After several decades of being referred to as a sarcastic nit, Michael Andreoni decided to revel in it. Dogs bitten, children frightened. He's available for parties if you're not particular about keeping your friends. His stories and essays have appeared in several publications, including Iconoclast, the Rambler, Allegory, Dana Literary Revue
Thrill Ride (April 20, 2010. Issue 16.)
Lunch had been the kind of mess they should have been used to, but now, dabbing at their clothing with damp, disintegrating napkins, an aspect of mingled surprise and regret pinched their faces. The mid-August air lay heavily on them, throbbing with the click-clack of the Jet-Streak roller–coaster as it slowly attained the apex of the first peak, four stories above the picnic area. A few prescient screams marked the seconds’ long pause at the top before the fluorescent-red cars plunged through the miasma of fried food and sunscreen.
“You have one white and one purple,” Sherri announced, pointing at his running shoes.
“Zac’s soda.” There’s something in your hair.” He brushed at it, came away with fingers streaked yellow.
“Damnit. I knew Alex got me with the mustard.” She applied a napkin. “Your daughter likes those squirt bottles. Is it gone?”
“Pretty much.” He offered another napkin. “Do you think maybe we’ve had enough fun for today?”
Their children tore back and forth between the wooden tables and he watched with a kind of fascinated dread. The kids had been at their worst after lunch yesterday, just pure murder. Almost uncontrollable on vacation fare burgers, soda and candy, careening through the midway, snatching toys from other children, crying for everything they saw.
He’d finally spanked them both out of desperation under the shadow of the Tilt-a-Whirl, Sherri looking on resignedly as he laid a couple good ones on their legs, in full view of the passing crowd. They’d each picked up a squalling child and started for the car, ignoring the disapproving stares of other parents.
In the hotel room, amid the morning tableau of cartoons and not quite dry swim suits, they agreed today would be different. First time at an amusement park, she’d begun, the kids were bound to be over-excited. We’ll be better prepared today, he’d offered, we won’t let them get to us. We’ll take some breaks, some time-outs.
Somehow, they hadn’t. The day so far had been a grueling reprise of yesterday, with long lines for the rides and restrooms under a baleful sun. The children, by turns cranky and sullen, more then a handful.
“You can’t poop out yet. It’s not even one.”
She’d packed the remains of lunch into the back-pack and stood beside him, a bemused expression playing across her features.
“You don’t want to spend the afternoon by the pool again, with the kids crying to go back to the rides, do you?”
He gestured at Zac, who was kicking dirt and assorted debris at his sister, prompting a titanic squeal of rage. “It was better then this … but…” he sighed. “I guess not. We’re here. We might as well tire them out-- maybe they’ll sleep tonight.”
“That’s it.” She rubbed his shoulders approvingly. “We’ve got two more days, you know.”
He shook his head. “What were we thinking? Well, I’m not going through a repeat of yesterday.” He advanced toward the children. “Let’s round ‘em up for a little talk.”
******************************************************************
“Mom! Dad! Look what I found!” Zac crawled from the metal guts of the Octopus, clutching something brown.
His mother lunged. “Get out of there! I told you you can’t go under the rides. It’s dangerous.”
“Mom…NO!” Zac squirmed in her grasp. He held his hand out to her, an offering.
“What is that?”
He saw his wife’s face move from exasperation to something else as she froze for an instant, bent over their son.
“Christ!” She grabbed the boy’s arm. A partially decayed bird fell to the ground.
“Aw geez…. Aw geez.” She dragged him away, across the asphalt walkway. “Don’t you ever pick up something like that again.” A half-hearted slap on the butt made him grimace as he twisted away from his mother.
He joined them, taking his son by the shoulder before he could dart away again.
“It looked like some type of finch,” he said, a laugh escaping with the words.
“Oh that’s great. That must be why I married you—for your ability to identify dead things. Do you want to take your son to wash his hands, or should I just kick you for a while? I’m taking Alex. She’s got cotton candy, or something, all over her face. Now where’d she go?”
They looked around and between the people passing on the walkway snaking through the rides. It was several minutes before a familiar color drew his eye back to the Octopus. Her sunflower dress peeked through the crowd.
“Alex!” He waded through milling humanity as quickly as possible.
“Poor boidee,” she crooned, crouched over the finch. She looked up at her father. “I’m take ‘im ‘ome. Make ‘im betta.”
“You can’t, darling. He needs to stay here. He’ll be all right.”
Her bony little elbows dug into his chest as he carried her, thrashing, to Sherri.
“Mama…” Alex sobbed. “Wanta boidee!”
“I’m not interested in what anyone wants right now,” her mother declared. Holding Alex one-armed against her lunch-stained shirt, her blue eyes appraised him.
“Did she touch it?”
He looked down at part of a hotdog bun speckled with ants.
“I don’t know.”
“Great.” A head shake that made sun-bleached hair fall limply over her forehead dismissed him. “See you on the other side.”
He took Zac’s hand and followed her toward the distant terminus of the restroom queue. “You’re the one who didn’t want to go back to the hotel,” he muttered.
********************************************************************
“Our children haven’t seen their parents drunk … it just occurred to me.” Sherri’s eyes were relaxed and very pretty as she smiled. “Do you think they’ll be scarred?”
He looked at his son sitting next to him, hunched over his Nintendo, and Alex, busy with her coloring book, across the table. “Somebody’s gonna scar ‘em. Might as well be us.”
The hotel bar was dark and cool, a cave-like retreat from the searing late-afternoon sun. They’d taken a booth near the door, expecting to be asked to leave with two young children in tow, but business was apparently slow; the bartender hadn’t said a word as she set up drinks and cokes.
He beamed at his wife. “You know, I was ready to pack everything up and go home this afternoon. Now I’m actually looking forward to the next two days.”
Her hand found his knee under the table, stroked it softly. “I think that last ride made the difference, don’t you?”
“Definitely. Whoever designed the Longshot is a genius. Bit of a shock though, wasn’t it?”
Her shoulders shook as she leaned across the table. “They seemed to think so,” she giggled, nodding at the kids. “Neither of them’s thrown a fit or gotten lost since,” she whispered. “It’s been great, huh?”
The bartender appeared with a tray. They watched Zac and Alex playing quietly as she removed empties.
The children’s features were attractive as they concentrated. A classic beauty was revealed in their faces, so composed, almost of another race compared to the terrible little creatures they’d been, with eyes and mouths distorted by screaming, crying.
He pushed his glass around in a wet circle, enjoying the coolness, waiting for the bartender to finish. She took the bills from the table, bestowing a professional “Thanks for the adequate, but un-exciting tip” eye-flick before departing.
Sherry stretched languidly. “I feel so much better.”
“Me too.” He checked that the kids were still engrossed before continuing.
“I have a plan for the next two days,” he proposed softly. “Let’s put them through The Longshot first thing each morning.”
“Oh… poor babies,” she whispered, watching Alex apply a crayon to paper. Her hand found his across the table. “It did work though, didn’t it?”
He settled comfortably into the booth, holding his wife’s hand, watching their children; so quiet and well-behaved.
He’d made Zac wash his hands twice, with plenty of soap, before feeling like he could safely call the bird incident finished. Outside the restrooms, they’d waited for the girls in the iffy shade of the sky cars squeaking like tortured mice along a cable strung overhead. His son kicked at one of the rusty steel pillars supporting the sky car system. A hollow bonk, bonk, bonk, resonated dully through the oppressive air, directly into his skull.
“Stop it.”
“When are they coming out?” Zac wrapped his arms and legs around the pillar and began a slow ascent.
“When they’re finished.” He watched his son rub rust-hued dirt into his shirt and jeans for a moment until he had to turn away, or risk prying him off and spanking him right there. He looked anywhere for relief.
Alex appeared, walking slowly in front of her mother, who squinted through the glaring light.
“There you are. God it’s hot. You’d think they’d spend some money and air-condition the bathrooms. It’s a hundred degrees in there.”
Her face and neck were red despite the sunscreen she wore. The backpack straps had twisted on her shoulders.
She stepped back abruptly, away from his hand.
“I was going to straighten your back pack,” he said.
“Just don’t touch me. I’m hot and I’m pissed.”
She looked up suddenly at Zac, attached to the pillar just above her head, as though she hadn’t seen him.
“Why do you let him do that? He’s not dirty enough?
Get down!” she barked.
There was an extra something in her voice he’d never heard before. It was a tone, a throaty directive he appreciated immediately as high parental art. A suggestion, not explained but inferred, that if she began beating her son she might never stop.
Zac came sliding down the pillar almost instantly, scowling. He brushed the dust off the boy’s clothes, wondering if the tone would work on Alex, or was it something women had developed over millennia to get through to their men. He meant to learn it, if it could be learned.
“I’ve only got one ride left in me today, so what’s it gonna be?” Her eyes were on them all, daring an objection.
“Jet-Streak, Jet-Streak, Jet-Streak,” Zac chanted, jumping up and down.
“Zac, I am not going to battle you all week about the roller-coaster,” he told his son. “I said three times you’re not tall enough yet and that’s that. Next year maybe you’ll be big enough, but not now. So pick something else.”
“But dad, I seen other kids littler then me on it.”
“No you didn’t. Now what else do you want to go on?”
Zac hung his head, pouting. “I don’t wanna go on anything.”
“Fine. We’ll go back to the hotel, then.”
Alex shrieked. “No!! Horsey! Wanta Horsey!”
He looked at Sherri. She shrugged, leaving it to him.
He squatted down in front of Alex. “You’ve been on the Horsey Carousel five times already. Don’t you want to try something else?”
His daughter shook her head adamantly. “Horsey!”
“I’m not going on the horses again,” Zac decreed. “They’re boring.”
He looked around for an alternative, something close by he could put them on quickly. Just one more ride and then today would somehow be over and they could get in the car and head for the room. One ride. Ten minutes. He began planning his nap while scouting the surrounding amusements.
There was a tent not too far away that looked interesting, with a very short line to get in that made it doubly tempting. He took Alex’s hand in preparation for the inevitable tantrum.
“Let’s go check out that tent over there,” he said cheerily, hoping for the best.
Nothing doing, Alex began wailing immediately, tugging against him to escape. Her legs went limp and she flopped to the ground, kicking at him as he picked her up. He thought about the cool hotel room as he strode purposefully, holding his squealing daughter gingerly. The girl could bite.
“Now hush up,” he said. “You’ll like this ride, I promise.”
“Daddy no!” she cried. “Mama!”
He looked back to see where they were. His wife had Zac by the ear and was pulling him forward slowly despite his struggles. He waited with Alex pressed against his hip.
“What now,” he asked as they approached.
“Not worth discussing,” she mumbled, moving forward doggedly. “So what ride is this?”
“The Longshot,” he read. “Nine years and under. It’s perfect.”
“Hmm,” she said. “I see a tent. Where’s the actual ride, the machinery?”
“I don’t see any,” he admitted. Maybe it’s in the tent, or maybe the ride goes underground.”
They stood in line outside the entrance. A curtain over the doorway prevented any peeking. As they watched, a hand swept the curtain aside, motioning a middle-aged woman and what looked to be her grandson into the interior.
“Dad. Does it go underground?” Zac asked, suddenly interested. “That would be sweet.”
“It might. I don’t really know.” He put Alex down and patted her head.
“What do you think, honey, won’t it be fun if it goes underground?”
“No. No unnergrawn’,” she said. “Deres spideys.”
He laughed. “Aw Alex, don’t you want to meet a big hairy spidey?”
“No!! No spidey!”
He felt his wife’s eyes on him. “What?”
“I just want to point out that you’ll be the one sitting up with her when she can’t sleep tonight. And you’d better not wake me up,” she warned.
“Ah. Okay Alex, no spideys. All right?”
“No spidey.”
The line moved quickly. They were close enough now to hear noises coming from within the tent.
“It sounds like they’re having a good time in there,” he ventured.
“There’s a lot of squealing going on, anyway,” Sherry answered non-comittally.
“When’s it going to be our turn?” Zac complained.
And then they were next.
The curtain moved aside, revealing a kindly featured older woman in a starched white uniform and cap. She beckoned them forward.
“Come on in folks. Welcome to the Longshot.”
They stepped inside, looking around curiously. There was nothing in the tent but a table and a few chairs.
Zac asked, “Does this go underground?”
“Underground?” the woman repeated. “No, it doesn’t go underground, but it’s an exciting ride. A real thrill ride.”
She smiled at them. “Would you all like to sit down? My name is Betty, and here comes my assistant, Carmella.”
A tall, heavy-set woman in the same white uniform approached from the back of the tent, carrying a small case. She put the case on the table and stood by it, smiling at the family seated in front of her. “Hello,” she greeted them.
Betty walked toward their son. “And who do we have here? What’s your name?”
“Zac”
“Oh, I like that name. That’s a good name. Zac. How old are you?”
“Eight and a half.” Zac was still looking around the tent, as though expecting to see a hole in the ground, or another entrance to what would be the real attraction.
“Eight and a half? Well it’s a good thing you came to us now. You’re almost too old for the Longshot.”
“Who’s this little cutie?”
Alex just looked at her.
“That’s Alex,” her mother answered. “She’ll be five next month.”
He shifted uneasily in the chair. “Nurses,” he whispered to his wife. “They’re dressed like the nurses you see in old movies-- from the nineteen forties and fifties. This is a weird ride.”
“I just wish they’d get on with it,” She whispered back. “I want a cold drink and a shower.”
“Well,” Betty said cheerfully. “I think it’s time to start.”
Betty stood in front of Zac, and Carmella came to stand next to her, holding the case.
“I’d say two for the boy and one for the girl,” Betty advised matter-of-factly.
The assistant nodded. She opened the top of the case and rummaged around inside before handing it to Betty. Betty glanced at the contents briefly, and looked at Zac.
She smiled at their son. “All right now Zac,” she said brightly, reaching into the case. “It’s time for your shot.”
Carmella grabbed the boy and stood him up. She held his arm out to Betty, who took a huge syringe from the case. The needle flashed brightly for an instant as Betty plunged it into Zac’s upper arm.
“AHHHHHH!!” Zac screamed. His eyes bulged in panic. He struggled frantically, but Carmella held him firm. She yanked his other arm up. Another needle flashed as it sank in.
Alex shrieked and was out of her chair running for the doorway. Carmella, quicker then her bulk indicated, dropped Zac and caught the girl in three bounding steps. She folded Alex in her arms and presented her to Betty, who stood ready with the syringe. The needle was half a foot long.
“Mamma!! Mamma!! Mamma!! Owie!! Owie!! Alex screamed and kicked to no avail. The needle plunged deep.
He found himself on his feet, running for his children, but it was all over. He picked his daughter up. Her face was screwed into a perfect moue of agony. Holding her to his chest, he turned to his son.
Sherri had her arms around Zac, rocking back and forth with him as he cried.
His jaw hurt. He closed his mouth and tried to comfort Alex. She wailed a high-pitched keening that turned his bones to jelly.
“It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right,” he murmured in her ear. “You’re safe. You’re just fine.”
“Daddy!! It ‘urts!”
“I know it does, honey. But it’ll stop hurting soon, I promise.”
“I wanna go ‘ome.”
She screamed louder, clinging tightly, and he realized Betty was standing near them. He lurched away, clutching Alex.
“Stay away from us. You are in big trouble, lady.”
“I just want to thank you for choosing the Longshot,” she gushed warmly. “Come back and see us anytime.”
“You’ll be thanking us from jail. You and your assistant.”
Betty smiled wide. “You can make a complaint to Guest Relations if you’d like.” She pointed to the back of the tent. “Just exit through there and turn left. Thanks again for choosing us.”
“You’re a monster,” his wife snarled at Carmella on the way out. “Sick.”
The trailer housing Guest Relations was tucked behind the Ferris wheel and he could still hear music from the midway coming through the walls as he strode to the counter. A twenty-something guy looked up from a magazine, smiling professionally at him.
“No. Not you. I want the president or the owner.”
The smile disappeared. “Mr. McGrath is in. He’s the general manager.”
“He’ll do.”
He waited at the counter, watching his family seated in the tiny reception area near the door. They looked drained. Zac and Alex were sitting quietly, without their Gameboys, or anything to occupy them. His wife crouched in the chair, her head resting in her hand.
A short, dumpy looking man came out of a room behind the counter.
He sized him up: A career carnival mouse, hiding in his trailer office. One and a half steps above a ride operator and almost as intelligent.
“Can I help you?”
“My children were attacked by two of your employees. The police should be notified immediately.”
“Attacked! Where?”
“On one of your so-called rides. The Longshot.”
“Oh…that’s one of our newer attractions.” The manager rubbed his balding head doubtfully. “We’ve had a few complaints about it, but an attack? What exactly happened?”
“What happened is those two witches jabbed my kids with a horse needle. That’s a felony; Assault With a Deadly Weapon. I want the police called… now.”
The manager looked toward the reception area for a moment.
“Is that your family?” He took a step in their direction. “I’d like to meet them.”
“No, they’ve already been through enough….”
The man was already approaching his wife. “Hello Ma’am, I’m John McGrath. I’m the General Manager. I’m so sorry your boy and girl had a bad experience on the ride.”
She studied him as though he’d just wriggled, legless and slimy, out of a stinking swamp.
“A bad experience? Your bathrooms are a bad experience. The shit food at your concession stands is a bad experience. We’re talking attempted murder. We’re way beyond a bad experience. Your employees are criminals.”
The man frowned. “Well, I don’t know about that. I understand you didn’t like the ride and I’m willing to make it up to you with some free passes, but we don’t have any criminals working here.”
He got in front of the man and put his face an inch away from his nose.
“Are you telling me that sticking a needle in little kids is what that ride is about?”
The guy didn’t flinch. He had to give him that.
“Yes sir. The Longshot was designed to give young children the same exciting experience as the roller-coasters and other rides they’re not big enough for yet. It has a few bugs, but we’re upbeat about it. We think it’s a great concept.”
“But you’re attacking children!” Sherri cried. “You’ve got people illegally impersonating medical staff, untrained, injecting God knows what into kids. You’re going to kill somebody.”
McGrath nodded. “That’s one of the development problems we’re having. We need to do a better job of bringing the parents on board beforehand about what the ride is about.
“Could I show you something?” The manager leaned over the counter and reached behind. He turned back to them, and he was holding a syringe. The needle glittered under the fluorescent office lights.
Zac and Alex screamed. His wife shot out of her chair. McGrath, a shocked expression on his face, stepped back.
“It’s okay, really. Look, I just want you to see this.” He held out the syringe.
“Get it out of here,” Sherri commanded, but the manager just stood there, proffering the device.
He took it, reluctantly. The needle, close up, was even larger and more dangerous looking then it had seemed before. He touched his finger very carefully to the side of the point-- it bent under the pressure. He pushed harder, the needle bent in half and then sprang back when released.
He looked at his wife. “It’s rubber. It’s fake.”
“Vinyl, actually,” McGrath corrected him. We have them made up by a novelty company. Pretty convincing prop, isn’t it?”
Sherri inspected Zac’s arms, then Alex. “I don’t see any marks,” she said faintly, “but….” She turned to the manager. “They were in pain. Those two women hurt my kids. And you’ve got them in nurse’s outfits. It’s illegal to impersonate medical staff.”
“Betty and Carmella are historical re-enactors,” McGrath said, “and they’re really good at what they do. They’ve consulted on some Hollywood Civil war and World War II films. We asked them to come up with a routine that would seem realistic in every way.”
He handed the prop syringe back to the man. He and Sherri looked at each other, unsure what to think, or what to do. The kids were quiet again, sitting like perfect little angels.
McGrath hid the prop behind the counter. “You know,” he said, looking at both of them, “We spent over twelve million dollars developing our newest roller-coaster, and twenty-five percent of all the children who come to the park can’t ride it. Too small for the safety equipment to work properly.
“We wanted a ride that would give the little tykes the same kind of thrill and we think the Longshot does a great job delivering that experience.”
McGrath reached in his pocket. “Here’s some free passes, folks. Go out and enjoy the amusements.”
He smiled and waved to them from the doorway as they walked away. A woman with a small boy passed them on the asphalt path, on their way into the office.
They looked vaguely familiar and he stopped and looked back at them.
“Excuse me…. Excuse me.” He caught up with them. “Were you on the Longshot? I think you were in front of us.”
The woman eyed him cautiously for a moment. She looked at Sherri and the kids, and her expression softened. “Yes, I remember seeing you in line.”
He looked at her earnestly. “Are you going to complain about the ride?”
“No way. I love the Longshot. It’s the best ride here.”
She glanced at his kids again, waiting quietly in the hot sun with their mother, and smiled. “Was this their first time on it?”
He nodded, and her smile grew wider. “Best thing you ever did,” she told him.
The woman gestured to the dark-haired boy standing near her.
“I make Trevor here ride it once a month.” She winked at him.
“You’re going to like what it does for them. You’ll see.”
She waved at his wife and started again for the office.
“But the restrooms here,” she tossed back on her way to the door, “are disgusting.”
“So what did the lady say?” Sherri asked as they walked slowly along the pathway.
He took his wife’s hand. “She said we should go someplace cool, have some drinks and be happy together.”
Welcome Aboard (January 20, 2010. Issue 13.)
On behalf of the HR department at Gargantuan Industries, I’d like to congratulate you on winning the lottery. Management has empowered me to extend a heartfelt welcome on this, your first day, and express their satisfaction that we were able to come to an agreement. We know your employment will be marked by great success.
I like to start new hires off with an office tour, so we’ll just clear up a few details before you see your nest—we don’t like to call them cubicles—so cold, you know? Our nests are much more intimate and it’s really inspiring what some of our people have been able to do with sixteen square feet. But you’ll see that for yourself.
Let’s review some of the terms of your employment. As you know, you participated in our reverse compensation auction during the interview process, which means your salary and benefit package is currently tied to that of your colleagues at the Harare, Zimbabwe facility. Two five kilo sacks of millet and two liters of water will be paid every other Friday during the rainy season, and one sack of millet and one cup of water during the dry. As per your signed agreement, these amounts could change without notice if another of our offices around the world tenders a lower bid. Management reserves the right to substitute rice, tapioca, or powdered fire retardant as market conditions require.
There’s been some misunderstanding regarding the health plan so I’d like to spend a little time on it. A rumor going around the internet alleges that our employees are unable to see a doctor. This is completely false. We maintain agreements with board certified doctors and hospitals throughout the country, and I want to emphatically make the point that a doctor of veterinary medicine is just as entitled to the honorarium as any other “doctor.” Further, I can personally attest that the Cozy Kat Clinic just down the street cured not only my bronchitis, but also my fuzzy little Tiddle’s conjunctivitis, during the same office visit. Everyone is complaining about the ruinous cost of health care these days, Gargantuan is doing something about it.
Now just a couple points about our work rules and we’ll be off. The centers of the corridors are reserved for executives above the level of Pasha. Your employee handbook contains an explanation of “Sidling” as we define it, as well as a schematic. Please take some time to familiarize yourself with the proper technique for negotiating the halls—we’ve had some unfortunate tramplings.
Do not make eye contact with the vice-presidents. I won’t say anymore about that. Just don’t. The same applies to shareholders, with the additional rule that employees are required to lie down with their necks and bellies exposed until the shareholder has passed. If the shareholder should begin to tear into you, simply remain calm and think of dividends. One additional sack of millet will be paid in compensation if you’re unable to return to work for more then six months, however, your salary will be stopped. We like to have our injured employees eager to return.
Let’s go for a little walk, shall we? Down this hall, here, is the entrance to the central office pit. You’ve been assigned ladder 4, which descends eighty-five feet to nesting level C. We won’t go down just now as, for some reason, the employees become upset when they see me. You can get comfy in number 475—that’s yours, a little later. It may seem cold and dark at first, but you’ll be able to see your screen better without extraneous illumination and the constant fifty-two degree temperature pretty much guarantees productivity. Additional heat and light are available for a nominal fee, deducted from your pay sack. The same applies to restrooms.
Come over to the windows and take a look at the Major Shareholders Complex. Incidentally, the firm has recently added window privileges to the benefit package, so employees are no longer charged for enjoying a last view of the sun on their way down into the pit. It’s just something we like to do for our people. Now, the Major Shareholders Complex is strictly off limits to you and me—the guards shoot immediately if you don’t smell right—but take a look at what a hundred billion gets you in the way of architecture. I was favored with a five minute peek inside after it was completed. The floors and walls are made of solid gold and lobster tails with drawn butter come out of the restroom faucets. Nothing is too good for our investors.
Always remember that we exist entirely for the investors, along with the hedge fund which owns us this month. They have the weight of the world on their shoulders, all those widows and orphans depending on them. It’s a little funny; the investors actually look like pampered, well-fed white males, you know? Don’t be deceived if they appear arrogant, though. Their egos were terribly bruised when the recent economic downturn affected their net worth. The company has had to provide emergency humanitarian dividends payable in gold bullion to keep them from pouting. Oh, but that reminds me. I should have mentioned it before: Due to some unforeseen expenses, the firm has eliminated bonuses for ev
eryone below the level of Sheik until further notice. I know it’s hard, but these are tough times. The silver lining in all this is that, in the past, some employees have complained of the difficulty in finding any use for their bonus millet, so now everyone should be happy.
Over there, beyond the blast-proof glass, is the entrance to the Executive Pavilion. You can just make out our Group Vice President’s office—No! Don’t look! Sorry… I didn’t realize Mr. Crusher was in. We almost never see him during daylight hours. He likes to work at night. He’s not a bad boss, but I have to caution you against leaving your nest for any reason, especially if you’ve recently cut yourself. You must understand, Crusher is in charge of head-count and he takes it seriously. Very penetrating guy, Crusher, a credit to the firm.
So here we are back around to the pit entrance. Before you descend to your little nest, I’d like to invite you to look in on one of our employee enrichment meetings. I don’t want to brag about them even if the meetings were kind of my idea, inspired by a recent remark from one of the shareholders. I happened to be saddle-soaping his whip at the time and I think he forgot I was in the room. It almost made me angry when he mentioned they were looking into replacing us with chimps… but then my competitive spirit kicked in and empowered me to make a difference!
So now about a dozen of us get together during the rest intervals to discuss management’s concerns while grooming each other and searching for fleas and lice. I hung some tires from the ceiling for us to swing on while we debate the best ways to shave expenses—and I’d like to see the chimp that can hang from a tire and cut the millet budget! Poor, stupid apes. The best part was when I told Mr. Crusher about it, he smiled and invited me to come to his office tomorrow evening for a little chat. He actually smiled at me. Oh, you’re going to like it here!
Interview With the Muse (May 20, 2009. Issue 5.)
Mr. Reginald Philter has graciously made himself available to the staff of Modern Whore magazine on the momentous occasion of his thirtieth anniversary as Publisher for Gargantuan Press, the largest book publisher in the world. A distinguished looking, impeccably attired Gentleman of seventy-four years of age, Mr. Philter is known as an inexhaustible innovator in an industry which has displayed a deep reluctance to embrace the electronic age, as well as modern literature genres. The interview was conducted in May, 2007 at our editorial offices in New York, by a senior correspondent.
“Mr. Philter, on behalf of the entire staff, I would like to welcome you to MW, and take this opportunity to congratulate you on a long and storied career as the top executive of one of the most famous publishing houses in the world.”
“Thank-you very much, and please do call me Reggie. Everyone does.”
“Thanks, I will. Could you tell us, Reggie, what it was like to take over the reins from your father in 1975? What was Gargantuan Press like back then?”
“Well, as you know, my Grandfather founded the company in 1901, when he began publishing an early guide for lobbyists called Use Two Hands. This was a great success, which he later followed with a very well received new edition, in 1908, entitled: The Taxpayers Will Bear It.
During my father’s time, we began to publish Fiction of all kinds, but I’m afraid that by the time I began working there in’69, as my father’s assistant, we had become rather deeply entrenched in the type of intellectual, idea based claptrap which, sadly, still holds the industry back. It has been my chief concern to move the company forward into new markets.”
“You are justly famous for introducing the use of focus groups to identify and expunge from your books any words that were found to make your readers uneasy, or fidgety. Words like… well, expunge, for instance.”
“That’s right. I mean, what kind of word is expunge? Most of our readers seldom, if ever run into this word, and who wants to get out the dictionary when you’re in the middle of a good celebrity kiss and tell? Now, delete is a much better choice. It’s right there on the keyboard they use at work every day – they don’t even have to think about it.”
“What about the criticism, which some writers have directed toward you, that an author should choose words for the express purpose of encouraging readers to think, and perhaps, learn?”
“Well, they’re entitled to their opinion of course, but I can promise you that none of our authors at Gargantuan feel that way.”
“Reggie, which project, in your long career, has brought you the greatest satisfaction?”
“I really have to say that I’m most proud of the new book which Gargantuan will release next month – Anuses of Chicago.”
“Uh… anuses?”
“Yes. Of Chicago. Do you know that our research staff discovered that
Metropolitan Chicago residents have the most photogenic anuses of any city in the U.S? It’s really remarkable.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, Reggie, how exactly did they discover this?”
“Well, you know, I wondered that myself, but I have a firm hands-off policy when it comes to research so I haven’t enquired. But the amazing thing about it is how neatly the research dove- tailed with some focus groups we ran independently. When we asked people all over the country what type of material they’d like to see more of from Gargantuan, what do you think their response was?”
“Uh… anuses?”
“Exactly. So it really was a no-brainer as far as making the decision to do the book.”
“In effect, your customer’s were telling you what they wanted.”
“That’s the way we saw it. Plus, it turns out that all of our editors, as well as several of my ex-wives, have kids in expensive private schools.
“Before I forget, I’ve brought you a gift. This is the very first copy from the printer. I’d like you to have it.”
“Thank-you very much, I can’t wait to see it… whoa-- that’s heavy!”
“I should have warned you. Yes, it weighs in at just over sixty-five pounds. The lawyers are making noises about including a warning label, but of course they don’t have to sell the darn thing. There are over twelve hundred pages of color photos.”
“That’s a lot of anuses”
“Well, I think it is very important to give the reader a good value during these uncertain times. There are a lot of other ways for people to spend their money.”
“How did you get so many people to, ah, sit for these pictures?”
“We put ads in the local papers, and paid standard modeling rates to those who passed the audition. The response was so great that we eventually had to rent additional studio space at half a dozen locations around the city.”
“Now you’ve really got me curious. How were the auditions conducted: what were you looking for?”
“Well, again, this was something that I left up to my staff. They hired the photographers who ran the auditions. I presume they used some type of criteria to judge what they were seeing. But one area where I did get involved was to insist that the photos reflect the great diversity of a major city, and I’m happy that we were able to include not only Caucasian, but also anuses of Color.
“Another part of this project which is very exciting is our simultaneous launch of the first interactive web site in the business, in conjunction with the book release. People will be able to order the book at the site and actually custom design the jacket to match their furniture and décor. None of our competitors have anything like it.”
“You’re probably aware, Reggie, that there have been some accusations floating around - I don’t want to mention any names - to the effect that Gargantuan Press, which in your father’s day published some of the greatest American Fiction of that era, has degenerated into a house of schlock, publishing the most sensational and egregiously irritating crap for a buck. How do you respond to that?”
“Well, I think the numbers say it all. Sales of so-called serious works have been falling for years. I mean, do you really think Mr. and Mrs. Average American want to come home from a ten hour day, shove some pizza down the kid’s throats, terrorize them into doing their homework, and then settle down to read five thousand illuminating words on the rise of Wahhabism in Saudi Arabia? Or wade through the excessive intellectualism of a Harvard educated crank who wrote about living near a pond in the 1850’s?
“What they want is to look at a few tastefully photographed anuses to de-pressurize them enough to get a good night’s sleep, so they can do it all again tomorrow. I’m very proud to say that Gargantuan Press will be there for them.”
“Admirable words, indeed.
“Reggie, what might we look forward to from Gargantuan in the future? Are there any sneak previews you’d like to give us?”
“Well, I don’t mind telling you that I’ve just given the go-ahead to a new project that I think our readers will like very much. It’s another example of the incredible work our research staff is capable of.
“It turns out that under certain circumstances, lemmings will march extremely long distances, just like those rather successful penguin films.
“We have in mind to do a simultaneous book and film release just before Christmas.
“You know, we were going to do the book in- house, but now I’m wondering – would you be available?”
“Well, I could be.”
“Why don’t you stop by my office next week, and we’ll discuss these amazing little creatures.”
“Thanks very much, I’ll be happy to.
I want to thank you again for making time in your busy schedule for us, Reggie.”
“Not at all. I have to admit that I was a bit uneasy about doing this, but it’s really been fun. I can see why Modern Whore gets all the big interviews.
For MFA Candidates: A Warning (April 9, 2009. New Pink Moon. Issue 3)
We’ve been watching you for a while. On the way to our jobs each day you’re hustling along the sidewalk, all portfolios and backpacks. There’s been an intensity to you lately that we think we understand. It’s that time of year again. We know you’re excited and we’re happy for you. We wish, in fact, that we could gather you all into one of the lecture halls for a few minutes to tell you just how happy we are about your graduation, and maybe a few other things.
Of course you don’t know us, and there’s little reason you should listen to what we’d like to tell you. We’re not authorities on what you’ve been studying. We’re just the older folk you thread your way through on the way to that early class. We’ll understand if you’re impatient as we hem and haw our way through a few false starts, because we’re not used to speaking to a crowd. It will only take a moment though, so if you’d be kind enough to humor us….
The world awaits your imminent… wait, that’s wrong, sorry. We’ll try again. The world is unaware, oblivious, to your imminent disgorgement from this year’s uncomfortably distended academic gullet. That’s better. Certainly more accurate, and really, oblivion is probably your best bet because we’re a bit hazy about the nature of your achievement. You say: “Master of Fine Arts,” we think: “Advertising.” You say: “Artist,” we think: “Flashing Google Graphic Creator.” “Filmmaker?” “Endless, numbing, sequels.” “Writer?” “Oh Christ!”
Maybe we’re unfair. It isn’t your fault the degree has become somewhat debased. You’ve suffered for your talent, have you not? Gritted your way through school at those odd jobs, odd hours, with no money. Stared glassily into the glowing maw of the Great Devourer, your fingers frozen over the keyboard, praying for something, anything, to inspire them. We understand. We’ve done some of it ourselves-- at least the odd jobs, no money and staring glassily stuff. We’re thinking you might feel it’s your time to cash in, to get PAID. It’s time for the horse to get the carrot and that’s what we wanted too. We all want that carrot.
The difference, though, between you and us is that we hadn’t any artistic talent. We can’t draw. We can’t even hold anyone’s attention with an amusing story or two. And setting up camera shots? Forget it. Not a clue. We’re grinding away at our careers, those evolved odd jobs, and if the money’s better then it was, the carrots fat, well, that’s all we’re ever going to have in our lives. We won’t know the joy of creating something greater then ourselves, a work that lives beyond our last breath. Our only crack at immortality is children.
We’re not complaining. We came to grips with our destiny a long time ago; out- lived a certain amount of envy for those who could do what we couldn’t. People like you, for whom the Muses come to attention and dance on cue. It’s your self-expression we’ll be spending money on the rest of our lives, your view of the world we’ll talk about at work. We’re cool with that. So if we demonstrate a little exasperation with you from time to time, it isn’t because we think we can take your place.
If you should notice us fidgeting in our seats fifteen minutes into your new film, our faces betraying something very much like tedium, don’t worry that we’re plotting to re-shoot your scenes. Or maybe, waiting for our flights, sitting on the bus, you’ll see us leafing restlessly through your novel, putting it back in our bags, unread. Don’t read too much into it. You might catch us leaving the gallery quickly after a cursory look at your show. It doesn’t mean we’re unhappy with your work.
Because that would be complaining, and that isn’t what this is about. We want you to know we love all of you, including the folks who will go on to bring us more of those television “Reality” shows, or whatever exciting new genre they ultimately morph into. We have a soft spot, too, for poets and painters whose work defies penetration. Also, of course, the writers: freshly baked in huge batches, uniformly browned and sweet, all made from exactly the same ingredients. Filmmakers of the “Death by a Thousand Cuts” school tickle our fancies as well; all those flash-edited tidbits, pixilated diarrhea, squirting across the silver screen.
Even the worst of you mirror us to some degree. We have to love you because anything less would dredge up a lot of uncomfortable stuff about ourselves that we’re not ready to deal with just now. You’re what we have at this point in time. Let’s leave it at that.
What we’re doing today is giving out gifts. We have something for every student as a token of appreciation for your elevation. After thinking long and hard about what would best help your careers along, we’re pleased to be able to offer a few things you might find useful.
Let’s start with what seems to be the largest group: those of you who chose the MFA path for the career opportunities. You could have pursued a business or law degree, but the artistic life looked better then harnessing yourself to the kind of work we have to do. You’re talented, after all, and talent gets to pick.
We’re confident you’ll make a killing in the fine arts, but we’ve heard that path to the private jet, the million dollar pied á terre, can be arduous. We thought you could use a leg up right from the start to cut out the competition, so our gift to you is an idea so boffo, so money-in-the-bank sure, that it must be whispered: To the best of our knowledge, no one has done a novel or film about bocce ball.
Remarkable, isn’t it? And it’s all yours. But if you decide to do it, do it right, please. Don’t cheat us out of what we’ve come to expect from the arts. Writers, remember to keep it positive, life-affirming, and warm—oh so warm. And while we’re talking of warmth, don’t forget to put some pets in the book, with lots of cute dialogue from master to mutt. We love those puppy- dogs and kitty-cats, you know. They’re such non-threatening characters. We’re not against a few dark moments in your work, so long as there are plenty of hints that success is the order of the day. We like our successes to be readily apparent, too. Don’t give us something drawn out, incremental, ambiguous. We can read about Iraq if we want to explore the pleasures of that kind of success. Write something we can give as Christmas gifts.
The number of shots in the film should approach that of the known galaxies. Fire them at us, rat-a-tat-tat from your machine-gun lens, nano-second jewels blasting us to orgasmic bliss. We don’t like long shots. The scenes end up looking too much like our lives-- kind of slow. Speed everything up. Make it look exciting and chic and you’ll make us exciting and chic; kind of. Pull out all the stops and show us what you can do. Give us the genial screw-up, pulling himself together against overwhelming odds. Think bocce ball as the moral equivalent of war. Give us the slo-mo ending, with everything riding on the last play. And the light—oh please, please give us golden sunlight bathing everyone in butterscotch- hued triumph. We already want tickets.
Promotional art. Nobody does a good book or movie poster anymore. Artists, get in on this gold mine. Maybe you actually would sell one of your paintings occasionally, while boring everyone with how talented your students are at that art school you’ll be teaching at. Or do you want to make real money? Your classmates will need lots of brightly colored promotional material for their novels and films. Make their acquaintances. And do we have to even mention the internet potential? We look forward to cute little bocce balls bouncing cleverly across our screens. Repeat this until its part of you: A lot of good artists worked in advertising, really.
That does it for those of you in the “Career Opportunity” group. Congratulations, and please exit quickly because frankly, your remaining classmates don’t have your earning potential. We don’t want you to have to listen to the harsh words we’re going to lay on them. Good luck.
Well. We thought they’d never leave. Not many of you left, but that’s hardly surprising. We hope you said your goodbyes to that other group because you might not meet any of them again for a long time. You’re on different career paths—you already know that. They want to make money and you want to make statements. They could have pursued law or business just as we said, but you… you could never be anything except what you are.
No other way of putting this: you’re a bunch of troublemakers. Your work makes us uneasy. It would be so much easier for you if you could be like those others. They know better then to make us think. We can munch up their stuff and an hour later we don’t remember what we ate. Now that’s entertainment. Your work stays with us for years. We can’t forget it.
It’s not a good plan, you know. The others might live in gated splendor, attending galas, their mailboxes full of fans gushing about the new book, new film. You’ll be flying coach the rest of your lives, attending pot-lucks. You’ll get a few wrenching e-mails from friends asking why you can’t write something “nice,” something that makes them warm. And you won’t know what to say except that it doesn’t feel right for you. You’re so funny.
Not a good plan at all. We have a gift for you too though, if that’s who you are, if you’re determined to break your hearts by refusing to give us what we’re comfortable with. Actually, it’s two gifts, but don’t get excited because you won’t like either of them. The first takes the form of a warning but before you get it, we have to come clean about something. It’s whispering time again, so lean in close:
You’re who we wanted to be. Not the others. They’re merely what we deserve. They’ll give us the easily digested stuff and we’ll eat it up—we admit it. We don’t have to do any work with them, bring anything to the table or take anything from it. We’re tired at the end of the day, you know? We need something to perk us up and they’re certainly perky. And warm. Puppy-dogs and warmth and butterscotch triumph. We can stumble off to bed with them.
Asleep, we dream of you. Of being you, if we had cutting- edge minds and the guts to play it straight. The others will get our money—only our money, and they’re easily bought because they’re cheap at any price. When we feel like working, stretching ourselves, we’ll be coming to you. We haven’t given up on the idea of adding more to civilization then we take. A hundred years from now, we’d like it said that The Western Tradition remained strong during our time, held up by an informed public that demanded the very best of art. You’ll be carrying our sword in that fight.
Now you get a present: Don’t expect too much from your education. Oh, we know it undoubtedly tightened up your writing. Your brush-strokes gained additional authority. It helped you master some of the technical aspects of film-making. Don’t let comfort with technique bamboozle you about why you’re alive on this planet. You exist to have good ideas and suffer their consequences. School refined you, made you less dangerous to yourselves, and us. But the ideas were yours to begin with because that’s who you are and that’s how art works.
Your education was arranged to make your careers easier-- we don’t want your careers to be easy. You’re afraid of not making enough to live on and we feel for you. We’re afraid of that too. There are other things we’re just as afraid of. We fear the multi-book deal and best-seller lists stretching to infinity. Sequels marching tirelessly over the horizon scare the crap out of us. We fear those wine and cheese art extravaganzas like poison. Most of all, we’re scared of art as “Product.” It’s cruel, but we’d like you to have just enough to do what you have to do. Welcome to the life.
You’ll be called elitist. In the near future, reading without moving your lips will qualify as elitist. It will be applied to you by people who haven’t found a convenient way to make money from your work. Get used to it. Get used to fighting back. We give you an idea to fight back with:
In the twenty-first century, when our country has fallen from its customary leadership in too many categories, isn’t some elitism exactly what is needed? America re-invented a particular brand of it more then two centuries ago, a kind of preferment the world had not seen since the Hellenic civilizations. It was not the elitism of blood, of tracing family ancestry back to royalty, or Plymouth Rock. Not trust fund elitism either; pitiful nobodies propped up on mommy and daddy’s money. It was the notion that good ideas trump blood and purchased status. It was revolutionary then and it’s still revolutionary. Yes, a bit of the right kind of elitism might be just the ticket.
You can do this. Good ideas are your stock in trade. They’re your double-edged sword and we’re begging you to cut us up even as you slice yourselves thin. We go to work every day hoping for someone to startle us, someone whose education hasn’t neutralized them, rendered them harmless. You; only you. Put something in your work for us. We promise not to look away, or, if we do, we’ll come back to you, we’ll keep trying. Don’t forget us after graduation. Wherever you end up, we’ll still be on our way to work every morning; wishing, hoping, dreaming of you.