I have the Daily Times spread out before me. In between my transactions for Sternislouse, and my daily pursuit of bizarre stories on the internet, I still get a kick out of reading the Letters to the Editor. I skip through the first two - one is the age old gripes about lost traditions (read: evolution), another about the inordinate attention that the media pays to movie star scandals - until I get to one called Traffic on the Subway:
I was shocked and perplexed to read in The Daily Times that “The City’s Subway System isn’t overcrowded”. I was even more shocked when the city commissioners stated that they wouldn’t be investing any more money - and I can assure you that the subways are more than overcrowded. And I’m not just talking about the daily occurrence of breakdowns and delays.
So I invite you, Mr Mayor, Mr director of the Subway system to travel on any given day during the week between
This one is signed, Perplexed. I chuckle to myself. Ever since I bought my Z3 I’ve avoided the subway. I got it all decked out with a custom Spanish leather interior and a Blaupunkt sound system. Ah, the old days on that lousy bus, in those stinking subway cars. The trials and tribulations of these concerned citizens, enraged, castrated plebiscite, seem so far away. I prop my feet up on my desk, sip on a vitamin-enhanced tropical-flavored fruit smoothie and read the next letter to the editor. It’s titled, Just a Dream:
I dreamt that my boss was a very special man. I remember his sincerity and generosity upon entering the company. He was clever and knowledgeable, and knew that we were concerned about the security of our jobs. He said he would start with a clean slate and that none of us would be discontented. He was always fair, balancing the needs of the company and the needs of the workers with a sense of justice worthy of any great statesman. He never kept his policies secret.
I dreamt that he ran his company without thinking about higher and higher profit margins, because such trifles weren’t important to him. I dreamt, finally, that I still had a job.
Signed, A
“Hello?” I ask. “Hello, Pepe?”
Nothing. I think I can hear traffic in the background, but I’m not entirely sure.
“Pepe. It’s me, Miguel. Just wanted to check in on you. You know, you left your book here, Seven Proven Steps to Popularity and Success. I could bring it to you if you want.”
Still, not a peep from the other end of the line.
“Pepe? Are you there?”
Then the silence is broken by a female voice. “Pepe isn’t here anymore.”
The line goes dead, yet I hang on for a couple more seconds, then press the hang-up button and begin dialing the number again. But, before I get to the last number I pause, my finger hovering over the keypad. No, I better put this off until later. Whoever that was, she knew about Pepe, but didn’t seem too eager to go into details. Best to wait a while and try a different approach.
I’ve been placed in a quandary. Thing is, Sternislouse has required me to start interviewing people for the assistant job. That’s the job that I had - and like me before, the next will be there to replace me if I ever become a liability (i.e. - get on Sternislouse’s nerves). Suddenly, as if the situation had woken a part of me I never knew existed, I find myself jealously plotting to retain my job, at whatever cost. It meant nothing to me before, but now, with the possibility of losing everything, all the conveniences that I’ve acquired over the past few months, I find myself in the position that Pepe was once in. I had Charlene place a classified ad in the Daily Times, and so far we’ve received ten resumes, by fax and email.
Three interviews were scheduled for today. The first was a girl named Katy Larson. Fresh out of college and it was obvious that she was just looking for any old job. At least my intuition had told me so; I’d been in a similar situation myself.
“To be perfectly honest with you... you don’t want this job. From your resume, it looks more like you’re interested in a career that’s media-related. You should go for that. Charlene out there,” I say pointing to the flapping head, “she’s been here for years. She doesn’t do anything but talk on that phone.”
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
“What I mean is that you’ll be wasting your time here. You might even catch a rabid case of logorrhea.”
“Yikes. What’s that?”
“It’s terrible, Katy. Imagine, uncontrollable brain spasms that force you to talk, incessantly.”
I think that scared her off. Luckily, for interlopers and usurpers could come in any guise, even that of an innocent young woman. Why create unnecessary competition?
The next was also a woman. Her resume was deceiving, however. It gave her a degree in Business Administration, a four year stint at a bank, and another five year stint at a publishing company. She’d also sent an earnest cover letter which I failed to read at the time. Only later after our bizarre interview did I read it:
The paths of life have afforded us so many opportunities to excel and I have found my way to Sealed ASS lead by my institution [sic] that this is the place where I will be allowed to blossom and reach my full potential like a seedling in a giant redwood forest growing to glorious heights I hope to give Sealed ASS my unbounded dedication. I am a spirit, you are my vessel, Sealed ASS.
This letter would have warned me that this woman’s resume was a total fraud. She came in wearing fuchsia-colored clam diggers and a patchwork shirt. Around her neck she wore a crystal pendant which she kept rubbing during the interview. It went something like this:
“So, how did you find out about Sealed ASS?”
...
“I asked you a question.”
“Sealed ASS came to me. All paths in life lead to yourself.”
“Have you had any administrative experience before?”
...
“Can you hear me, Mrs Burrows?” That was her name, by the way.
“I have life experience.”
“So, in this life experience, have you ever had to manage accounts and schedules... it says here that you worked at...”
“Words are just symbols and illusions. They’ve lost their magic.”
“Are you telling me that those jobs listed on your resume aren’t real? Just illusions?”
“Are you real? What if I close my eyes?” With this question she scrunched her eyes shut and shook her head. “Nope! You’re not real! I can’t see you! This is all an illusion!”
I stood up, held the door open for her. “Thank you, Mrs Burrows. I’ll call you tomorrow. Metaphysically, I mean.”
Then she got up and just kind of floated out the room, with this strange, distant look in her eyes. I crumpled her resume and cover letter and dropped them in the waste basket.
For lunch I took my Z3 to a little town next to the industrial belt where I ate in a swank Mexican restaurant. What the hell that place was doing out in the middle of nowhere I have no idea. And what the Chinese couple running it were doing there I have no idea either. Just one of those weird modern mixes. All of a sudden cultures are exploding and mixing everywhere, it seems. When the Chinese guy brought me my food he said something in Spanish with a Cuban accent. I just went along with it and said, gracias.
Back in my office I pick up the last interviewee’s resume: Hank Chinaski. This guy, I just felt sorry for. He had such a lame resume (the only places he’d ever worked in were a toy factory and a meat packing plant). I knew that here I had an honest man. No one is gonna lie about shitty work like that.
I’m juggling numbers for one of Sternislouse’s accounts when the phone rings. It’s Charlene, telling me that my
“Hank?” I inquire and a guy a little older than me turns around and nods his head. “Enter, please,” I say and sit down in my plush pleather recliner seat. “Shut the door behind you.” And he does so. I love it.
I pull out his resume and scan it. Then I look at him. He’s pretty shabby looking, big, with a rough face. I don’t care though. I can remember back to my first interview with Pepe, sitting here where he is now, with my five dollar suit. Maybe Pepe thought the same way about me.
“Do you know why I called you, Hank?”
He shakes his head, silent.
“I called you because, to me, you seem like an honest man.”
“I just mind my own business, that’s all.”
“It takes guts to put down what you did on your resume. Let’s see,” I say sliding my index finger down the bullet points on his resume. “Dropped out of
“Does it really say that? I don’t remember writing any of that.”
“That’s what it says,” I say pointing to the small rambling paragraph at the bottom. “And what about this part. It says that you have ‘shit stains’ in your underwear.”
Chinaski just nods, and I continue. I stand up and palm the desk, leaning towards him. “Do you know how much guts it takes to put that on your resume? I’ve never known anyone who would admit to that.”
“We all smell like shit. It’s just that some try to cover it up.”
“I particularly liked the addendum at the bottom of your resume: blue red blue red blue red/ the sirens outside/ that crazy bitch next door screaming/ and me, trying to write the immortal poem. That has flair. It’s not really eloquent, but it has an earthy, working-class perspective.”
“I vaguely remember writing that part.”
“So, what brings you to Sealed ASS?”
“I got fired from the toy factory.”
“What for?”
“The boss got on my nerves and I told him so.”
“Why did he get on your nerves?”
“All he ever talked about was ‘nailing’ this girl and that. Unoriginal, macho energy. Plus, he asked too many questions.”
“I see. And you came across our ad in the classified section, I’m assuming.”
“I told you. I don’t remember.”
“I need an assistant. That’s why I put the ad out.”
“OK.”
“Don’t you want to know what the job is?”
“No, not really. I just need to pay the rent.”
This man strikes a chord in me. I think this guy could be my assistant. There’s a tacit understanding here, like we can read each other completely. And I don’t sense that eagerness that could threaten my job.
“Hank,” I say, thrusting out my hand, “you got yourself a job.” He stands up, gives me his hand and manages a quick smile. Almost more of a smirk. “Any questions?”
“No.”
“Very well, Hank. You can just call me Miguel. Report back tomorrow at 9AM and we’ll have some paper work for you.”
Hank stands up, a good two inches taller than me, and nods and walks out the office. He says bye to Charlene who acknowledges him with a forced smile. I pick up the phone and call her. Through the window I see her switch lines and pick up the phone.
“Sealed ASS may I help you?”
“Charlene, it’s me, Miguel.”
“Oh hi Miguel! How you doin?”
“I’m great Charlene. Did you see that guy who just left?”
“Oh. You mean the fellow that just came in for the interview?”
“Yeah. His name’s Hank Chinaski and I want you to get some paper work ready for him. He’s going to be my personal assistant.”
I can see her jotting down some notes through the window. When she’s done she winks back at me through the glass and says, “Will do.”
“Thanks Charlene.”
Since I’ve moved into Pepe’s office our relationship has improved ten fold, at least from my perspective. In the office, with the door shut, I can block her yapping out completely. The Psychological Crusades no longer have a purpose, and watching her out there in her endless monologues is somewhat amusing to me. Looking through the window at her spastic head and the zombie twins is like looking back at the past. It only makes me savor the present.
The phone rings again, and this time it’s that weird prefix. Must be Sternislouse. I clear my throat, sit down in my recliner before answering.
“It is I, Sternislouse.”
“Hello Mr Sternislouse. How may I help you?”
“Just checking. How are things there? Did you finish that business with Mr Turkovsky?” He’s this Russian oil barren we’ve managed to snare.
“Yes Mr Sternislouse. All done.”
“Excellent, Miguel. Excellent. What are you doing this Friday night?”
“I was planning on going out with a couple coworkers. But, nothing’s set. Why?”
“I’m throwing a regional party at the Jilton downtown. In Buzz Kowalski’s Starlight Lounge. Will you be free around eight?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Good. I’ll send a car for you. Good bye. Au revoir...”
The phone is already pulsing in hang up zone when I add my “goodbye” to the conversation. I realize that I’ve forgotten to tell him about my new employee, Hank. No matter. I’ll just drop him the info at the Starlight Lounge.
How ironic that I’m going to the Starlight Lounge. How ironic that I’m doing what Pepe should be doing. What force has brought me here? Why am I living Pepe’s version of the American dream? While I think of the great mysteries of the universe I belch. Then I scratch my short and curlies. In the solitude of my office I’m immune to social norms. It’s fucking great.
