"Wow, that is a lot of blood."
"Thanks. It's not mine. I hit a pig on the way over."
"Cop pig, or pig pig?"
"Cop riding a pig actually. It's a whole thing, I don't really have time to get into. Could I get a waffle cone full of mint chocolate chip?"
"No problem."
I handed the woman her ice cream cone. She took a lick that inspired a deep lusty bite. The look of elation on her face -- comforting cold wrapping around a burning soul -- I envied that degree of satisfaction, wanted to be her. Then a bullet whipped through the front door. Her head exploded. Though her body fell she did not drop the cone. I distinctly remember a bit of brain erupting from her skull, flying over the counter, and landing in the slot full of cherries. It sank into the maraschino pool, and I doubt anyone but me saw it vanish. There to lurk until one day spooned onto a sundae.
On the news that evening, a perky anchor addressed the city, "Good evening, Chicago. This is the news. 25 people shot yesterday, all of them dead. Cubs won their home opener, and the weather may get up into the 80s this weekend. Isn't that great?"
Co-anchor cocked an eyebrow, "Cubs win, and 80 degrees on the way? Can't get much better."
All smiles then, leaving the grim behind. No details. The less known the less thought about, except I couldn't stop wondering if office work might now be a safer profession. In a skyscraper high above the streets full of swarms of stray bullets unintentionally murdering randomly -- I decided to jump ship, but not until sight of land. In other words, I'd stick it out at the ice cream parlor until another job came along. I would not have to wait long.
The next day I arrived to find my manager listening to an androgynous figure in a three piece suit. Introductions quickly ensued.
"Indigo Jackson," turned out to be a representative of a family, whom for legal purposes will have to remain anonymous, though suffice it to say they felt yesterday's event warranted some kind of response on their part. To that end, without suggesting any culpability, they saw fit to replace the entire front of the store with bulletproof glass, in order to allay any concerns from patrons or employees as to the safety of our establishment; and offered to compensate me to the tune of ten thousand dollars for having witnessed the "unpleasantness;" though of course all such matters required, first, the signing of several documents Indigo summarized adroitly, escorting us through a murky swamp of legalese without ever really explaining what signing those papers meant, despite implications abounding: here big sack 'o' cash, sign for it, and shut up forever.
When at last Indigo inquired, "Do you understand?"
I said, "It must be interesting to have a job where you need to be so definitely opaque, yet somehow understood enough people do what you ask."
Indigo nodded, "It is."
"I kind of want to give that a try."
"Are you saying you want a job instead of the money?"
"Can't I have both? It was a very disturbing sight."
Indigo said, "Something can be arranged."
Clapping my hands together, "Great. Then before I quit, how about I make you a cherry sundae?"
"Sounds good."
#
The next day I ascended to the top of the Monadnock Building. Once upon a time the largest skyscraper in America -- circa 1893 -- it still towered in its own way, evolving over the century into a marvelous amalgamation of early aesthetics and modern technological convenience. Brick full of invisible wifi threads connecting the past, present, and future; tap a foot on red tile mosaic patterns, while listening to the lasted streaming playlist, killing time till the rush hour clog gives way. Then up steps adorned first in ornate aluminum cast decorations then on upper floors, bronze-plated cast iron staircases, shunning the elevator for a chance to walk through history... and maybe feeling no hurry to be at work on time.
Into the office to start a brand new --
"You the new guy? Follow me." A balding man in a sweat stained shirt grabbed me by the elbow. He pulled me into the office muttering as he poured over emails. His phone rang. He threw it on the floor. I felt it crunch under foot, and before I could apologize an intern materialized from behind a file cabinet, handed him a fresh phone, and the muttering commenced once again. Though this time I deciphered a bit, "Goddamn turkey fuckering pirates."
The office buzzed with activity. Hordes of hollow eyed business people in various states of decay, internal and external, paced the space examining documents, paper and electronic. A middle aged man in a thread bare double breasted suit sniffed ketamine off a tablespoon, while his colleague, a young woman in a pencil skirt, slugged vodka the way the thirsty chug water. I only caught a snippet of their exchange:
"We can't apologize for lactose intolerance."
"But we can apologize for a cheeseburger having cheese."
In another space a grey skinned wax figure waited for a nurse to change an IV bag dripping morphine. Surrounded by an assortment of young professionals, the room seemed like a cult of silence devoted to holding a secret. A woman in tortoise shell glasses spun the cylinder of a revolver, put it to her temple, and when she heard the click, sighed, took a shot of whiskey, and started reading a letter. I heard the distinct clatter of keyboards being hammered, and riding crops striking bare flesh.
"Thank you Miss! May I have another?"
Yet in all the seeming chaos the workers managed to flow between one another efficiently, an almost elegant ballet of the damned.
The person towing me through the scene remarked, "I'm Bernie. For now. Tomorrow, I don't know. It depends. Don't ask on what. Point being, your job is to write back to the beggars. Got it?"
"Okay."
"Good. Here's your space." And with that Bernie detached his hand, leaving me adrift by a state of the art computer atop a turn of the century desk. Stepping over a chalk outline, I took a seat at my desk.
"Don't worry about that."
I looked up to find a young lady in red.
She nodded at the chalk outline, "Horace Fletcher. Good guy. Killed himself."
"Does everybody here talk in staccato sentences."
She smiled, "Force of habit, I'm afraid. There's a lot to do, and no time to do it in," extending a hand, "I'm Patty."
Thanks to Patty, I discovered the true parameters of my job. Public relations is almost a tautology. It's name defines what it is: relating to the public. However, that covers a broad spectrum of ways to relate. The top floor of the Monadnock Building devoted itself to public relations for the {redacted} family. This involved everything from composing explanations, summaries, and denials regarding the family's various scandals, philanthropies, business, and political concerns. Each concern being the focus of different groups, or perhaps divisions is more appropriate: mercenary artisans trying to paint realities.
As Patty put it, "We wrap the shit in gold, and draw all eyes to a drop in the bucket."
When I said, "Bernie put me in charge of the 'beggars?'"
Patty got a bit misty, "Entry level stuff. Enjoy your innocence."
I wanted to inform Patty about my time as a sounding assistant, sterilizing metal rods used by a dominatrix to widen the hole in a penis so that objects such as fingers could be inserted into said dick-hole; however, I could tell she enjoyed the idea of my innocence so much that it would be wrong to rob her of it. So I kept my penis stories to myself.
The "beggars" turned out to be anyone writing to the {redacted} family asking for money. This also constituted a broad spectrum. On any given day I went through about fifty missives soliciting money in myriad ways. Long lost cousins sought financial reconnection with relatives; for the low, low price of 20 grand, black sheep offered to keep silent about buried bodies; and any number of other unrecognized spawn demanding financial acknowledgement. Meanwhile, inventors who swore to be on the verge of paradigm shifting breakthroughs -- teleportation, antigravity, freeze rays, and orgasm pills -- just needed another few thousand to revolutionize the world. Folks from places like Telluride, Colorado, Marfa, Texas, and Stockbridge, Massachusetts sought coin to start hospitals for broken hearts, agencies devoted to finding lost pets, and the Fuck You Ashley Tillerman Institute. Cash to stop the Martian invasion. Funds to get the invasion going.
Every day I dipped into a cornucopia full of the well intentioned, insane, and grifters. After about two weeks, it got hard to tell the difference between them. This mainly having to do with the fact my response to each, as instructed, remained forever always NO.
Patty said, "You have to read the letters. That way you can put in a personal touch. Then they feel like someone actually considered giving them money, and we get less hate mail. Believe me, you don't want to piss off that department. They have the best drugs."
So I did my best to be accommodating:
"Dear madam,
We appreciate your desire to build a National Hardware Store Historical Society. Hardware stores provide Americans with the means to build the future, and maintain the present. However, we don't feel that our company is the best one to get behind this endeavor. Perhaps a major home improvement retailer might be a better fit.
Best of luck in your pursuit.
Sincerely,
{redacted}"
An intern near the coffee room enjoyed the task of rubber stamping signatures onto all correspondence. The kid sat in a weed slack fog of delight, stamp, stamp, stamping the day away. On more than one occasion I found myself along with others enviously eying that intern.
According to office folklore, the top floor of the Monadnock Building was purchased because a bygone patriarch of the {redacted} family said, "The city is in charge of cleaning the sidewalk. So if they're going to kill themselves, let them jump to their death. Then we won't have to pay for the mess." So it's no surprise how many of us came to envy that intern's pacific demeanor while happily assisting in the distribution of our gilded shit. It didn't seem to wear on the soul quite the way it did on ours.
Having to tell a racist no we won't be funding a School of Higher Aryan Education (and whatever hideously malignant stupidity that would lead to) does make one feel good. However, having to deny someone asking for help with medical bills, cancer killing their bank account before it goes after them, obliterates any of that joy. Overhearing the press release about {redacted} Junior's latest monstrosity -- "Maybe that hooker wanted to die, she didn't say, 'Stop choking me.'" -- knowing the expense of his legal defense, and ad campaign to polish the family image -- we could ease a few burdens with those millions. But no. Cancer fighters, refugees, the infirmed, those honestly sick, dying, and in need: fuck 'em.
Granted, it seems like an equal fuck you, aimed at anyone asking for a penny, yet, the disparity is taxing.
The postmark puts the letter in some part of Texas. It's from an elderly woman writing on behalf of her grandson. He can't write himself because 45% of his body is covered in burns after an oilrig catastrophe, and seeing as how [redacted} owns those oilfields, well sir, it seems right proper maybe we could help with the medical bills is all; and sure, there's a real possibility she's a grifter pulling some bullshit con -- start thinking of everyone as full of shit -- old bitch probably writes to a dozen companies a day asking for any kind of cash. Yeah! Suck down a fifth of bourbon writing the politest fuck you the world's ever heard. Don't even wonder if it's at all true. Or if so, consider it sarcastically: sorry about your extra crispy grandson, but we can't help because there's nothing that says we have to.
On a Wednesday, Bernie stopped into my office. He said, "You're doing great. Promotion assured. Pretty soon you'll have my job."
I opened my mouth to reply. His phone rang. He held up a finger. In the momentary silence he answered, listened, nodded then walked to a window, and jumped out.
Few people are ever so blessed to witness their future made plain.
Patty stuck her head in, "Did Bernie just go out a window?"
I said, "Yep, and I quit."
"Thanks. It's not mine. I hit a pig on the way over."
"Cop pig, or pig pig?"
"Cop riding a pig actually. It's a whole thing, I don't really have time to get into. Could I get a waffle cone full of mint chocolate chip?"
"No problem."
I handed the woman her ice cream cone. She took a lick that inspired a deep lusty bite. The look of elation on her face -- comforting cold wrapping around a burning soul -- I envied that degree of satisfaction, wanted to be her. Then a bullet whipped through the front door. Her head exploded. Though her body fell she did not drop the cone. I distinctly remember a bit of brain erupting from her skull, flying over the counter, and landing in the slot full of cherries. It sank into the maraschino pool, and I doubt anyone but me saw it vanish. There to lurk until one day spooned onto a sundae.
On the news that evening, a perky anchor addressed the city, "Good evening, Chicago. This is the news. 25 people shot yesterday, all of them dead. Cubs won their home opener, and the weather may get up into the 80s this weekend. Isn't that great?"
Co-anchor cocked an eyebrow, "Cubs win, and 80 degrees on the way? Can't get much better."
All smiles then, leaving the grim behind. No details. The less known the less thought about, except I couldn't stop wondering if office work might now be a safer profession. In a skyscraper high above the streets full of swarms of stray bullets unintentionally murdering randomly -- I decided to jump ship, but not until sight of land. In other words, I'd stick it out at the ice cream parlor until another job came along. I would not have to wait long.
The next day I arrived to find my manager listening to an androgynous figure in a three piece suit. Introductions quickly ensued.
"Indigo Jackson," turned out to be a representative of a family, whom for legal purposes will have to remain anonymous, though suffice it to say they felt yesterday's event warranted some kind of response on their part. To that end, without suggesting any culpability, they saw fit to replace the entire front of the store with bulletproof glass, in order to allay any concerns from patrons or employees as to the safety of our establishment; and offered to compensate me to the tune of ten thousand dollars for having witnessed the "unpleasantness;" though of course all such matters required, first, the signing of several documents Indigo summarized adroitly, escorting us through a murky swamp of legalese without ever really explaining what signing those papers meant, despite implications abounding: here big sack 'o' cash, sign for it, and shut up forever.
When at last Indigo inquired, "Do you understand?"
I said, "It must be interesting to have a job where you need to be so definitely opaque, yet somehow understood enough people do what you ask."
Indigo nodded, "It is."
"I kind of want to give that a try."
"Are you saying you want a job instead of the money?"
"Can't I have both? It was a very disturbing sight."
Indigo said, "Something can be arranged."
Clapping my hands together, "Great. Then before I quit, how about I make you a cherry sundae?"
"Sounds good."
#
The next day I ascended to the top of the Monadnock Building. Once upon a time the largest skyscraper in America -- circa 1893 -- it still towered in its own way, evolving over the century into a marvelous amalgamation of early aesthetics and modern technological convenience. Brick full of invisible wifi threads connecting the past, present, and future; tap a foot on red tile mosaic patterns, while listening to the lasted streaming playlist, killing time till the rush hour clog gives way. Then up steps adorned first in ornate aluminum cast decorations then on upper floors, bronze-plated cast iron staircases, shunning the elevator for a chance to walk through history... and maybe feeling no hurry to be at work on time.
Into the office to start a brand new --
"You the new guy? Follow me." A balding man in a sweat stained shirt grabbed me by the elbow. He pulled me into the office muttering as he poured over emails. His phone rang. He threw it on the floor. I felt it crunch under foot, and before I could apologize an intern materialized from behind a file cabinet, handed him a fresh phone, and the muttering commenced once again. Though this time I deciphered a bit, "Goddamn turkey fuckering pirates."
The office buzzed with activity. Hordes of hollow eyed business people in various states of decay, internal and external, paced the space examining documents, paper and electronic. A middle aged man in a thread bare double breasted suit sniffed ketamine off a tablespoon, while his colleague, a young woman in a pencil skirt, slugged vodka the way the thirsty chug water. I only caught a snippet of their exchange:
"We can't apologize for lactose intolerance."
"But we can apologize for a cheeseburger having cheese."
In another space a grey skinned wax figure waited for a nurse to change an IV bag dripping morphine. Surrounded by an assortment of young professionals, the room seemed like a cult of silence devoted to holding a secret. A woman in tortoise shell glasses spun the cylinder of a revolver, put it to her temple, and when she heard the click, sighed, took a shot of whiskey, and started reading a letter. I heard the distinct clatter of keyboards being hammered, and riding crops striking bare flesh.
"Thank you Miss! May I have another?"
Yet in all the seeming chaos the workers managed to flow between one another efficiently, an almost elegant ballet of the damned.
The person towing me through the scene remarked, "I'm Bernie. For now. Tomorrow, I don't know. It depends. Don't ask on what. Point being, your job is to write back to the beggars. Got it?"
"Okay."
"Good. Here's your space." And with that Bernie detached his hand, leaving me adrift by a state of the art computer atop a turn of the century desk. Stepping over a chalk outline, I took a seat at my desk.
"Don't worry about that."
I looked up to find a young lady in red.
She nodded at the chalk outline, "Horace Fletcher. Good guy. Killed himself."
"Does everybody here talk in staccato sentences."
She smiled, "Force of habit, I'm afraid. There's a lot to do, and no time to do it in," extending a hand, "I'm Patty."
Thanks to Patty, I discovered the true parameters of my job. Public relations is almost a tautology. It's name defines what it is: relating to the public. However, that covers a broad spectrum of ways to relate. The top floor of the Monadnock Building devoted itself to public relations for the {redacted} family. This involved everything from composing explanations, summaries, and denials regarding the family's various scandals, philanthropies, business, and political concerns. Each concern being the focus of different groups, or perhaps divisions is more appropriate: mercenary artisans trying to paint realities.
As Patty put it, "We wrap the shit in gold, and draw all eyes to a drop in the bucket."
When I said, "Bernie put me in charge of the 'beggars?'"
Patty got a bit misty, "Entry level stuff. Enjoy your innocence."
I wanted to inform Patty about my time as a sounding assistant, sterilizing metal rods used by a dominatrix to widen the hole in a penis so that objects such as fingers could be inserted into said dick-hole; however, I could tell she enjoyed the idea of my innocence so much that it would be wrong to rob her of it. So I kept my penis stories to myself.
The "beggars" turned out to be anyone writing to the {redacted} family asking for money. This also constituted a broad spectrum. On any given day I went through about fifty missives soliciting money in myriad ways. Long lost cousins sought financial reconnection with relatives; for the low, low price of 20 grand, black sheep offered to keep silent about buried bodies; and any number of other unrecognized spawn demanding financial acknowledgement. Meanwhile, inventors who swore to be on the verge of paradigm shifting breakthroughs -- teleportation, antigravity, freeze rays, and orgasm pills -- just needed another few thousand to revolutionize the world. Folks from places like Telluride, Colorado, Marfa, Texas, and Stockbridge, Massachusetts sought coin to start hospitals for broken hearts, agencies devoted to finding lost pets, and the Fuck You Ashley Tillerman Institute. Cash to stop the Martian invasion. Funds to get the invasion going.
Every day I dipped into a cornucopia full of the well intentioned, insane, and grifters. After about two weeks, it got hard to tell the difference between them. This mainly having to do with the fact my response to each, as instructed, remained forever always NO.
Patty said, "You have to read the letters. That way you can put in a personal touch. Then they feel like someone actually considered giving them money, and we get less hate mail. Believe me, you don't want to piss off that department. They have the best drugs."
So I did my best to be accommodating:
"Dear madam,
We appreciate your desire to build a National Hardware Store Historical Society. Hardware stores provide Americans with the means to build the future, and maintain the present. However, we don't feel that our company is the best one to get behind this endeavor. Perhaps a major home improvement retailer might be a better fit.
Best of luck in your pursuit.
Sincerely,
{redacted}"
An intern near the coffee room enjoyed the task of rubber stamping signatures onto all correspondence. The kid sat in a weed slack fog of delight, stamp, stamp, stamping the day away. On more than one occasion I found myself along with others enviously eying that intern.
According to office folklore, the top floor of the Monadnock Building was purchased because a bygone patriarch of the {redacted} family said, "The city is in charge of cleaning the sidewalk. So if they're going to kill themselves, let them jump to their death. Then we won't have to pay for the mess." So it's no surprise how many of us came to envy that intern's pacific demeanor while happily assisting in the distribution of our gilded shit. It didn't seem to wear on the soul quite the way it did on ours.
Having to tell a racist no we won't be funding a School of Higher Aryan Education (and whatever hideously malignant stupidity that would lead to) does make one feel good. However, having to deny someone asking for help with medical bills, cancer killing their bank account before it goes after them, obliterates any of that joy. Overhearing the press release about {redacted} Junior's latest monstrosity -- "Maybe that hooker wanted to die, she didn't say, 'Stop choking me.'" -- knowing the expense of his legal defense, and ad campaign to polish the family image -- we could ease a few burdens with those millions. But no. Cancer fighters, refugees, the infirmed, those honestly sick, dying, and in need: fuck 'em.
Granted, it seems like an equal fuck you, aimed at anyone asking for a penny, yet, the disparity is taxing.
The postmark puts the letter in some part of Texas. It's from an elderly woman writing on behalf of her grandson. He can't write himself because 45% of his body is covered in burns after an oilrig catastrophe, and seeing as how [redacted} owns those oilfields, well sir, it seems right proper maybe we could help with the medical bills is all; and sure, there's a real possibility she's a grifter pulling some bullshit con -- start thinking of everyone as full of shit -- old bitch probably writes to a dozen companies a day asking for any kind of cash. Yeah! Suck down a fifth of bourbon writing the politest fuck you the world's ever heard. Don't even wonder if it's at all true. Or if so, consider it sarcastically: sorry about your extra crispy grandson, but we can't help because there's nothing that says we have to.
On a Wednesday, Bernie stopped into my office. He said, "You're doing great. Promotion assured. Pretty soon you'll have my job."
I opened my mouth to reply. His phone rang. He held up a finger. In the momentary silence he answered, listened, nodded then walked to a window, and jumped out.
Few people are ever so blessed to witness their future made plain.
Patty stuck her head in, "Did Bernie just go out a window?"
I said, "Yep, and I quit."
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