The Moon In Its Flight (8 page)

The wretched and highly uncultured thug who ran the shipping room at my next job, wherein I performed as the purchasing agent, bookkeeper, correspondent, more and less, really, as the chief cook and bottle washer, whatever that may mean, for a paperback-book distributor, was grossly arrogant. He remarked that I was “fucking crazy,” as I recapture his vile lingo, when I insisted, as the acting temporary assistant mailroom overseer, that a promotional mailing be stamped, on its envelopes, FIRST CLASS, twice on the front of the envelopes, twice on the back, and once on the labels. Once again, he muttered an imprecation directly at my benignly smiling person. Thus, I became somewhat excitedly disturbed, naturally, leaped toward the wooden supports tying two bookcases together, and swung there, rather suavely, so as to cool my head off and regain the calmness that was mine. The boss arrived soon after upon the spot. “I merely want to DRINK THE COCKTAILS!” I vigorously claimed. Quickly, in the face of the boss’s blustery quiz, I implied that the shipping-room lout, who had never even owned the sort of white shirt I daily sported, was not carrying out my officious orders. Thus doing his best to obstruct my rising to the top of the company ladder. Just then, a woman who had ignored my presence in the company for some time, popped a LifeSaver into her weakish mouth, and the rabble of the shipping enclave unwrapped large baloney sandwiches in front of me, the silent message screaming its disdain! I saw, once again, my American cocktail-like dreams going up in smokes yet again. I must have fainted amid a tidal wave of chuckles, and soon found myself on the “bricks.”

For the past few months, I’ve been calling various colleagues of yore at three o’clock in the morning with stern words of anonymous hatred. Crazy Swedish person? I’ll be showing them crazy Swedish person! I’ve also stocked my larder and pantry, whatever the cupboards are called here in the land of dreams come true, with ready-to-imbibe Bloody Marys and Manhattans, and other alcoholic treats. They are not at their best at a room’s temperature, thus I wait for the electric company to accede to my wishes to turn the power back on. However, I am careful of my appearance, white shirt, bow tie, cardigan, all business. I have discovered this is called electric blue in color, what a book I once browsed through called “the color of madness.” The author is well-known to be a homosexual pervert, yet I must try to love him for all his improper moralistic leanings. I may give him a brief telephone call one early morning and we will just see how he likes them apples, as you say here. My goal of sophisticated cocktail-drinking with the smartest of the smart set is not, I assure you, but the goal of a feebleminded dumbbell! My Timex now informs me that my boiled potatoes bubbling tastily on my Sterno stove are ready. Along with a cup of savory instant coffee and a few choice pages from a good book, I’ll leisurely dine away, although I would prefer to exchange bon mots with discreet, beautiful women in the paled moonlight, as you may have guessed. It is good to be an alien in America despite the crudities encountered.

The Wheels Turn

The salesmen, dear new colleagues and friends, who are out in the field, have no time to be answering requests by clients or would-be clients for samples, information, direction, or guidance; nor do they have time to engage in amorous or sexual correspondence with these people. Unless, of course, they feel that such interchange will lead to a considerable account. Photographs of a compelling or arousing nature may accompany diverse missives, along with, at times, gifts of cash, and such items may be able to change the most focused minds. You, as correspondents, here in the Correspondence Department, are in
no position,
nor will you
ever
be in such a position, to judge whether or not the salesmen in the field will have the time or inclination to reply to such letters “personally,” if I may use such a word, freighted, oh freighted as it is with velleity and suggestion. It matters little, that is, what your opinions of such letters may be, since all letters that land—and I use the word advisedly—that land on your respective desks, cluttered though they may well become with odds and ends of folderol and impedimenta, will, of needs, be those that have already passed through the vetting process on the twenty-third floor, that is, in the Alpha Department of the School Division, Southwestern Branch, a department supervised by our Mr. Bjornstrom, a man known to our other supervisors—and they are many—as “the man with the rubber stamp,” or, as he often delights in roughly and somewhat jovially, even hysterically, describing himself, “the Stockholm Corporal.” Stockholm is, of course, in Sweden, Mr. Bjornstrom’s homeland. These instructions, then, are tendered you in the event that an unvetted letter from a client or would-be client
lands
on one of your desks, which will, of course, never happen. If it should, well, no need to go into the nooks and crannies of that impossible eventuality. At
present.

To your right, you will notice a series of shelves or pigeonholes stocked with stationery of varied hues, shades, tones, and colors. On closer inspection—do not attempt to inspect at this time, PLEASE!—on closer inspection you will see that the stationery contains the preprinted names and addresses of those salesmen who are yours to assist, obey, jolly along, praise, flatter, and take the blame for in all matters epistolary. There are also, in the drawers beneath the shelves and pigeonholes, paradigms, or model letters, which we call “dummies,” that will guide you in drafting replies to the various letters sent “your” particular salesmen, letters requesting samples, information, guidance, loans, photographs, reading lists, and, on those impossibly rare if not impossible occasions that I just mentioned, requests for sexual dalliances of diverse types. These, as I have said, will never reach you,
actually,
but in case they should get by Mr. Bjornstrom’s seasoned vetters, they are to be ignored by you, and such occasions brought to my attention, whereupon you will probably be, as they say, “let go.” For
no reason
should such a letter be answered in your salesman’s name, is that understood? Is that
understood?
It may seem unfair that one or more of you might possibly be “let go” through no fault of your own, through, as it were, your devotion to duty and the job. It
is
unfair, but life is always terribly hard on those with neither money nor power, despite propaganda to the contrary. Am I right? Of course I’m right! If you should, how shall I put it?,
cheat,
that is, fail to call such a misguided letter to my attention, the furnaces are always roaring in the sub-sub-basement! Ha! Ha! Ha! I like my little joke!

You will discover that the stationery on the shelves is nothing, really, other than good American paper and nothing but; nothing to be in awe of, letterheads or no. And you would do well to ignore the rumors suggesting otherwise. Rumors of all sorts are born and circulate in a large and virtually omnipotent corporation such as this one. They emanate, for the most part, from the “creative” divisions of the firm, the Professional Trash-Fiction Division, the Memoir Division, the Hip-Youth Division, the Sure-Fire Division, the Dim-Bulb Division, the Texas School-Adoption-of-Everything Division, the Devout-Christian Rapture-Mania Division, the Unborn-Child-Series Division, as well as those divisions that support what the company likes to think of as its old soldiers—those editors, publicists, accountants, and lunch-eaters who have made their lives into one long testament to their belief that they have done their best to make real for all humankind the kind of book that is both an exciting read and a contribution to the general culture of regular Americans—and others, of course, depending on how the rights are spelled out in the contracts. As their unofficial coat-of-arms proclaims: GOOD BOOKS, BIG BUCKS. You may, at times, even hear a rumor that can be traced to the Shipping and Receiving Department, but the nonentities who toil therein are prone to whining, and may be ignored or, better yet, reviled at any opportunity that presents itself. Management and the Correspondence Department tend to think of these employees as we do waitresses—necessary, perhaps, but wonderful targets for insult. Best for you to ignore all information that is not included in the company newspaper, edited by Mr. Pearl,
The White Shirt.

The stationery, or paper, then, comes in the following colors—or hues or shades: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, black, and white. The letters that you send to your salesmen’s correspondents will be on white paper. Clear, sharp copies will be made on the varicolored stationery and distributed as follows: red to Mr. Bjornstrom; orange to the Correspondence Department Acting Chief Supervisor—currently Mr. Bjornstrom; yellow to the salesmen, for their files; green to the salesmen who are not “your” salesmen and who work in areas other than those in which your salesmen work—this will be explained to you as soon as Mr. Bjornstrom feels that the time is right; blue, for you to take home and study in preparation for what Mr. Bjornstrom and Mr. Pearl call their “popped” quizzes on office fashion and mailing procedures; indigo, which, since the copied material will be wholly illegible, is to be destroyed, but not before a copy on
mauve
paper is sent to the twenty-third floor and the Rejection-Cliché-Files floor; and violet, which is, of course, a file copy. The black copy is to be passed through the paper shredders at precisely 8:45 A.M. each morning, at, ha ha, “your” convenience. Excuse my cruel chuckle. You must not sexually harass the file clerks to whom you deliver the violet copies, but I should point out to you that our Legal Division-Department-Section has approved a list of sexually charged words, gestures, and invitations that may be employed in your interactions with these young men and women. Should a file clerk accede to requests for certain sexual favors or acts, you must sign a “receipt,” so-called, prior to the clerk’s granting of said favors or performance of said acts. The “text” describing your activities with the clerk or clerks will be added to the “receipt” by the staff of the Alpha Department when and how it sees fit to add this text. There is nothing in this procedure for you to concern yourself about, I assure you. Only a mere handful of employees—or “partners”—has been arrested and prosecuted on evidence contained in the “receipts,” and these prosecutions were well-deserved and were welcomed by the employees themselves! In any event, such aberrant and unrepresentative occurrences should not deter you from—if I may employ an earthy colloquialism—getting your ashes hauled. And you might keep in mind that the file clerks can use a few dollars, if you take my meaning?

You will work from 8:30 A.M. to 5:30 P.M., Monday through Friday, although it should be pointed out that this is a
bare minimum,
and those of you who are, ah, wise, will choose to work more hours,
many
more hours, than this, although no one in Management or Middle Management will ever suggest to you just how many hours a day or week are considered adequate. There is a half-hour lunch break, but here in Correspondence we smile upon the bag of chips, the bagel, the soft-drink or mineral water taken right at the good old cluttered desk. Restroom breaks are not really monitored, not at all, and there is no truth to the rumor that you will doubtlessly hear about the cameras in these rooms. White shirts, starched white shirts, are required to be worn each day, with a tie, of course, for the men, as this is, indeed, a “white shirt company.” We’re pretty proud of that. This is the unwavering standard for our male employees. The women may wear blouses or dresses of any muted and somber color, but they may not wear slacks or jeans, and skirts must come to mid-knee, no higher. They may not wear ties or earrings nor may they “look like” men in any way. Undergarments that restrict the natural movements and shape of the body are highly recommended if not yet mandatory for both men and women. You will be expected to work on weekends, when you will be supervised by Stewart Park, Mr. Pearl’s assistant. You may be terminated at any time for any reason, but you may not
leave
the firm’s employ save upon Mr. Bjornstrom’s personal recommendation. This may be granted should you conduct yourself to his satisfaction on what he is pleased to call a “cocktail-friendly nocturnal,” held at a lounge of his choosing or at his home in the Borough of Queens, down whose leafy boulevards he will expect you to accompany him in the “paled moonlight,” as he puts it.

Before you begin your first day tomorrow, I would like to point out to you that Management would be very pleased should you come in an hour or two—or three—early, so that you might busy yourselves with the small departmental chores of air-conditioner repair, sidewalk shoveling, pen-and-pencil filling, and the like. The cafeteria is still open if you wish to have a bite. Good afternoon.

THE SEA, CAUGHT IN ROSES