this she begins clearing the coffee table and I gather all my wayward clothes and put them in a pile. Now we get to work on the dishes. Teamwork, I hear Pepe say in my mind.
We finally settle down for the movie. I have to get up and push play on the VCR because the remote doesn’t work. I fast forward through the FBI warning and the trailers.
“What’s wrong with the picture?” asks Gina.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s all funky looking.”
“It looks OK to me.”
“The colors, they’re all... red. And the picture, is like folded in the middle.”
I guess I’m so used to this TV that I don’t even notice it anymore. I found it on my corner a year ago and have been watching it ever since. At least it was free.
“Oh, that. I call that the SHRAP broken glass effect, that folding thing I mean. That other one is the SHRAP post-apocalyptic effect.”
“What’s SHRAP?”
I point to the brand name below the screen.
“I never heard of SHRAP.”
“It’s one letter off SHARP, get it?”
“Whatever. It sucks. Let’s watch the movie now.”
The movie was way too long for our tastes, and the music was particularly grating. And the ending was typical, not to mention predictable. I’m thinking that if anyone can actually make it through the two cacophonous hours of Björk shrieking with sampled industrial machinery clanking in the background, that if they can get through that to the totally depressing ending, then indeed they might be convinced that the death penalty is barbaric and unjust. Or that they just wasted two hours of their time.
“But I don’t think he’s convincing anyone,” I say.
“Why is that?” Gina asks sleepily.
“Because the only people that are gonna make it through this unwatchable movie are people that already share his point of view. I mean, c’mon. Who’s he gonna convert with this? What’s the point?”
“Yeah...” says Gina under her breath, her eyelids halfway shut.
“But I do like the idea of someone renting this thinking they’re gonna see a nice little musical, set in rural
Gina is asleep now. I set my alarm clock and turn off the light. I can still get four hours of shut-eye before work tomorrow.
On the subway platform, blurry masses of commuters all around. I have to shuffle and shift to let people by. Some old lady behind me keeps shoving, pushing me forward. A suit in front of me is elbowing me, pushing me back in the old lady’s direction. Squeaks and grinding announce the arrival of the subway car. Everybody surges forward at once. They all funnel into the car and fill out the seats, the isles, until they’re crammed together liked canned meat. I barely make it inside and the signal announces that the door is about to close. At this moment I see a pile of notebooks in front of me, on the subway platform. My notebooks. My future book. I dash out to retrieve them when the door slides shut and the subway takes off - with my right shoe. I look down at my exposed foot. Exposed, hairy foot - with claws. Actually much bigger and uglier than I remember it. Soon the platform fills with more people, the next train comes, and off I go, station after station, in search of the missing shoe...
The bus ride to Sealed ASS is about an hour, so I usually occupy myself with a book or a newspaper. Sometimes, when I wake up late, I end up with nothing, having forgotten everything in my mad rush. I have to be content then with the passing scenery and the freak parade getting on and off the bus. Today, with my scant four hours of sleep should have been one of those “Observing” days, but Gina was with me and made sure I left the house with her when she left for work.
On my lap I have today’s issue of “The Daily Times”. The bus is nearing the industrial belt and I’ve read practically the whole thing except for the “Letters to the Editor”. This is a section that I usually save for last, but lately it’s become one of my favorite newspaper moments. Usually the letters are replete with all kinds of grammatical errors, usually some old fart bitching about “the kids these days”. But, in their way, they are an accurate barometer of society. After reading a couple letters about the new bus fare hike, I get to one entitled: It’s Horrible.
It’s a shame that I even have to write this letter. I am a tax-paying, law-abiding citizen. I go out of my way to respect people, and they usually reciprocate. The same can’t be said for my boss, who the other day cut my salary without any sort of explanation! It’s a shame. I work for a big company, probably one of the most important employers in the region. My job is difficult and requires utmost responsibility. And I always do it well. The company is prospering, but for some reason the boss has decided to save at my expense. Please, where’s the respect?
There is nothing strange about this “Letter to the Editor”, but I read it twice. It reminds me of many previous work situations. It makes me think: everybody has their angle in any given situation.
I’m exhausted, even after two cups of machine made coffee. My mind is blank, not the usual goldmine of pranks and glib comments. In between losing Solitaire games I doze off until it’s time for lunch. Normally I bring a sandwich with me, but today I rushed out the house without enough time to prepare one. Luckily, today has also coincided with Pepe’s invitation to lunch. He summons me to his office at
“So, Miguel... are you hungry?”
“Starving... where we gonna go?”
I’m looking forward to a meal in a classy joint with small portions but first class service. The kind of place with ice in the urinals. Pepe answers:
“Nowhere! We’re going to stay right here. What did you think?”
“No, nothing,” I say, trying to conceal my disappointment. “It’s just that I saw you with your sunglasses and I thought...”
“That’s because we’re going to stay on Sealed ASS premises, but we’re going to be up there,” he says, pointing straight up at the ceiling. “We’re going to the roof, Miguel. The VIP section of Sealed ASS.”
I’ve never even heard of this VIP section, but, then again, there are many things about Sealed ASS I have yet to discover. I can’t help feeling anxious as we take the back corridors, through the maze of cubicles. On the way I see some familiar faces, probably people that drive by me everyday while I’m hitching rides.
We reach what looks like an emergency exit and Pepe opens the door and leads me onto a fire escape. He points to the steps leading up.
“Take the lead Miguel. Go on! They go all the way up to the roof.”
I get to the end of the staircase and there is a small ladder leading up to the roof. I look at Pepe, perplexed.
“You want me to climb this?”
“Go on! It’s only a couple feet long.”
I hesitate, and though skeptical, I climb up and see what he meant by VIP lounge. The roof is covered in smooth, painted cement. There is a circle with a large H painted in the middle, and two basketball hoops at either end. The nets are soiled and sagging from disuse. In the middle is an aluminum table and two matching chairs, reflecting the intense
“This is it? This is the VIP section?”
“It sure is Miguel. Fantastic, isn’t it?”
“I guess I was expecting something a little more... well, plush.”
“Come here, Miguel. Follow me,” he says, walking towards one of the roof edges. “Look at that. What do you see?”
We are at the edge now, and, with my hands on the ledge, I look over and down. Nothing. Just another flat roof, one story high, part of the Sealed ASS warehouse. “It’s the warehouse. That’s all I see.”
“And that?” Pepe points at two giant cylinders jutting out from two opposite corners of the building.
“A couple of cylinders?”
“Wrong, Miguel. That is industrial might. That is prosperity. You’re just a kid, but when you get older, you’ll see that there are always multiple options in any given situation. The great Sternislouse said, ‘The glass is never half empty...’,”
“... it is half full.”
“Fantastic Miguel! I can see you’ve been doing your homework.” He claps me on the back. Like a father would his own child. “Come on Miguel. Let’s go take a seat.”
We walk to the aluminum table in the middle of the dejected basketball court. Pepe sits opposite me, with his hands clasped behind his head.
“Ahhhh... this is great! Don’t you think Miguel?” He leans forward and grabs the edges of the table, shifting it so the sun rays bounce up on his face. “It’s nice to escape sometimes, don’t you think?”
“It is nice Mr Pepe, but I thought we were going to eat lunch.”
He looks at his watch and says, “They should be here with the food any minute. I ordered pizza. You like that?”
“Sure. Yeah. Pizza’s OK.”
“I knew you would. Now I got a question for you while we’re up here.”
“Shoot.”
“What do think about yourself, here at Sealed ASS?”
“About me? Here? It’s OK if you ask me. No one really bothers me. I don’t get stressed out.”
“But what do think about your position in the company?”
“My position? Administrative Assistant? It’s not too bad.”
“Miguel, Miguel,” says Pepe, shaking his head. “What do you think about me?”
“You? You seem like a pretty nice guy.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Pepe leans forward again and says, “Let me tell you a secret Miguel. Something no one knows here at Sealed ASS.” In the reflection of Pepe’s sunglasses I can see the two pillars of industrial might. “I... am not American.”
“What?”
“That’s what I mean. I’m not American.”
“No. I understood you the first time. It’s just not what I was expecting.”
“My mother came from
“I kind of figured that you were a foreigner... I mean, with a name like Pepe...”
“Giuseppe Hartmann is my name. Pepe is easier for people to remember. That’s why I use it.” He pauses, then asks, “Well?”
...
“What does that mean to you?”
“That you weren’t born here. So what? There are lots of people in
“Exactly. We came here to build a new life.
“That’s a touching story Mr Pepe.”
“That’s what I mean, Miguel. You can do whatever you want. You’re American! You should know that!”
“I’m not that kind of American Mr Pepe. I don’t care if I’m the director of Sealed ASS or any other multinational.”
“A few years ago I was depressed and by sheer coincidence I came upon a fantastic book called ‘Success and Popularity in Seven Proven Steps’. It changed my life Miguel. I was born again. It made me realize why my parents came here and what I was supposed to do. You should read it. I’ll lend it to you if you want.”
“No thanks. I don’t really like to read.”
“You need to change your attitude, Miguel. That’s one of the seven steps: change your attitude. You do that and the rest will follow.”
Pepe’s cell goes off. He speaks briefly before hanging up.
“The pizza’s here.”
“Oh great. I’m starving.”
“Hold on. I’m not finished yet,” Pepe says, fingering his mustache. “Let me put it this way. Hmmm... Miguel Gomez. That’s... that’s a Hispanic name, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. It is. But I’m not Hispanic. Remember Mr Pepe? That’s my nom de plume.”
“Oh? I thought... but you... look...”
“Yeah, maybe a little bit.”
“Oh, well. Doesn’t matter. What I want to say is that here, in this country, you can come from the humblest of backgrounds and rise to the top. A self-made man!”
“Yes you can. I agree. But how many people have done that? Carnegie, Ford... Sternislouse to name a few. I have NO desire to be like them. That’s not what I’m looking for in life.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Miguel. And I even put in a good word for you to Sternislouse. That you were doing a fine job. That you should be in line for a promotion.”
“Are you serious? To do what?” I may not be a “go-getter” in the conventional sense, but I can feel the momentum of this conversation, this job, pushing me into unknown territory.
“Assistant director, Miguel. It’s just a formality. You’ll basically be doing the same thing, only for more money. What do you think about that?”
“You know, I could use a raise,” I say, resigning to the temptation of money. Plus, refusing this would be a loss of face to him.
“I knew you would see it my way.” He sits back in his chair, rays of light glinting off his sunglasses and shiny head.
“Mr Pepe?”
“Yes Miguel.”
“Didn’t you say we were going to eat pizza?”
“Oh yes! I’m sorry. I don’t know where my mind was!”
When we get back to Pepe’s office the pizza is already room temperature. I pick up a limp wedge and nibble at it. Guess my dreams of fine dining will have to be pushed off to a later date.
I’m totally fed up with this lousy bus stop. Am I the only miserable wretch that has to wait here? And the bus? What’s going on with the bus? I kick a blanched can around, re-hashing the day’s events, Pepe’s unexpected offer. Imagine if I get promoted? Assistant Director. What’s the difference between that and Administrative Assistant? Maybe now I can get a car. I’ve never contemplated getting a car. As long as I can remember I’ve been taking the subway and the bus and that’s always been fine with me. I’ve always justified my lack of a car by saying it’s a useless luxury, that it would give me more problems in the end. But now this prospect seems real and I’m thinking...
I thumb absent mindedly at the passing traffic, at the usual German and Japanese machines roaring past. No time for the luckless. A pock marked Chevrolet pick-up pulls over and the passenger side window opens. Driving it is a man wearing full revolution era regalia - tights and all. He could be one of the founding fathers, minus a horse.
“Young man, these are right treacherous times we live in. It is too late to retire from the contest, for the first shots have been fired. I beseech you, young one, not to supplicate, but to take up arms against the tyranny that has ignored our remonstrations.”
“I don’t really understand.”
“Come, join your brethren, for I can see that you haven’t yet been shackled to the feet of the throne.”
“You goin to The City?”
“To the march against his Majesty’s futile and unjust armies. Come here lad. Get on.”
I take the step up and settle into the pick-up’s squalid interior. The dashboard is a sea of shell casings and empty cigarette packs. This guy’s a class act. Definitely gotta write about this one. He yee-haws and the pick-up lurches forward, backfires, and finally joins the stream of cars heading to the city. Could this be one of those militia men from the badlands? Ready and armed like any good, constitution-abiding American? Behind me, on a gun rack, is a thirty-ought-six. I venture:
“Where’re you comin from?”
“It matters not where I am coming from lad. It matters only where I am going to.”
“And what’s with the tights?”
“Be not afraid of my entreaties young lad, and do not debase the attire of your fellow man. We are here together and one united against the tyranny of earthly kings.”
“You talk kind of funny man. What’s with the kings and stuff?”
“We shall prevail if his Majesty in Heaven so deems it just.”
He slaps the side of the truck.
“Yee haw!”
I can feel every staccato note of the highway underneath me, the rumble of the pick-up’s engine vibrating the seat. He’s clutching the wheel now, slapping the door, probably late for a militia meeting. Or full scale battle. My ass is getting real sore, and luckily up ahead is the first sign of civilization. A traffic jam. Instead of slowing down he speeds up and swerves into the side lane, dust and debris flying everywhere. We are on the onramp now and he is tailgating and swerving around cars at every opportunity. Somehow, we make to
“Be not afraid of greatness, young lad. I know not what course you may take, but as for me, Give me
The pickup backfires and shoots into the intersection, against the light, and cars skid out, barely avoiding an accident. Now I have another entry for my book:
These hitching encounters are getting weird. Today met militia man - not Timothy McVeigh fatigue wearing type - no, this guy was real theatrical, wearing a revolutionary costume. “You haven’t yet been shackled to the feet of the throne,” he said. Where on earth was this guy going? What happened to him? How did he end up like that? I’m wondering if it’s contagious, this craziness all around.
I cross the street and walk to Leo’s.
