Sometimes I think I’m going crazy. It’s the weekend again. I can’t remember how it became the weekend. I can’t remember the bad humor of Monday and Tuesday, the routine drudgery of Wednesday, the hopefulness of Thursday, and finally Friday, which always seems to breeze by. I’m here now, in bed, listening to Beethoven’s 7th, wondering just what I’ve done with myself this week. I reach over to my nightstand and grab my notebook. No, there are no new entries, and yes, it definitely is Saturday. For some reason this thought gives me gas and I let one rip under the covers. It’s spicy, giving me a clue as to what I ate the day before. Probably the Mexican joint on the corner. Disgusted with myself, I get up and fluff the sheets. Then I open the window and look down at the street. Ah... Saturday, the sweet repose of the weekend. People are maundering, gawking, generally doing nothing. In the kitchen I brew coffee and while I wait I flip through my CD collection. Outside it’s brisk, somewhat overcast, so I try find something to fit the mood. Here’s a good one: Mingus Plays Piano. Just Charlie improvising, recorded for posterity. I pour my coffee, black, and mix in two heaping spoonfuls of sugar.
I don’t feel like bothering with the newspaper today so I pass up the newsstand and continue walking. Gina’s out of town at her parents, and it’s been so long since I’ve seen anyone - since I’ve been at Sealed ASS, all my free time has been spent with her. I feel like a ship without a port. What can I do, who can I see? Suddenly I’m depressed, dwelling on my own sense of uselessness. I go to the old cafe and drink another coffee, eat a bagel, hoping to run into some neighborhood freaks; but no one stops by. I take the cafe’s paper and flip through to the movie section. There’s a new serial killer movie out, a documentary about out of control firearms, and an intentionally politically incorrect satire about Modern American Life. Just reading the synopsis for each of these makes me depressed. No, no multiplexes for me today. I don’t need to see cynical renditions of the life I supposedly lead, gore, or critically acclaimed pedantry. Disheartened, I lean back in my chair and watch the folks drift by. What if I tail one of them, like in a noir movie? I see a spanking new Land Rover pull up in front of the cafe. I fix on it, because something about the bespectacled kid in it reminds me of somebody. I watch as the kid exchanges a couple words with a woman, then I see what looks like money exchanged. The kid gets out and looks around furtively, untucks his shirt, stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts walking. It hits me that this is the guy with the yellow Pinto, from a couple months back. I leave some change on the table and follow him up the street. From my wallet I pull out his business card: Brigade for the Oppressed. Yeah, this is the guy. But what was he doing taking handouts from a lady that looked like his mom? Maybe it was his mom. Dunno. I follow him up
Pepe is in his office with Jack and Zack, waving a piece of Scotch tape in front of them. He’s shaking his head now, then slams his fist on the desk and slumps into his chair and shoos them off, like two pesky flies. He buries his head in his hands and combs through his hair with his fingers. As the zombies exit I walk hurriedly to my desk and sit down. Charlene is a little ball of fury, with her hands on her hips:
“Jack, Zack... that’ll teach you to fool around with my phone!”
The zombies sit behind their computers, traps shut.
“Miguel,” she says, looking at me, “gimme some support here!”
I clear my throat. “Charlene’s right. Your behavior is downright despicable. In fact, maddeningly passive-aggressive and ineffectual. Instead of direct and honest confrontation with the issues that irk you, you abscond, snigger, and make pathetic retributive attempts to sublimate what is really an inner dissatisfaction, an inner yearning to actually be that which you so manifestly try to abhor.”
Charlene is gawking at me, wide-eyed, infinitely dull. The truth is, I do long for blissful ignorance. Charlene, with her screwed-up, smug sense of righteousness; her self-confidence; her damn Russell Clooney, bounty-hunter fantasies; her gum-smacking trap; there is a logic there. A brutal, constant logic. She’s a survivor. I’m a goddamn misfit. My nose buried in books that only deepen my discontent and self-loathing, while her animal inertia pushes her on through corporate
“Thank you, Miguel. I don’t understand a thing you said, but thank you.”
Charlene picks up the phone and dials. “Yeah, it’s crazy... NO... OH... MY... GOD... you’re kidding...”
I try to concentrate on the Daily Time’s crossword when Pepe walks out of the office, pallid, disheveled. After a few minutes he shuffles back through to his office, coffee in hand. I get up and go to his door and knock.
“Is everything all right, Mr Pepe?” It’s only now that I notice some weird splotches on his exposed arms. Like the remnants of some kind of skin rash.
“Yes, Miguel just fine.” His face is puffed and sick-looking. He stabs at random keys on his computer. “I have some work to do. Why don’t you come back later?” He manages a weak, tight-lipped grin that says LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE.
Back at my desk, I try with all my might to tolerate the boredom and Charlene’s endless yapping. But, no go. I simply can’t take this, even for my fifteen-hunny a month. Was I born into the world for this? Convenience at what price? Madness. I pick up my cell and walk out like I’m taking a coffee break. I walk through the hallways, down to the receptionist, back outside, where I have coverage. I dial Sealed ASS’s number, then Charlene’s extension:
“Hello! This is Big City Telephone! May I ask with whom we’re speaking?”
“Uhhh... yeah? This is Charlene?”
“Charlene? What is your last name?”
“Johnson. Charlene Johnson.”
“Wonderful! Charlene Johnson, did you know that you’ve been selected, through random, totally up-to-date computer automation, for a chance to win our first ever BCT Celebrity date day?”
“Who.. me?”
“Yes you! Charlene Johnson! How would you like to win a date with the one and only Russell Clooney?”
“No... really? Deek! Are you pulling my leg?”
“This is not a joke, Charlene Johnson. You actually have a chance to win a date with
“I can’t believe it! What do I have to do?”
“Well, Miss Charlene Johnson, as you may or may not know, we are cleaning the phone lines today. After studying the use-frequency of our phone lines, we discovered that you have one of the most outstanding use to non-use rates at BCT. This means we need to clean your cables in order to optimize your phone conversations. So between now and 6pm, you cannot, under any circumstance use this line. If you do, the dust being blown out of the cables may come out your end of the phone line, causing permanent hearing loss.”
“Oh... I don’t want that to happen. That’s terrible!”
“But it’s only a small price to pay for BCT’s excellent premium phone service! And, not to mention a possible DREAM DATE WITH RUSSELL CLOONEY!”
“And... so I’m not supposed to use the phone between now and
“That’s right Charlene! And... if you can do this, you’ll be eligible for that dream date with Russell Clooney!”
“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!”
“Now Charlene Johnson, it is very important that you don’t mention this to anybody.”
“Why?”
“Because, Charlene Johnson, you have been chosen in a lottery from amongst hundreds of potential dream-date winners. If others find out, obviously, it will decrease your chances of winning.”
“OK... OK... but can I tell my girlfriends... I mean... when I get home?”
“OF COURSE! Now, thank you Charlene Johnson, and have a nice day! Good-bye and good-luck!”
I snap my cell shut and take a deep breath. After my ingenious BCT impersonation I need to collect myself, walk back into that office and pretend that I have no hand this latest episode of the Psychological Crusades.
Back in the office I prop my feet on the formica desk and try to tackle the crossword. The phone rings and Charlene just looks at it and bites her nails. She doesn’t answer it, however, and the office is once again silent. I guess, in a way, I’m a cruel bastard, but just think of the peace that I’ve finally brought to this dump!
9 down, six spaces, first letter H. Clue: Brought Icarus down. I’m thinking of this, imagining the mythic man escaping the labyrinth in
My head is on one of those daydream waves and I come to, spittle forming at the corner of my mouth. Everything is pretty much the same, except for Charlene who isn’t yapping on the telephone. She’s typing something on her computer, every few minutes pausing to look at her phone when it rings, then biting her nails. I can see Pepe in his office with his head buried between his arms. I wonder what’s with him. He’s normally the one that tries to cheer me up. Hmmm... I click on the Solitaire window and start up a game.
I’ve almost got my four aces when the door to the office opens and a man wearing a suit and tinted glasses steps in. On his head is a fashionable sweep of silver hair. He stops in the middle, in front of Charlene’s desk. She just looks up at him in silent awe. The man looks at Jack and Zack, then me. He announces, matter of factly:
“It is I, Sternislouse.”
He spins on his heel and walks straight to Pepe’s office and closes the door behind him. Charlene and I look at one another, and she shrugs her shoulders.
“You mean, that’s thee Sternislouse?” I ask, in a low voice.
“Dunno. I’ve never seen him,” she whispers back.
We look at Pepe’s office and the man with tinted glasses is standing above him, lecturing. Pepe is shaking his head, trying to reply, but the man keeps thrusting out his palm and stopping him midway. Then the man gestures with his right thumb, pointing back into our office. It seems like he’s pointing at me. I look at Charlene and she’s as perplexed as I am. I look back at the office and Pepe is nodding, then, for a brief instant we make eye contact. He looks back at the man sheepishly and nods his head. Then he stands up and turns around and snatches the photos off his shelves, then some books and rushes out of the office. He’s about to leave, when he stops.
“Everybody, it was a pleasure to work with you.” His eyes are glassy, puffy. “Charlene, you were a great deal of help to me. Jack and Zack, you were reliable, punctual fellows. And Miguel, you’re a paragon of Sealed ASS conduct. You deserve everything that comes to you. Good-bye.”
He rushes out the door and there is only silence and the humming computer fans as we try to comprehend what has just happened. The man walks out of Pepe’s office and Charlene blurts out:
“Mr Sternislouse, you can’t do that! Pepe was a great boss!”
“Not now missy.” He looks at me and pushes his index on the bridge of his glasses. “Miguel Gomez?”
“Yes. That’s me.”
“Step into the office with me.”
I enter the office behind Sternislouse and he sits back in Pepe’s chair.
“Shut the door please, Miguel.”
I shut it and take my seat opposite him. There’s this weird sulphuric smell. Like gas and cologne.
“It’s a damn shame,” he begins, “but it had to be done. Pepe’s a fine man, but frankly Miguel, he’s incompetent. He’s great at a social level, which has been beneficial in relations with clients and prospectives, but his administrative skills are questionable.”
“I thought he was a decent boss.”
“Ah yes. I’m sure you did, Miguel. But I, Sternislouse, have to relegate the positions of power in Sealed ASS, and frankly Pepe has become somewhat of a liability.”
“But he had good rapport with us here in the office... I thought...”
“Miguel, Miguel, Miguel. The truth is,” he leans towards me now, “the guy got on my nerves. That’s it.” He leans back in his chair and weaves his fingers together behind his head. “Miguel, you’re young, but you should know that in business, it’s not who you know, but who you blow. Who wants a sour apple?”
Is it just me, or does the man have an uncanny ability to spout out clichés?
“I think I know what you mean. Still, I don’t understand...”
“Come with me Miguel, let me show you something. Maybe this’ll clear things up for you.”
He gets up and I’m following him out the back office when he stops and announces:
“Ladies and gentlemen, fellow coworkers, you will now be answering to Miguel for all your work-related inquiries. Collect your jacket, Miguel, we’re going for a ride.”
The force of the wind blowing from the helicopter is tremendous and I find myself holding my head like in one of those Vietnam war movies, only I don’t have a helmet, or for that matter a hat. The buh buh buh buh of the whirring blades is the only thing in my mind as I follow Sternislouse to the cockpit door. His pilot gives us a nod as we step in. I sit next to Sternislouse and he straps himself to the seat and motions for me to follow suit. After Sternislouse’s thumbs-up the pilot nods again and he pulls back on the lever and I feel a slight tug of inertia as we lift off, over the Sealed ASS warehouse, now over the rest of the industrial belt and soon the cars and the highway below look like a model train set. The cars which normally race past me move like ants to their destinations, and suddenly I have a true sense of relativity. Up here, everything looks minuscule. Sternislouse points ahead, and there, out of the earth sprout the first skyscrapers on the city’s horizon.
“Your first time in a helicopter, Miguel?” he shouts, just inches from my ear, straining over the hum of the motor.
“Yeah,” I yell, slack-jawed at the neon wonder looming ahead.
Sternislouse grins and sits back in his seat and now we’re over the off ramps leading into the city. We’re whirring ahead at a good clip and the nose of the helicopter is tilted down slightly. The concrete and glass walls shoot down below me, merging into a multicolored river of cars. I look to the side, through the half-bubble at the buildings as they blur by me. I can even see the occasional person for brief instances. I’ve never contemplated this view, on the level with these high rise offices, looking in. I’ve always looked up at these bastions of corporate might, never thought of the cogs that make up the machine. The pilot pulls back gently on the toggle and we rise up, above the tallest of the skyscrapers and I half expect to see a rock band with blowing mullets playing on one of the rooftops. We’re hovering over one of these rooftops, over a giant letter H and I’m reminded briefly of the crossword I was trying to figure out earlier. I think of poor dejected Pepe and then I think of myself and Sternislouse way up here, and it comes to me: hubris. The six letter word missing from the scheme. I’m a goddamn bastard for taking that job from Pepe and I’m a coward because I’m afraid to turn it down. The helicopter lands and Sternislouse slides open the cockpit door and holds it and lets me out first. I hop off and run, covering my head again, squinting my eyes under the flattening gale, and run to the door by the stairwell. Sternislouse is right behind me and we stop and watch the helicopter lift off slowly, like a giant insect into the city’s skyline.
On the top floor of the building is a cocktail lounge - humming with businessmen and businesswomen, stride piano wafting through the refined atmosphere like celestial music. We’re at the bar now and Sternislouse has just bought me a 15 dollar Gibson.
“Come along, Miguel. Check out this marvelous view.”
We walk to the window where we can see the red cusp of dusk outlining the neon rims of the city. It’s a clear day, with only the picturesque cloud or two highlighting the horizon. I lean in closer and try to peer down. I can’t manage the full vertical drop, yet images of the terrorist attacks come to me, of people just like Sternislouse and the folk around us leaping from heights just like this; on days just like this.
“Incredible, isn’t it Miguel.” He leans back on the railing between us and the window and sighs. “I brought Pepe here too, a few years ago.”
“Mr Sternislouse. I just want you to know that I appreciate all you’ve done for me - I mean the helicopter, this place - but I just can’t take Pepe’s job. I just don’t feel right about it.”
“It’s a done deal, Miguel. Stick to you guns, it all comes out in the wash.”
“What?”
“Patience is a virtue.”
“Maybe I’m just a softie. I never wanted anything more than the job I had. Certainly not Pepe’s job.”
“He spoke highly of you, Miguel. You should know that our site near The City was my first. The rest of the world came later. But, The City’s site is something really special. That’s why I want you there. You’re tried and proven and I think I can trust you. Face the music, Miguel... you’re already in there. You’d be a fool not to take advantage of the situation. Six digits a year plus 50 in Sealed ASS stock options... and commission on every closer. Opportunities like that don’t come knocking on your door too often.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Tell you what Miguel... just give it...”
His phone rings:
“Yehhhllo.”
...
“Hola, mi amor...”
...
“Si... por supuesto... donde siempre. Un beso.”
Back to me:
“I have to run, Miguel.”
I look at my barely touched Gibson.
“You take your time. Drink whatever you want. You’re on my tab here.”
Sternislouse exchanges a few words with the bartender then waves back to me and walks off. I take another sip, think about calling Gina, but decide better. I shut my cell off, take the elevator down 96 flights to the lobby and walk out into a bustling financial district. I’m too discombobulated by the day’s events, too overwhelmed to know whether or not I’m depressed or elated by the turn of events. It all smacks at underhanded aggrandizement, of trophies on mud pedestals.
Man, do I need a drink. I walk through the unfamiliar grid, look for any decent looking bar. I see an Irish pub and enter, sit and order a whiskey on the rocks. Then another, with a beer back. I’m in mid sip when a suit taps me on the shoulder and makes like he’s lighting his cigar. I slide him a pack of matches in front of me.
“You don’t mind do you?”
“No, it’s alright.”
He pulls up a stool next to me and orders a greyhound. I thought he meant the cigar smoke, not join me; but I’m not gonna say anything now.
“I don’t think you can smoke in here.”
“Cigarettes, kid. I got myself an arrangement with em anyway.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Thanks for the company, son. I just need to unwind. Been a long day. Phewwwww.” He tipples his greyhound and swishes an ice cube around his mouth before continuing. “You want my advice son, stay outta politics. Not unless you’re prepared to sell your soul.”
This guy pulling my leg or what?
“Look, man. I’m not in the mood for it.”
“Just hang with me for a minute. I appreciate it, really. I just need to unwind, like I said before.”
“Unwind, then.”
I pull on my beer and check the clock on the wall. Gina should be off work soon. Might as well listen to the guy. Random bar freak.
“You know what a kiwi is son?”
I turn and look at him. You fucking kidding me? A kiwi?
“You know, that funny looking fruit that’s green on the inside and all furry on the outside?”
“Yeah. I know that.”
“Well I bet you didn’t know this: did you know that it was originally called a Chinese Gooseberry? I mean, it’s no wonder they changed the name... who the hell would buy Chinese Gooseberries... sounds like some disgusting venereal disease if you ask me... they changed the name to kiwi and all of a sudden people started buying them. There’s a lesson there son. Now if you’re clever enough, instead of incubating that there barstool for the rest of your life you’ll get with it like yours truly. I mean, you gotta learn from things. Like me. Fred Dingler is my given name, but I changed it to
...
“Now, you’re probably wondering about the `fair´part. I mean, it has a nice ring to it, a good political moniker... but it’s origins are much stranger than you think...”
“Hey man, while you’re ‘unwinding’, do you think you could get me a beer?”
He orders a draft and another greyhound and continues:
“Let’s see. I have to start way back to when I was in my early twenties, just a listless slacker, a no ambition having bum. This is way back when I was just plain ol Fred Dingler, scraping by, hand to mouth, accepting any kinda employment, and never lasting for more than three months in any one job. I was on the subway, on the way to a janitorial job downtown, when I passed out in the crowded car. I must’ve been drinking the night before, can’t really remember what, but anyway that part doesn’t matter. The point is that I slept past my stop, and when I woke up I realized that I had to walk about five blocks back down just to get to work. Had it not been for this crazy fluke on that bright Monday morning I wouldn’t even be here now, talking to you like this...”
I gotta admit this freak is starting to interest me. I think he can sense the change in my attitude and his tone gets lower, more intimate. I take a pull off my beer and he puffs green cigar smoke.
“So I was walking along when I passed a strip joint and I noticed a small ‘Help Wanted’ sign posted on the door. It said to come back round 6 when the club opened and speak to one Carlos bout the ‘maintenance’ position. Now, I probably would have completely forgotten about the sign had the events later on that day not lured me back. I walked on, forgetting bout the strip joint job. So I was at my lousy janitor job in a huge advertising agency... just me and a little Filipina harpy named Letty cleaning up that horrible place... Letty had it in for me since day one... and I suspect for purely nepotistic reasons, somehow manipulated the director of the agency into firing me. She had a huge family, and had been trying to get one of her cousins hired on as a third janitor for some time already, so that much was clear... I didn’t trust that sly little bitch, I mean I got instincts. So what happened was that that day after I finished doing my rounds I walked into an empty office and decided to take a little rest. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know Mr Davis, I think that’s his name, comes busting in and says three very familiar words: ‘YOU ARE FIRED!’. He gave me my final check and said he didn’t wanna see me again. When I walked out I could have sworn that I heard that crazy little witch cackling. Well, I hope she’s satisfied, because little did she know it, she had just done me the biggest favor of my life. No more fucking toilets for Fred Dingler.”
“I know exactly how you feel, man.”
“That’s good! I had a feeling about you son. Anyway: when I walked out of the building I couldn’t think of anything to do, anyone to turn to, when I remembered the strip joint. I looked at my watch and realized that I had enough time to get to a
“I started that night and boy it was harder work than I expected... I was always on my toes, running round... and when it came time for me to clean the pole I had to drag a ladder out to the center of the stage and begin wiping... I tell you I had never been assaulted by so many ridicules in my life... it seemed like the whole audience was heckling me as I wiped that sucker down and I couldn’t wait to get back stage... I was known as Pole Cleaner Fred, but the girls mostly just called me PC Fred and this went on for a few weeks.”
“C’mon... pole cleaning?”
“Think about it son. Somebody’s gotta do it. Now, getting back to the story: Carlos was real pleased with me because I seemed to take the constant humiliation better than any of his previous employees... he started giving me perks like free drinks and before long I started meeting some of the girls too... none of them were too interested, that much was obvious, them having boyfriends like DJs and rock stars and lawyers and me being just a lousy pole cleaner... I mean it just makes sense why they wouldn’t want nothing to do with me. Well, one day I was staying late after the joint closed down and was having a few drinks when one of the ‘B’ strippers, a girl named Eden, came and started chatting with me... we both drank Long Islands, and before long we were both laughing and spilling intimate secrets... that’s how she got to asking me why I didn’t have a girl and I told her it was on account of me being shy... and logically she asked me why and I told her it was on account of my penis and she said, “Oh don’t worry! Lots of guys have teensy weenies!”... that’s what she said! Teensy weenies! I of course told her it was NOT because I had a small penis, because, in fact I have a rather large one, but it was because of the strange shape of it that I was so shy... strange in that it is curved, real curved, if you can picture a boomerang then you get the idea. Anyway, I told her in fact that I had never even gotten past first base with a girl because of my extreme shame. Now Eden, who had had quite a few drinks, was intrigued and I can still remember that lusty look in her eyes as she led me to the dressing room under the pretext of showing me her photo album. She wasted no time in getting to work... she had barely pulled down my underwear when out it sprang, my monstrous, skewed penis... I mean imagine... twenty something years of neglect... and suddenly like this, and drunk and without shame. She gasped, I could tell she was delighted and soon we were screwing on her make-up counter... she was screaming at one point and I thought I was hurting her in some way but it wasn’t that. Now son, when you get to be older and wiser like yours truly you’ll begin to understand intricate things like the female anatomy... it just so happens that inside the front of the vagina is a zone called the G spot which by the grace of god my penis can easily reach, on account of it having that crazy curve... every thrust I made brought her boundless ecstasy... and by the time we finished, she was trembling and crying in my arms, telling me that she’d NEVER been fucked like that and that my boomerang shaped penis was a gift from the gods... now I took this as a compliment coming from a girl who had probably fucked more men than all the toilets I’d ever cleaned in my life... it was one of those moments when you know that nothing is ever gonna be the same again... I just felt it. On the way home that night I began thinking bout old man Dingler, wondering if his thing was also curved, wondering if the Dingler family surname actually had something to do with our large curved penises... if Dingler was actually a derivative of Dangler... if I had somehow inherited a grand sexual legacy.”
“Grand sex legacy and a long ass story. Think you can swing me another?” I ask, pointing to my empty pint glass. I’m hoping there’s a payoff to this one.
He says “sure thing” and orders another beer and greyhound. “But it doesn’t end there... that Eden was a nasty little bitch and she couldn’t get enough of my thing after that... and word got around fast and soon all the girls found out about my special gift and I found myself paying special visits to the dressing room two or three times a night... the action was endless and the girls worshiped my warped phallus like it was the monolith in 2001... some strange beacon from the gods that spoke to them in a secret, forbidden language. I have to admit that despite everything being so easy I was enthralled... after such a long time with nothing, then BAM like this and with professional sex workers to boot. One night Carlos approached me... thing is, he kinda had an inside line to everything that was going on in the club and somehow he found out about my relations, and more importantly, about my incredible member... he took me back up to his office and called Eden to come and join us... she got to work without the slightest qualm and I can still remember Carlos’ murmur of disbelief... ‘Dios mio.
The bartender has been near us for some time now, with an indelible smirk as he wipes down the crystal. “Same ol story, huh Fred.”
“Give the kid a shot of anything he likes. I’ll take another greyhound.”
“Whiskey. On the rocks.”
“Let’s see, where was I? Oh yeah... so soon I was out of Carlos’ joint and he became my Colonel Parker and we began the underground sex circuit in America... I was known as PC Fred... and people came from thousands of miles away to see me and my special gift. I mean there were ambassadors and their wives... senators... mayors... you name it. I was making a name for myself in the world. I was wanted in the District Federal, I was wanted in Bogotá, I was wanted for Carnival in
“I was a wealthy man after all this, and Carlos was even wealthier, that slick mother... and lemme tell you, I made some of the craziest connections while I was working the scene... political connections and old money connections... and soon I was savvy enough to be able to break away from Carlos... this guy was strictly small time and with me I think he went in over his head. I was young when I started out, but by then I was in my mid-twenties and more than aware of how he was exploiting me. I decided to break away and try out some of my connections. I mean it was known that I could speak and that I was no dummy... apart from my incredible schlong, it was known that I had the gift of gab. I had seen a lot, and I was beginning to get tired of the endless orgies night after night... yes, I wanted love and stability, something we all crave for at one time or another... luckily enough I had met a wonderful girl, an intern for a California congressman, won’t mention his name, who came with him to one of my shows. We had a little romance and she hooked me up in the mail room in the congressman’s office... and the rest is history, as they say. The sudden break from the sex circuit came as a shock and the extra energy I had was spent in hours of political discourse, day after day, night after night, and I was becoming known for my monologues... I began to create another type of following, based on my gift for rhetoric, and soon I found myself an intern, then an official dispatch... I was walking the halls of congress in the capital itself... and this is where it got tricky, because I was still known as PC Fred in many circles, only by this time most people just assumed that it meant Politically Correct Fred which was just fine by me, but when they shortened it to PC Fred I was afraid that someone might catch on and reveal my scandalous past. People were intrigued by me and often demanded explanations, possible connections... basically some things just didn’t add up for them. I mean, I didn’t go to some Ivy League school, I didn’t study at Oxford or Sorbonne or some fancy school like that, I just suddenly appeared on the scene with this incredible vitality so I had to explain my past, obviously well-disguised... my poor upbringing, my first-hand accounts of the misery in America, my struggles in school and in menial labor, and finally my five year search for truth in the underbelly of America, then the world, my political formation if you will, what shaped all my political beliefs today... this of course was my time spent on the sex circuit, and instead of investigating the roots of misery and corruption in society I was on stage with the wives of ambassadors and eating steamed sparrows in sultans´ palaces. Anyway, all this hullabaloo impressed everybody... the typical rags to riches nonsense... the typical American legend stuff like Bill Gates or Leland Stanford, and my fame was spreading and soon I was commanding audiences of my own, with all kinds of people coming to listen to me.”
“Well one day, and I’ll get through this fast... because I have a meeting I gotta go to... my mentor, the congressman I told you bout earlier, had a little chat with me about the danger of my past catching up with me. I mean, what if people found out that my formative years in politics were actually spent in sleazy sex dens? What if they found out the truth? It would be over for both me and him, career wise... and this is where the name change came in... for some time now I had been using the Dawson surname, but everybody still knew me as PC Fred and this is what worried the congressman... everybody might think that it stands for Politically Correct instead of the lowly Pole Cleaner but the initials worried him and he didn’t want the association to be made... so we began to think and it dawned on him that Politically Correct was a good angle, something non-offensive and neutral bout the tag they put on me and he decided to go with that angle and that’s how he came up with ‘fair’. I became Fair Fred Dawson that afternoon and, well, you’ll soon find out the rest... it’s the stuff of legend... so you want another drink? I have to head out... some important things to do... important meetings with some technocrat fat cats...”
“No man. I’m toasted. But thanks anyway.”
The suit jabs his hands in his coat pockets, then his trousers.
“I don’t understand... I just had it!”
“What’s wrong?”
“My wallet. I must’ve left it back at the office. You think you could spot me? I’ll get you back another day.”
“I’m tapped out. I don’t know if I can cover it. Guess I could charge it,” I say pulling out my wallet.
“Thanks! What’s your name son?”
“Eric.”
“Well, Eric. Was a pleasure.” He slaps his hand on the counter and winks at me. “Remember. None of this ever happened. Anyway, no one would ever believe you unless you were someone important, that is well-known, which my instincts tell me you aren’t... so the truth is for you and you alone.”
He walks out past a group of office temps that have just come tumbling into the bar. The bartender comes back with the receipt and I sign it.
“I just got had, huh,” I say.
“That’s Fred for ya.”
Shit. I’m sauced now as I walk out into the night. I decide to walk home, up past the financial district into my neighborhood - to burn off the alcohol in my system. At the corner, while I’m waiting for the signal amongst a group of pedestrians I burst out laughing. A big bent dick! The lady next to me looks at me like I’m crazy. I say it aloud: “A big bent dick!” I’m still laughing to myself as the rest of the pedestrians surge up ahead.
