The Basement
Anthony Cimino
Copyright 2012 Anthony Cimino
Smashwords Edition
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Chapter 1
“Your password is Q as in Queer, R as in Republican, U as in Unicorn, the number 7, the letter X as in Xanadu, S as in subterfuge and K as in Kilo.”
Every time I heard that I wondered if it was a confession. The obese man with a slight southern twang would sing a variation on this theme throughout the day. He was a cartoon character come to life playing his role to a tee. He sat behind me when I worked at the Institute. When not giving out passwords he would joke with the person on the other end of the line about how they should make their checks out to Randall. Randall - that's his name. He was one of the three customer service reps that surrounded me during my employment in the basement. The Institute of America hired me and they put me in the basement. I don't remember that being mentioned during the job interview. Not much about my new position was mentioned during that interview.
Some think that we have some control over our own fate and others take the view that everything was set in motion at the big bang. The fact is sometimes life kicks you in the teeth. Other times it rears back and takes aim right at your balls. When I got kicked that pain blocked any coherent thoughts for a long time. This is roughly where it started.
My grandfather walked into the bathroom. The door closed and he shouted, “There is no way in hell you're moving back here.” He let out a loud sigh as his bladder emptied. “I'm not taking care of some thirty year old child.” I could hear another, pained sigh. “You shouldn't have quit.”
It was too late now. Thursday was the day we visited. I'd check that he was still breathing and he'd do the same of me. It was a Monday so he knew something was wrong the second I walked into his bungalow.
Our weekly visits started after I moved out of his house and bought a place of my own. That was about seven years ago. The postal service had yet to inform Guitar Player and Genomics magazines that I had moved. A small pile of them rested on his kitchen table – a still-life reminder of my more idealistic youth.
Grandpa's home was the one I grew up in. When I was eight years old I moved in with him. My parents and his wife died in a plane crash. It happens. The first couple of years we struggled to get used to each other and the realization that we were the last of the family. Through humor we managed.
When I moved in he began to instill in me what he called important lessons for living. They would range from standards such as, “No one likes a smart ass” to others that were his own beer fueled creations. My personal favorite was, “Sitting and pissing doesn't make you a woman.” Not sure what that had to do with anything. Not even sure if he was telling this to me or just psyching himself up for when he had to relieve himself. He had a reputation for taking a header into the toilet after downing a few.
“Where'd the tomatoes come from?” I asked. On top of the kitchen table sat a small basket of two dozen perfect red tomatoes. Grandpa grunted some response. Or he was having difficulty urinating due to a enlarged prostate. “What's that? You don't see tomatoes this nice in February.”
If he answered it was lost in the cacophony of the toilet flush, his bones creaking and the bathroom door opening. Grandpa walked in, grabbed a tomato, and said, “From that bitch.”
“Ms. Margolis? She's so sweet and nice.”
“You know exactly where they came from. They always come from her.”
For the past ten years Ms. Margolis and my grandfather had been entering various gardening competitions. He always came in second place to her. More and more over the past decade she'd been leaving bushels of tomatoes, corn, squash, beans and even garlic on grandpa's front steps. I told him she was flirting. He told me she was taunting. Next on Oprah, when two widowers get together and grow vegetables watch as the sparks fly.
“Showing off with her greenhouse produce. Nonsense,” grandpa said. “How can she afford a greenhouse? That husband must have left her a pretty penny.” He brought the tomato up to his nose and inhaled. A skeptical and dubious look came across his face. He dropped it back into the basket. “All I got was you. I could do wonders with my own greenhouse, but all my money went to feed and clothe you. I'm going to give her a piece of my mind.”
I watched him and gestured for him to get on with it. Confronting Ms. Margolis was a regular, empty threat of his. I tapped at the watch on my wrist. His face widened and stretched out some of his wrinkles. A moment passed and compressed everything he had and tried to get me to flinch with the evil eye routine.
“Go on. You two can talk about herbicides and complain about how sometimes your Social Security checks are a day late.”
“Damon, you've gone too far now.”
“The Social Security checks comment? Still afraid I want to steal them so I can buy some airplane glue to huff?”
All traces of bitterness left his body with that line. Any use of the word 'huff' made the old man laugh. The laughter ended and a more somber tone crawled onto his face as he looked at me.
“You're breathing, but you're still not alive. Uh?” He waved his arms at me and lowered himself down into a chair at the kitchen table. “Get me a beer zombie boy and tell me what's on your mind.”
I told him about the dinner I had the previous night.
* * *
“You gotta quit. Now.” Tom was not one for hyperbole, but I hoped he was trying out something new. That thought vanished when I looked over at his wife, Charlotte, and noticed that she sat with her mouth agape.
Quit, uh? The three of us were dining at an Afghan restaurant steps from the Duke Ellington bridge. The sun started its slow descent and I was digging into my lamb stew. Before my first spoonful I lowered my nose to the bowl and inhaled the wondrous combination of garlic, cumin, cilantro and a bit of unexploded cluster bomb.
Our dinner conversation turned to the usual topic – bitching about our respective employers.
“I need to get on a good case,” Tom said as he guzzled his meal. “Right now they got me on some shit one. A few partners have been working on this one case, a huge case, for years. Tons of billable hours in discovery checking into a well known company.”
Charlotte and I waited for Tom to tell us more. He wouldn't. He never did. From what I could tell that was the part of his job he liked the most. The part where he'd only reveal so much and then proclaim that he had said too much already.
“I'm sure in time, when you're partner, you'll be able to choose your cases,” said Charlotte. She patted his hand and turned to ask me about my job.
I told them how my employer was ripping off their clients. The owners were telling clients that they were buying brand new servers to run their data center. Instead they were taking the money and buying themselves trips to Africa. The clients were getting four year old hand me downs purchased for pennies on eBay. I thought this was sleazy.
“Penalties are automatically tripled since they did this willfully.” Oxygen had once again started flowing to Charlotte's brain activating her lawyer molecules. “Seriously get as far away as possible.”
They told me that I was not at fault, but continuing to work there would be akin to wanting to work for Enron. My stew began to grow cold and it's aroma faded. Quitting on the one hand is a dream. Not having a steady paycheck is the dark side of that fantasy.
“Now you can try out something new,” Charlotte said. “You never really liked that job anyway, right?”
“I guess not. No.”
“Relax,” said Charlotte. “What do you want to do?”
Given a world of infinite possibilities the human brain freezes. What do I want to do? With my life? The abundance of choices in the cereal aisle alone was enough to cloud my day.
“Retire.”
Tom choked on his kebab. He slapped the table hard enough to crest the wine in our glasses.
“Have you considered stand-up?” Tom asked. He wiped the tears from his eyes. “Or, this is good. What about the system you wanted to devise to win the lottery. That was awesome. What would you say?”
Little bits of food and spit flew out of his mouth with each sibilant note.
“I don't know,” I said.
“The numbers aren't random.” Tom laughed uncontrollably. “That's what he'd say. The numbers aren't random. Could barely calculate a tip correctly, but convinced that you could figure out a method to determine the winning numbers of the lottery.”
His wife looked at me like I was a hobbled pigeon. I shook my head and stared at a stain on the table cloth.
“OK. Well this might be good,” said Charlotte. “After you win the lottery what would you do then?”
During high school I took an aptitude test. The results were inconclusive. The kid that sat next to me, the kid that ate paste through the 8th grade, his results indicated he should pursue a career as a mime or a juggler. I didn't even get that result. Inconclusive, empty, blank. The worst a magic 8 ball will advice is, “Try again later”.
“Perhaps let's start simpler. Why did you study business?” said Charlotte.
“Go ahead. Tell her,” said Tom. He wiped a ring of sauce that had formed around his mouth. The ring made his mouth resemble a swollen asshole.
I eyed him and questioned why we were still friends.
“Fine. I'll tell her,” said Tom. He put down his fork and held forth on my pathetic nature. “It was because of a girl. He wanted to get close to that girl. What was her name? The one that he'd follow around like a puppy?” I played dumb. “Doesn't matter. You remember her, right? She was studying business so our friend here did the same. Goes from studying, what was it, genetics, to studying Business Administration. At least he got in her pants.”
Charlotte dismissed her husband with a look of disgust and turned to me to display more pity. I shrugged. Tom banged the table with triumph and dug back into his food.
“No,” said Charlotte. “That's sweet. Really.”
Her mannerisms told me the truth.
“Yep. Fine. So after winning the lottery,” I said. “Who cares? I'd have enough to not do anything.”
“Seriously. Stand-up. Brilliant stuff.” Tom said. “Ohh or model hair products.” Tom grabbed my head and shook it. The asshole ring was back around his mouth.
The next day I went into work and quit. My employer was upset and asked what my plan was. My plan was to go to the zoo. The zoo, baseball games, museums, hang out with my grandfather and become a vagabond. That lifestyle was a dream. An early retirement, even a temporary one, would have to wait. My bank account would make sure of that.
* * *
“I never liked that Tom character,” said Grandpa. “Figures he'd become a lawyer.”
“He's alright.”
He peered at me, pursed his lips and shook his head. “You got enough saved up?”
“I won't be stealing your Social Security checks anytime soon.” My brain flipped in it's case as it recalled my ever shrinking bank balance. “I'm alright for now.”
Chapter 2
The other voice of reason telling me to get a job was in the form of a 5'10” model I'd been sleeping with for the past five years. Grandpa never approved.
“You don't need to be with the prettiest girl at the dance. Just need one that will pull out your ear hair. Besides, you're not that much to look at anyway. You're all scrawny and covered in shit.”
I was ten years old when he dropped that pearl. At the time I couldn't get past the ear hair comment. Why would hair be growing out of my ears and why would I want some girl, of all creatures, to yank it out? He told me this particular bit of wisdom while he had me weed his garden. My ten year old mind wondered if the weeds were the ear hair of some larger creature.
“You should find some regular work.”
I hadn't seen Serena in one month. One month that I spent being happily unemployed. The first words out of her mouth were that I should get a job. Great. Was I dating Suze Orman? I was sitting on my couch listening to Les McCann. Fully reclined in the blissful bass and string opening of Doin' That Thing. Serena told me I needed to do another thing.
“Me? You get a regular job.”
“No. Look,” she said. I could taste her exasperation. It tasted like pennies. “I know how you want to be retired and all, but it's not going to happen this week, OK?”
Serena dropped her bags and rummaged through my refrigerator. She had decided and now she was going to eat. It's a great myth that models starve themselves. Serena ate more than most linebackers. Her diet consisted of sugar in various guises. Candy, gum, syrup it didn't matter as long as the ratio of sugar in a product was high she'd inhale, inject or roll around in it. Female friends of ours would refer to her as “skinny bitch”. They were half joking but perhaps a bit jealous. No, I would tell them, she is not bulimic. She just got lucky with the metabolism card.
Entire weekends were lost as she sat on my couch obsessing over shows about candy. Watching extruders, enrobers, and copper spinning panning machines took her breath away. The enrober was my favorite - naked confections are slowly pulled along a conveyer belt and then slide through a wall of chocolate that dresses them. A very sexy reverse strip-tease is how she described it.
We'd been dating for five years. At one time we both had normal jobs. She quit the normal world first and became a model. Every little girls fantasy is to play 'dress up' for the rest of their life. Most grow out of this dream around age eight or so. Serena opted to not grow up. The downside of living that fantasy is that the work is erratic at best. The upside for me was I could tell people I was dating a model. Women think you are much more attractive than you actually are when you are with a model. Men want you to teach them the secret and women become overly flirtatious.
My male friends, the ones that secretly subscribed to FHM and Maxim, wanted to know what my secret was. They read the articles but didn't feel comfortable buying Rohypnol. These were the guys that fell for the advertising promise of AXE Body Spray. Why they were my friends, I don't know. It wasn't like I had sniffed them out. 'Hey you there. Yeah you that smells like a twelve year old that fell into a vat of cologne, wanna play?'
They were my friends. They asked and I obliged. The secret, I told them, is simple: I have no idea. Most men that date models are completely bland. You pass them on the street and think nothing of them. A bit short, a bit pudgy and poorly dressed. We were chosen last in sports and didn't go to prom. But somehow we landed the hottest girl in the room. The secret is there is no secret. Good lighting, lucky timing and enough courage to say hi was my best guess. And falling down at the right moment also helped too.
* * *
“Enjoy your workout.” Those were the first words Serena had said to me. I'd just joined the gym a few blocks down from my house and she was working at the reception desk. It was a little after seven in the morning and my body was in a fog. I didn't look up when I handed her my membership card. My mind was too busy figuring out how I got there and what I was going to do now. Athletics and exercise were never an interest of mine. On the day we had to climb the ropes in gym class I was the kid that clung on and swung at the bottom. In a moment of weakness, similar to paying for undercoating, I had signed a contract that allowed for access to machines and devices I had no idea how to use.
I heard Serena's voice and looked up. I remember my response: half mumble, half smile, all awkward.
I hated the gym. I went because it was one of those things that people did. Then I saw her. Serena became the reason for me to workout. I wasn't looking to become healthy or have my physique resemble someone on the cover of Fitness. My workout high was the few minutes at the beginning and end of each workout where I could see her, smile and try not to say something stupid. It didn't matter that she was from a far off planet that men of my ilk could never get a visa for. A few minutes each day I could come close to touching the sun.
My workouts consisted of labored breathing as I navigated various aerobic machines. Walking steps to nowhere, or pretending I was cross country skiing in my shorts while staring out at Capitol Hill. The workouts would quicken when I would see some guy that looked like he walked off the cover of a magazine hit on Serena. Countless guys did. All of them failed. I never was in earshot to hear what lines they tried, but I could imagine.
“Hey, wanna spot me? Cause I've been spotting you all day.” Or, “I get my heart rate up just looking at you.” Most of the time Serena would not look up from whatever she was reading. Other times she handed them a towel accompanied by a stern business smile. A smile that said it was covering up an imminent vomit.
When I saw her I would say, “Hi.” or “How are you?” After a couple of months I decided to expand my repertoire. Expanding the conversation with her, no matter how feeble, became my new yardstick at the gym.
“What are you reading?”
“The People's History of the Supreme Court.” She flashed me the cover. “Ever read it?”
“No. Any good?” My mind raced to think of other ways to continue the conversation. 'Any good?' was OK. It required a response. Dammit, 'What's it about?' would have been better. My question only required a yes or no answer.
“Actually, it's quite good.” She placed the book face down. For the first time she relaxed and made more than polite eye contact with me.
“Oh, what's it about?”
She replied with half a smile and a cocked eyebrow.
“Right, the history of the Supreme Court. Got it. Dumb question.” Idiot. I studied the top of the desk she was sitting behind. It was a flat, boring, manufactured gray. It might have been a mirror.
“No. That's funny. It covers the history of the court from when it was almost a punishment to its more legislative days. I have to read it for a class, but I'd probably read it anyway.”
“What are you studying?” That's a good question. My mind double checked. Yep, didn't seem to be any errors in that one.
“I'm attending Georgetown Law at night. One more year left and I'll be done.”
“A...”
“No lawyer jokes please.”
“No, I was, no some of my best friends are lawyers.” She looked at me like the loon I must have resembled. It was a little after seven in the morning. My hair launched itself at bizarre angles. I hadn't shaved or showered and I was pretty sure that my t-shirt was covered in olive oil stains and sleep drool.
“Uh huh,” she said and accompanied it with an encouraging smile. Time stopped. This was a real smile. A smile that had come up from her insides. It was not required. It was real. Her lower lip separated from its top half. The rows of her straight, white teeth were exposed.
“I was going to ask what kind of law you plan on practicing. Honest.” I held my hand to my heart. At that moment, looking into her golden brown eyes, she could have told me that she planned to free child molesters and I would have kept the dumb grin on my face.
“I am going to work on justice issues. Specifically working to overthrow the death penalty. Too many innocent people get executed and after the fact it turns out they were innocent.” Before that moment she was the gorgeous girl that handed me a towel in the morning. I was beyond intimidated. Smart and beautiful. There was absolutely no way I could stay near her.
Over the next few weeks our small talk evolved into a regular banter. Other guys in the gym took notice and began giving me dirty looks. I didn't know how to get any further than our brief conversations. Until one day, quite by mistake, I fell. I didn't notice the triangular warning sign on the floor in front of reception. I bounded in a little too quick that morning – a girl you're interested in can you make you bound. My right leg slid too far forward and my left leg collapsed. Crashed on my ass, blood rushed to my face putting the cherry on top of my clumsiness.
“Oh my god. Are you OK?” Serena came out from behind the desk and looked at my pathetic form sprawled out on the floor. She looked down and laughed. “Sorry, it's just...,” she covered her mouth. “Didn't you see the sign?”
I saw the sign. The 'wet floor' sign was at eye level as I sat on the floor. I looked up at Serena and laughed too.
“Sorry that was too funny.” She continued laughing. I would have broken every bone in my body to hear her laugh. It was straight out of a 1940's movie. Flirty and uncontrollable, but refined. Now I knew her weakness – slapstick.
I started to greet her with pratfalls, invisible shoves, and excessive gravity as I fell, bounced around and dropped everything around me. Each time she'd laugh and smile wide. After collecting a fair amount of bruises I decided to push my luck.
“Do you want to get together for coffee or something sometime?”
Pathetic, but it was the only move I had.
I waited for an ice age to recede.
She looked into my eyes, followed the contours of my face, smiled a soft smile and said, “We're not allowed to date the members.”
“Oh, of course.” On my gravestone it could now say, 'At least he tried'.
“I would like to, but...” Serena let the hook dangle in the air for me to grab.
“Well, I guess I have to cancel my membership.”
She smiled deeper than any pratfall had made her. The following week was our first date. Six months later she graduated law school and announced she wanted to model instead of practice law. Her transformation from future defender of justice to lingerie model was a jarring but admittedly erotic change of pace. Unfortunately, the novelty wore off soon after we started having sex. Having a girlfriend that only wore lace and see through underwear was great. The problem was that she insisted on undressing herself – she was always complaining that I would ruin them or didn't know how to properly take them off.
It was more than just her obsessive compulsive undressing behavior that gave me that feeling that our relationship was not the right fit. It did not fit as the next step of birth > school > career > family > retirement > death path of life. Each time I thought about ending it, well, it's shallow but when you are dating a model you don't end it. You date a model more for your friends than yourself. And it was comfortable. Five years later we were still together and my life was not any further down the path. Quitting my job probably sent me backwards on that path.
* * *
“I have savings. I'm fine.” I told her a half truth.
“Then why are you dipping into your 401(k)?” she asked. She held the latest statement from my bank.
“I have needs!”
Humor, grandpa had shown me, is a good way to diffuse tension. Serena never fell for it. Instead she just pointed out what I had been feeling. Panic. I needed income. I'd pulled $20,000 out of my 401(k) to tide me over for the next few months. After those few months passed I hoped to figure out something else. My one month of unemployment taught me what time the lions were fed at the zoo. I figured that during month two I could time my visits to when the sea lions were most active.
“I've found something for you.” Serena handed me a print out of a job description for basement dweller. The ad was nicer than that. The standard rigamarole about advancement, exciting opportunity, make the world better and other nonsense.
“And why can't you get a job? I want you to be my sugar momma,” I said and gave her a squeeze.
“No,” she said.
That was that. I read the description and sent off my resume. Two weeks later I had woken up, and shaved. Staring at my body wrapped in a suit that I'd only wore once a year I couldn't remember how to tie a tie. Over, under, through, something with a rabbit ears or a rabbit going down a hole.
“This is Tom,” he answered his phone.
“Hey, umm.. I have that job interview today. I got my suit on, but I... how do you tie a tie?” I had to move my phone away from my head so I would not be deafened by his whoops and howls of laughter. “Uncalled for.”
“You're pathetic,” Tom said. I could feel the joyous trembles in his voice.
“Yes, I know. So how?”
“Beats me. Charlotte does it for me the night before.”
“Asshole.” I hung up and checked the Internet. A few minutes later, wearing a tie with a knot askew I headed to my interview.
(*^*)
The room resembled a Knights of Columbus that had been unearthed from Al Capone's vault. It was located in the basement of a chinese restaurant. The sour smell of food gone strange leaked out of the walls. Banquet tables with plastic chairs ran perpendicular to a stage. The stage was a small plywood box that stood slightly off the ground. A spot light focused on it. A stool and a microphone with stand reflected the light.
“... It doesn't matter what my symptoms are. WebMD always tells me that I have syphilis,” said the evenings emcee. The crowd burst red at his punchline. He took his time enjoying the applause. “Alright. Settle down. Up next we have a very funny lady that is new to our stage. Please welcome to the stage Micah,” said the emcee.
The past hour the stage had been a platform for a host of wanna-be comics that aimed their humor at fat women and gays. Others used their allotment of time as an excuse to say the word, “cunt.” Micah had sat patiently and nursed a bottle as she reflexively diagnosed all of the comics that went on before her. Victim of child abuse, alcoholic parents, egomania, and drug addiction seemed to be the main catalyst for wanting to make complete strangers laugh. Micah had no illusions of making people laugh.
She walked up to the stage and the emcee, a flamboyant mid-40's gay man, did a double take as he caught sight of her. Micah smiled and took the microphone.
The crowd silenced it's low level adjusting and murmurs as everyone looked up at her. She was well aware of the power her looks projected but it never interested her. Men and women had thrown themselves at her her entire life but rarely did that response interest her.
“I hate my father.”
The crowd laughed.
“He is my burden that I cannot shake.”
A few more stuttered laughs.
“I am 28 years old and live with him. Not by choice but because I think he is a danger to himself. It is my daughterly obligation and professional duty to make sure he is safe. I look forward to his death. Or my freedom.”
The crowd whooped and hollered.
“Thank you.” Micah walked off the stage and out of the basement.
Chapter 3
Before the interview started I was seated in a small gray room and asked to take an aptitude test. I was told it was just a formality. Seated with a number 2 pencil and bubble sheet answer key flashes of SAT test anxiety dropped into my stomach. The nausea was set to take hold until I remembered that I wasn't excited about the job and would rather be home sleeping. A crack of my neck later and I went with the flow.
I ripped open the sticker sealed test booklet and began. The first question read, “Do you often sing or whistle just for fun?” My possible answers ranged from Never to Almost Always. The questions and possible responses went down hill from there. Four columns of little A's, B's, C's, D's and E's looked up at me from the answer key. I decided to have a little fun and filled out the bubbles in a pattern that, if properly folded, would reveal the lyric “I wanna be sedated”. I handed in the answer sheet and was led into Wendy's office.
“Your resume is very impressive.”
This is what Wendy, the hiring manager, told me as she tried to read my resume from a tabloid sized printout with the font size increased 500%. She kept moving the paper in closer, then farther out as she searched for the correct focal point. Putting on oversize, coke bottle glasses did not seem to help the cause. I sat there fascinated. I wondered if she could be the daughter of Mr. Magoo.
“Oh, for some reason I cannot seem to read anything today, but I am sure your resume is very impressive,” she said.
I wanted to ask which part. The part where I invented the combustion engine or climbed K2 in six hours? I opted to nod and smile. Nod and smile as she told me that the project she wanted me to manage was all sorts of fucked. They, her employers, had hired some consultants to guide them. Some where along the way the consultants rubbed her bosses the wrong way and the consultants were fired. Instead of hiring a team that was expert with the system being implemented I was to lead a team of strangers that had never heard of the software they had just spent a quarter million dollars on. Brilliant. Where do I sign?
Wendy handed me some literature about my prospective new employer, The Institute for America. I glanced at the letter from the founders. Changing the world, advanced work, a new tomorrow and other cliches littered their prose. To the side of the text stood two rejects from a 1980's novelty act. The caption read: Founders Drs. Galton and Dight. The duo wore generic suits and leaned against the other's back. One of them smiled and the other wore an expression of seriousness. Over one of the faces sat the watermark of a stock photography house. At the bottom of the brochure I noticed this line:
The Institute of America is the public policy arm of PreNat Supplements International.
“PreNat Supplements? The vitamin company?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Are you familiar with them?” said Wendy.
Their advertising was ubiquitous. Their tagline was “Supplements for a growing family”. The ads always had a picture of a pregnant woman from an indeterminate ethnic background.
“Yes.”
“Oh good,” said Wendy.
“What exactly is it that the Institute does?”
“It's all right here.” Wendy smiled and pointed to the literature she handed me. I guess it didn't matter what the point of the Institute was. The point was a paycheck.
With that the job was mine. I bounced out of there and headed home. No matter how crappy a position is, no matter how many red flags and warnings get fired off in the interview, it still feels good to be wanted. I called Serena to tell her the good news. Voicemail. She was off at some test shoot. A test shoot is a photo session where the model works for a number of hours and doesn't get paid. The photographer on the other hand agrees to share the photos with the model so they can update their portfolio. The entire world of modeling, even when running legitimately, seemed like one big scam to me.
* * *
“You've spent how much and earned how much?”
I asked Serena this question countless times. I was supportive but I needed to find out how she could afford to be a model but I couldn't afford to live out my golden years starting in my 30's.
“You don't understand. It takes time to build a portfolio. This is how it is.” Flashbacks to my childhood arguments with grandpa. My grandfather didn't understand that I'd become a rock star if he'd see the brilliance in my plan and finance all of my needs. “My agent booked these test shoots. It's not like I can just flake out.” Mental note: apologize to grandpa for the teenage years.
Models don't actually have agents, they have model management companies. Model management companies take as big a percentage from the model as they want. Agents on the other hand are legally confined to only taking 10%. The day that law was written every modeling agency in New York swapped the word agency for management. And the game played on.
For a typical job the management company would take 20% from the models and then bill the client an additional 20%. Months would pass before Serena would receive the amount owed her. For a 40% commission you'd think these bastards could at least write a check on time. Perhaps if they did I would not be the one getting a regular job. Didn't they know I was hurting?
* * *
I left Serena a voicemail message. “It's me. I got the job. It looks like it's going to blow. Kisses.” She called back later, congratulated me and then proceeded to tell me about how awful the shoot was. How no one was prepared. How they didn't feed her.
She'd been commuting regularly to New York for the past year to pursue her modeling career. Sometimes she'd be gone for a few hours. Other times for up to a month working. When she would be gone for extended periods of time we'd talk on the phone daily. Five years into our relationship our conversations became a one way street. I'd say hi, and she'd dump on me all the awful things in her day. Then I'd console her.
(^-^)
The low whir of the fax machine startled her. It was completely out of place with the rest of the environment she had created in her office. An electric green light blinked and the machine beeped when it reached its climax.
“Another ad for office furniture?” she said to herself. Dr. Galton put down the rake she used to push around the sand in her over sized zen garden.
She grabbed the pages and saw that they were from the Institute. The scratch on the cover page was familiar. It said, “We found him! Results off the chart. Love, the Doctor.”
Her brow furrowed. She thought that he had finally lost it. Results off the chart? Was he drinking again? The second page of the fax was a test answer key. Four columns of little circular A's, B's, C's, D's and E's. The name at the top was Ives, Damon. Next to his name was his score: 99.999%.
“What? That's impossible.”
The answer key was slowly folded inward to reveal the correct answer. When she saw the message, “I wanna be sedated” her body jerked. The page grew fat, vein like creases as she folded and refolded it.
Dr Galton let out a laugh and wondered how the hell this happened. How could someone have answered this test, this absolutely absurd test to get such a score? She had created the test by stealing from various sources: Myers-Brigg, Otis-Lennon, Scientology, Commercial Drivers License, Tarot Card readings, the LSAT, and the franchisee exam for prospective 7-11 owners.
She went to her computer and searched for the mysterious Damon Ives. The first few results were for a bodybuilder that had died of a steroid overdose in 2002. The next page had a link to the correct Damon Ives. His Facebook page came up. Judging from the profile picture he was either a midget or he had a really tall girlfriend. A really attractive one as well Dr. Galton thought.
“Is that the girl from the Adam and Eve catalogs?” She grabbed another page out of the fax machine. “He's applying for a project management role?” She clicked over to Damon's info tab of his online profile. Graduate of John Hopkins with a BA in business, held a series of jobs starting with the Fortune 100 to his most recent at some twelve person start-up, and now he was applying to work at the Institute. She thought some sign had to be there. He was a fan of “The Pietasters” and “Shit my grandfather says”.
“He's not even a fan of the Joey Ramone memorial BBQ. How the hell did he crack the test?” She paused and pulled at her hair. “I need to stop talking to myself.”
Her office chuckled in a one hand clapping sort of way.
She picked up the phone, scrolled through the address book and connected.
“Dr Dight, how nice to hear from you. You've received the fax?”
“I thought I was Dr. Galton?” she said.
“Oh yes, yes. Very confusing,” Dr. Dight said. “Very exciting isn't it my dear.”
“Have you met Mr. Ives?”
“Not yet, but I plan on keeping a very close eye on him.”
Dr. Galton moaned.
“It will be fine beautiful,” said Dr. Dight. “I am too excited to talk now. Tonight we will celebrate.” He hung up.
Dr. Galton looked around her office and wondered how her life came to this. Years of education and all too often she saw herself as nothing more than a caretaker for a crazy old man. Love makes you do crazy things.
Dr. Galton entered the kitchen in time to watch Dr. Dight spin a lobster by it's rubber banded claw. Waves of the Danube set the rhythmic meter to which they danced.
“Hello my dear. Lobster tonight,” said Dr. Dight.
He stood on the other side of a large concrete and wood island that sat in the center of their kitchen. One wall was lined with stainless steel appliances and the other side of the room opened up to a large dining area.
Dr. Galton set her purse down on the island.
“You think this Damon is the one?”
“But of course my dear.”
He set the lobster down and took out a large cleaver. Dr. Galton turned her head as he cracked through the lobsters skull. Another lobster struggled to get away after witnessing the execution of its tank mate. It didn't get far and was quickly brained.
“Sorry dear,” said Dr. Dight. “I know how you hate that, but it is much more humane than plunging them head first into boiling water. Horrible way to go.”
Dr. Galton shivered. She walked over to a bottle of wine that was out on the island and poured herself a glass. Dr. Dight dropped the lobsters into a pot of boiling water and turned to face her
“So... aren't you excited?”
She ran her wine glass in long circles over the concrete. After few quick turns, she lifted the glass, inhaled and drank.
“How do you plan on keeping a close eye on him?”
Dr. Dight's eyes danced inside their sockets.
“How about dancing with a foolish old man first?”
Dr. Galton peered at him through her tilted wine glass.
“I'm afraid you've gone off the reservation. What do you have planned?”
Chapter 4
“Your password is Q as in Queer, R as in Republican, U as in Unicorn, the number 7, the letter X as in Xanadu, S as in subterfuge and K as in Kilo,” said Randall in his effeminate Southern twang.
Randall and I only spoke a few times. The first time was when he saw me rinsing out a disposable water bottle. Randall told me that I could only reuse it three times. When I asked why he told me that after three times the plastic begins to break down and then you start to drink chemicals. Beliefs like this are one of the reasons that access to the Internet should be restricted. I thought about explaining how modern plastics decompose. That there are two missing factors in our work environment which will prevent plastic water bottles from breaking down and leaching chemicals. One is time and lots of it. At least forty years for the chemicals bonds to start melting. The second is UV light. We sat in a basement with zero natural lighting.
TO: All-Staff
Building Services will be here on Monday to wash both sides of the exterior windows. Please remove all material from the fan coil units so that the workers can complete their task.
Thanks,
Jack K. Gosney,
CPM, RPA Facilities Manager
The Institute of America
Must be nice to have the windows cleaned. Although I am sure that those with windows complained about this temporary inconvenience. I'm convinced that this company wide email was just to remind me that I did not have a window to peer out of. Got that Randall? No windows. No natural light. No UV rays.
The next day someone threw out my water bottle. When I left the previous night it was on my desk. The next morning it was in my waste basket. I bet it was Randall. The cleaning staff did not bother to enter the basement. It had to be Randall. Why did I want to return to the work force? I cursed Serena.
By that point I'd been coming to the basement for five straight days. Well, five work days. I came in around 9:30, said hello to Marco who sat in the cube next to me, then I'd begin to stare. Stare at the walls, the computer screen, the crooked E in the logo on the computer on my desk. For this I was well compensated and Serena would be happy.
Every morning at ten there was a meeting scheduled. Wendy scheduled the meeting. I was the project manager but not a full-time employee. Only full-timers could schedule meetings. Only Marco and I attended regularly. I think the reason that he came was because he sat next to me. The meetings were very useful for me. Marco, as a native of Spain, helped me learn Spanish.
“Hola Damon, que tal?” asked Marco.
“A si a si. Yo soy trabajo aqui.”
“No. Yo trabajo aqui.”
“Oh, right,” I said and tried to memorize my new lesson.
For fifteen minutes each morning Marco and I would sit at a small circular table in the kitchen/staff break room. I can only imagine that the kitchen was chosen as our designated meeting place because it housed two of my favorite things: fluorescent lighting and the Aum style hum of vending machines. I wondered if a small Buddhist could be trapped inside of each of these machines feeding off our quarters and crumpled bills?
The room smelled like dish soap with a base note of refrigerator funk. Not really sure if those elements distracted me from my Spanish lessons or if it was the geometric perfection of Marco's features. His head was perfectly round. The top of his head was bald. Further down his head he wore a collar of hair wrapped around the base. A salt and pepper blend of holding on to what he once had. Perfectly round cheeks were capped with a weeks growth of beard. He told me that he was forty two, but I think he might have been off by a few decades. Or possibly he was suffering the side-effects of being a meth addict. Since he lacked the tell-tale proliferation of open sores over his face I assumed he was telling a white-lie about his age.
Software was a young mans sport so perhaps he was, like many a Dominican ballplayer, trying to increase his longevity. When I should have been focusing on my pronunciation, instead my eyes just followed the contours of his head. The lesson would only last fifteen minutes because by that point I had brought myself to a hypnotic state. If they went on any longer, and if he knew, the outcome could be disastrous.
The first few days everyone showed up to the meetings. On my third day I took an active part in my new role and sent the team a list of outstanding items that we should discuss. The list was meant as another way to slap these folks in the head and let them know that the project was doomed. From then on only Marco and I attended.
Neither of us were regular members of staff and we still showed up. Perhaps the project was killed in the night and they just didn't tell us. That would have been nice, but I'd be upset that they did not tell me. If the project was kaput I could go home. I liked home. Staring at the walls in the basement was not pleasant. The walls in my home were nice shades of green and orange. The air in my home smelled like me and bits of Serena. The air in the basement smelled like resignation. To survive I paced myself and only took shallow breaths. Too much too fast and I might become infected.
The morning meetings were meant as a way to track the progress of the project I was hired to shepherd. I was hired to be the project manager implementing a content management system for a new website. Hired five weeks before their expected launch date my temporary employer was fucked. This was one of the red flags I picked up on from my interview with Wendy.
Project management is a fairly straight forward gig. Someone comes to you with a problem. You divvy up the tasks and then walk around with a clipboard making sure people are doing their part. Some tasks are easy: Make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. In the western world the basics of this are already known. Get some bread, some peanut butter and some jelly. The project might specify the type of bread and the ratio between peanut butter and jelly, but the basic structure is the same. No need to layout exacting details. The project Wendy asked me to manage was not so clear cut.
“Does anyone have any experience with this software?”
It was my first day. This was my first question. The response I got was blank stares, polite, but awkward smiles, and the turned head. Wendy smiled and looked at me with confidence that she'd hired the right person. I looked through the members of the team again hoping for some glimmer of recognition. Marco shook his head no. Shirong looked at me and nodded his head yes. Great. Shirong was the lead engineer. He'd been working here for the past six months. This was the team. Shirong, Marco, Wendy and I.
“Shirong, you know this software?”
“Yes,” said Shirong.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
His yes did not mean affirmative but instead it was the response of someone where English was not their first language. Shirong's yes meant, please continue the conversation as I am just saying 'yes' to be polite and encourage more dialog. Perhaps with further dialog I will be able to understand what you are asking.
After that first meeting Wendy called me into her office and closed the door. She occupied a cramped, windowless office in the basement a couple of corridors away from my desk. She doused the air with some chemical floral mixture. It had the affect of enhancing her matronly air. Her desk formed a long L shape that took up half the room. The other half was occupied by a stained, midnight blue couch. The upholstery on the furniture looked like melted acrylic. I opted to stand while she spoke.
“That went well,” said Wendy. She was all sorts of excited smiles as she spoke.
“What went well?” Maybe buried beneath her twitches she had a subtle sense of humor.
“The meeting. Everyone really seemed to take to you.”
“Um, no one has any idea how to use this software.”
I searched her face. No humor was to be found.
“Shirong does. He's very good.”
“OK,” no use arguing with the insane, “Do you have the requirement docs for the project? It will help me better understand what the team is supposed to do.”
Requirement docs are the recipe for software projects. When well written they provide a step by step break down of the problem and how to implement the solution. The project manager uses this as a check list to make sure everyone is on schedule.
“Shirong has them. He wrote them.”
I responded with a slight laugh, walked out of her office and went over to Shirong's cube.
“Knock knock. Hey Shirong, got a minute?”
Shirong's body was a cylinder that was squeezed out of a Play-Do fun factory. He stood up and was all smiles as he reached out to grab my hand. I glanced behind him and saw that he was deep into searching online auction listings on his computer.
“Wendy told me you have the requirement docs?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He rummaged across his desk. It was the scene of some gruesome crime involving random scraps of paper, squeaky styrofoam food containers and looming stacks of MotorTrend magazines. “Right here. I finished them two months ago.”
“Thanks. Shirong, you've been here a while, mind if I ask you something?”
“OK, yes.” The way he bounced from foot to foot gave the impression that he did not get many visitors. Or he was desperately in need of the men's room.
“What do you think the chances of this project finishing on time are?”
“No worry. We finish on time.” Shirong didn't hesitate. I wasn't so sure that he understood my question. I asked it again. “Relax. Shirong has it under control. OK? I get back to work now, OK?” He sat back at his desk, positioned his head an inch from the screen and scrolled through the listings.
I had no idea what to think. Shirong was the lead engineer and he seemed calm as a sunbathing monk seal. When I got back to my desk I started reading his documentation. After reading the first paragraph I was convinced that the FBI had gotten the wrong man. The Unabomber was not locked away in a Supermax prison. He was sitting at a cube on the other side of the basement.
'This project will solve the problem. The problem is that things need to be fixed. Based upon our intensive study we will fix the problem in the most economical way as we able to given the current circumstances of the environment in which we operate.'
An hour must have went by as I read that opening over and over again. From there the document became more confusing and convoluted. Could I be having a mental breakdown?
“Hey Marco, here is a copy of the requirement docs.” I passed a copy over the glass partition between us. “Let me know if you have any questions.”
“Thanks. Will do.” Marco took his copy and started reading it.
I waited for his questions. I waited for him to ask me what the hell it was I just handed him. I waited for him to slap me and insult my mother. Five minutes passed. Twenty minutes passed. I'd glance over and Marco was using a hi-lighter to pummel the document into comprehension.
“How's it going?” I asked.
He responded with a thumbs up. I glanced over the partition. Either the basement was eating away at my grip on reality, the light was playing tricks with me or Marco was only highlighting the repeated appearance of four different letters on the document. When the glass partition wobbled I remembered to blink and let my brain have a breather.
At the end of the first day Wendy's boss, Neville, came to talk to me. Neville had an appreciation for absurd suits. Thick rolls of velvety fabric, pin stripes on top of more stripes all combined in a rather expensive combination. A combination that I would expect on some King from the 1600's if he had just been defrosted and went to a tailor.
“Tell me what you think.” Neville sat on the edge of my cramped desk to ask me this. I was forced to slide back further in my chair as he now entered the uncomfortable zone of personal space. A weird combination of musk and lavender fell off of him. My eyes watered.
“I think you're fucked.”
His cologne must have been truth serum or more likely another one of grandpa's lessons was coming out at the wrong moment. Mincing is for meat, not words. Oh well, I thought, at least I'll get paid for the day.
I noticed a quick smile flash across Neville's face. “I think you hired a team of strangers with only a tangential relationship to the software you are asking us to implement. You're... fucked.” I extended the 'f' and shot the 'ucked' at him with a percussive snap. More of his tells were exposed as he lapped my abuse.
“Well, can we be done in five weeks?” I looked at his cufflinks. Never really understood cufflinks. Weren't they just gaudy buttons that lacked the benefit of being physically attached to your clothing? How much were they paying this guy to ask stupid questions? I told him he had three choices. One would be to scratch the timeline. He quickly dismissed this choice. A good company man never changes a timeline. Two would be to re-hire the consultants that were fired. That would never happen. He explained that they were now dead to him. The third would be to start dropping features.
“OK, what features?” Neville asked.
His demeanor had now taken on that of a lost puppy. A lost puppy with a well manicured goatee. He had grown not so much a goatee but a mere dusting of goatee positioned hair. Did that require hourly trimming to prevent it from becoming a full-blown goatee?
“What features? I don't care. As of now I have no idea what is important. You tell me.” My arm movements revealed my Italian heritage as I spoke. His sad puppy tail stopped wagging. He waited for me to throw the stick. I threw the stick. “Search? How about we drop search?” Is that good boy? Wanna drop search?
“OK. Good.” The tail started moving and he got up from my desk ready to return to the land of natural light. I asked him what else could be dropped. He frowned and told me to think about it some more. Today was only my first day. Talk to me again tomorrow he said.
“Tomorrow I will tell you that you have one day less to complete the project.” There it was again, his quick smile. Perhaps grandpa was not always right. Some people do like a smart ass. Neville brushed invisible dust and wrinkles from his suit. Fully composed he walked away.
“Is it cold in here?” I asked Marco.
He shook his head.
“Got any gum?”
He shook his head no. “Jelly bean?” Marco held out a small candy dish filled with the little beans. I took a few and thanked him. That bit of sugar helped me drown out the annoyance of Neville.
(*-*)
Dr. Galton laid down on her couch. A wire trailed from her head to her phone. A voice got on the line and told her that she was up next and to please turn off her radio. She didn't own a radio.
“Let's go to Micah in DC. Micah, tells us what concerns you.”
Micah listened to the line crack as she was birthed from the purgatory of the hold queue to the pop of the live show.