I spent the rest of the month sitting in Pepe’s office, learning just what it was that he did all day. Sternislouse never came back after the day with the helicopter, but he kept calling from some overseas number, telling me to move money in between his various accounts in
I’ve closed all my emotional portals. I’ve decided that thinking, contemplating, is debilitating and counter-productive. Sternislouse may have triggered this, but it’s been a long time coming. I’ve always wanted to see what life was like from this angle.
I’m starting to enjoy it. This indifference.
I got the hang of it real fast, and spent most of the time surfing the internet for bizzaro websites. I can’t believe some of the shit I’m seeing. Kids selling their virginity to the highest bidder, words for sale, gory disaster videos, balloon porn... I’d call Gina or she’d call me when we’d found something interesting. That is until our last fight; it’s been a few weeks since we talked. I’d just gotten back from CHIKEA, where I ordered a new bedroom set and a swiveling rack for my new Bang & Olufson entertainment center. I thought she’d be happy: me, finally with my shit together, finally, really self-sufficient. That night we went out to eat at a new sushi restaurant that one of my clients, an internet entrepreneur, recommended to me. It was supposed to be the new “in” spot. Gina was grumpy and capricious, almost impossible to please. She barely touched her food. Not that the portions were that big to begin with. Anyway, we left, and when we got back to my apartment the real trouble started.
“What’s this?”
She was holding up my new Muscle Master 3000.
“Oh that? It’s nothing.”
“It’s the Muscle Master, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, try it on. It’s a trip.”
“Since when do you buy shit like this? What’s happening to you?”
“What are you talking about, ‘shit like this!’?”
“Look at your place, Eric. Look at the shit you got lying around. Your place is so different. And since when do you need this thing?” she asks, dangling the Muscle Master 3000.
“I don’t know. I just figured that when I’m watching a DVD or something, I could get a work out. You know, stick it on my legs, get some definition, get a six pack maybe...”
“What’s going on with us? What happened to you?”
“Why are you so derisive? Why you pointing at me?”
“You’re the one that’s derisive. You’ve lost your sense of humor. You don’t want to think anymore. Like that sushi restaurant. It was so cold in there, decorated like some basement methamphetamine laboratory. That’s what I’m talking about... you’re a walking contradiction.”
“You’re just jealous... that’s what it is. You’re jealous because I got a career, I got a cushy job that affords me all the luxuries I could possibly want. I’d invite you along, but you reject everything out of hand.”
“The other night you laughed and blew me off when I invited you to that concert. I’m not the one ‘rejecting’ everything.”
“You mean The Disillusioned Cows?”
“Yeah. That one.”
“The ones that play gothic-salsa? HAH! You gotta be kidding me! I’ve never heard of ANYTHING more ridiculous in my life!”
“That’s just it. You’ve lost your sense of humor, Eric. You’re a fucking bore.”
She picked up her jacket, and started to leave. I felt the vaguest tinge of guilt, like some indelible part of me wanted to make up with her, to tell her that, yes, I am a sham, that I don’t believe in any of the hype Sternislouse throws at me, none of the bonuses, none of this material shit scattered around my apartment; but I wasn’t so sure myself at the moment. I think it was the night I ordered the Muscle Master 3000 when I thought about it all. I decided to “go with the flow”, as Sternislouse always says, and take every opportunity that came along to me. My twenty six years of transgression had done me no good at all, I thought. And if I’m gonna change, make something of myself, I certainly don’t need Gina around to criticize me.
As she opened my door to leave I called out, “Things change baby. That’s life.”
“Oh, how trite. Who planted those winning maxims in your head... hmmm, Sternislouse!”
With that she slammed the door. I didn’t budge, not an inch for her. Instead I lifted up the universal remote and surfed through some satellite television on my new 21 inch flatscreen.
Last night I went out with some of the guys from accounting. Actually, they were all girls and one other guy that only talked about sports. We spent the whole night snorting rails of coke and drinking vodka Red Bulls. I think we were at a club, or maybe two...
It’s the weekend now. I’m nursing a nasty cocaine hangover, listening to the latest ME2 CD. Since my promotion I’ve noticed that my taste in music has changed as well. What I once derided as smooth soul-less pretentiousness actually appeals to me now. I have a killer stereo system, and it’s amazing the sound design in this latest ME2 album. Especially the hit single, “Ebola Nights”, with the sampled African percussion, Bonorhea’s megaphoned voice, and The Precipice’s spacey guitar. Just classy, well-made stuff.
Walking down the street to the new juice bar. My newest thing is the wheatgrass-mango-echinacea-macedonia nut shake. It’s so much more invigorating than coffee. So much more nourishing. I suck it down and crumple the plastic cup and toss it at the nearest trash bin. Next to it is a homeless guy with a sign that says “United Negro Hamburger Foundation”. He’s cracking jokes at everybody passing by. In my earlier, weaker days, I probably would’ve appreciated his irony, would probably have given him a “donation”, but not now. I’m not gonna give this loser a cent. I walk by him and grumble, “Get a job.” Why, just the other night I saw a documentary on COX True Stories about a guy that made his living begging, pulling in like two to three hundred dollars a day. His whole thing was a con though, and the COX reporters uncovered him one day, lifted that ratty blanket, took his wheelchair out from under him and the sucker stood up to fight. He wasn’t crippled at all, you see. It just goes to show that all these homeless people are losers who don’t want to work, who just try to take advantage of hard-working men, like me.
I’m walking, thinking one of these days I’m gonna have to leave this freaky neighborhood, when up ahead I see the BFO guy from the Freespace Collective. He’s coming out of that same liquor-deli at the corner. I follow him from a few meters back, wait until he enters his apartment and walk back to the liquor deli to buy some time. I don’t know what’s impelling me to follow this guy. Boredom? Or maybe it’s just an innate desire to argue. I buy an iced tea and drink it on the corner before going back to the apartment. I take out the business card, and punch the number on the intercom, 4D. A voice crackles through:
“Yeah?”
“Hello, Brigade for the Oppressed?”
“Keep it down!”
The gate buzzes and I push it in, then take the four flights up to his apartment.
The building’s dilapidated, with holes worn in the carpet, dents, nicks and bullet holes in the walls, and a rotten smell, like old gym clothes. Finally, at the fourth floor. I read, B,C, then D. The doorbell is missing, and in its place are two exposed wires, sticking out from a hole. I knock on the door and hear someone padding to it.
The door opens and a furtive voice says, Come in, come in! The house is everything you’d expect after climbing those broke-down stairs. Only it smells worse, like animal shit. When we get to his living room I can see why. He’s got a little obstacle course set with two-by-fours and pipes criss-crossing the room. Scampering across it upon my arrival is a ferret.
“That’s Lilly. My girlfriend.”
“It’s nice. I didn’t know you could keep those things as pets.”
“No, I meant her,” says Brigade pointing at a lump on the couch. A mousy brown tangle of hair and two beady eyes peek out from under the blanket. She darts back into it and rolls over to her side.
“Hi Lilly,” I say half-heartedly.
Brigade is looking at me, his eyes crooked with confusion. “Do I know you? Who sent you here?”
“You did.” I show him the Brigade for the Oppressed card. “You gave me a ride home a few months ago.”
“Oh... yeah. I remember now. You’re the writer, right?”
“I guess. Yeah.”
“C’mon. Let’s go to the kitchen. Lilly’s getting her beauty sleep.”
Lilly grunts and shifts her ass on the sofa as we walk out of the room. The first thing I notice is the
“Here, check this out,” he hands me a black T-shirt with the
“I don’t get it. What’s your point?”
“The very beacons of capitalism burning to the ground and you ask me what the point is?”
On the table is a blueprint of sorts. I sit next to it while Brigade man pours me a glass of water. In the corner of the blueprint is: Sealed ASS, site plans.
“Hey,” I say, “that’s where I work. What are you doing with this?”
He rushes over, nearly spilling the water and rolls the blueprint up.
“That’s nothing. I’m just interested in the industrial belt. Always have been. I studied industrial engineering in the university. You know, just a little refresher. This is all public domain, by the way.”
He tucks the roll between some empty bottles sitting on the shelf, then comes and sits near me.
“From now on you can call me comrade Kojak, my revolutionary name. You’ll be...”
“Poderoso. Comrade Poderoso.”
“As you wish, comrade Poderoso. You’re interested in the journalist position. Well, I’m starting a free paper called the New Revolution, and I need contributors just like you. Especially ones with inside information, like yourself.”
“I’ve never written anything like that before. I’m not sure if I’m up to it.”
“It doesn’t matter. What we need is the rawness and honesty that you can bring. An unrefined voice speaking from the depths of the capitalist nightmare. Something that people can relate to.”
“I could probably do something to that effect. I could try at least. But what about the paper? You mean it hasn’t come out yet?”
“Of course it has, comrade Poderoso. Just that we don’t have a division in The City yet. But there are many willing party members who are on the verge of launching this thing. And I’m spearheading it.”
“So... where do I start? What do you want me to write about?”
“Anything at all, comrade Poderoso. But always make us visualize what you’re talking about. Then pound us with memorable slogans. Make sure your comrades remember you when the revolution begins!”
“I think the stuff that I write is a little more personal. I’m not really taking a political stance...”
“Politics... hah! That’s a farce. I know what you mean, and I have confidence in you Poderoso. So are you up for it?”
“I... think so.”
“Good, your first assignment is due next week.” Now Kojak gets up and walks across the kitchen and lifts up a white linen bag. “You need to bring one of these the next time. You can’t be visiting this building without some kind of pretext... so make like you’re doing your laundry. We are under constant surveillance.” As he says this he walks to the window and peeks out. “Also, for printing expenses, until we get our funds from the party, which are due in the next few days, we’re going to need forty dollars.”
“Forty dollars? I thought you were going to pay me!”
“Ah, Poderoso. Do you really think there is such thing as a free lunch?”
This guy is spouting out clichés like Sternislouse! It’s strange that two people so diametrically opposite could have the same approach, the same air about them. “I don’t know. This sounds sketchy.”
“You, comrade Poderoso must be selfless, must lose your family, your comfortable position in life, in order to join us. The Brigade for the Oppressed is your family now! You must be courageous!”
I stand up, look down on him and yell, “You louse. You think I’m gonna give you money, you trust-fund faker! I saw you in the Land Rover the other day.” He shrinks back into his chair and looks up at me like a battered dog. “You wanna show me courage? Go and wear that fucking shirt outside for a minute, and see what happens to you.”
I leave him shaking and mumbling to himself in the kitchen and slam his door hard on the way out. I’m not pissed, actually I’m laughing at the whole ordeal. Imagine, that little creep representing the oppressed. It makes me sick. Back on the street now, I go to a diner a couple blocks away, order some breakfast and flip through the Daily Times. Maybe I’ll see a movie today. I’m in the mood for something visceral.
