blue hug
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Monday, April 30, 2001
Somebody Edit Me:
That Bastard
A Story
There she sat. Forlorn. Abandoned. Still wearing the same acrylic blend knit blue sweater and the same 501s, refusing to budge as the clock marked time swirling down the drain, clicking "New Hotmail" like a rat for a corn kernel. Her breath ricocheted off the screen—she was sitting too close; although her now shriveled, mucus encrusted, bloodshot eyes should have told her that. Could she no longer feel? Had she transcended the physical? Could she even still read? But she could only wait, muttering to herself, naming nouns alphabetically, a pathetic game to pass the time. Muscles tensed. Fingers clawed. NewHotmailNewHotmailNewHotmail.
Oh, when would it end? But she knew what this was about. She knew. She fooled everyone else with her camouflage of lies, little side tracked paths she constructed expertly to throw back the ever-so-curious. Things like answering questions with questions, constantly complementing, and sometimes, flat out ignoring.
"You're still sittin' here Meg?"
".……… I LIKE those shoes Ed!"
She was completely obsessed and over-the-top. Her own fault, she knew very well, missing the meetings, mailing empty envelopes, drinking flavored coffee. Her computer time was all she had left that she didn't completely corrupt yet. The screen was more delicious each time she saw it in front of her. And all the while fooling and kidding, kidding and fooling everyone around her, turning them in circles, sure ... but there was one person she couldn't hide from, the one face that turned her into Swiss cheese, the very creature that would appear before her eyes no matter how tight and crinkled they became.
She couldn't fool. LIPSCHEN.
* * *
"Vat es kombputer on shtill Meg?"
"Um ... ummm ha-hi Lipschen. Ha-how are you?"
"Vas es quesgion fworline! Gavund est swvitchen off kombputer!”
“Uuhh, ohh. H-hey, I saw you eating in the cafet—“
"MEG!”
"Uhh h—"
"Listen, I tahking to Robinshten today. He vants know outputs of my shtaff ooont last two veeksen. You szhape ep or I en reccomenden oont resignation!”
“Ooo oohh ummm. Ok. I’ve been just looking up a few things on the Internet for accounting. Hey... hey. I'm going to the Art Institute tomorr—“
"Vahsts dis babbeling?"
"Nnn-no wait listen. I wanted to know if. Umm. If you want to Idunnomaybe go with me?"
"Vat?"
“Um go with me?”
"Vad et sdas? Un daten? Vith youu?"
"Yeah... Yeah."
“Hhahahahhhhaaaaha ggeeewwd come-edy. Ka ak ak akakkaa.”
“Ohh. Uhh, I didn't realize it was so—“
"Bbbaaa baaa ha ha haaa. You make me shplitten vas shuit buttons va baa. Date vith you—ha ha ha h aahaaa...”
It was hopeless.
Lipschen. That bastard Lipschen, she thought to herself, as his small frame and handlebar moustache and bbaaa baaa ha ha haaa were blocked from view by the ding and huhsssss of the closing elevator doors. With a rickety exhale and eyelids fighting to slip over dried orbs, she clutched the third-cut folders, a prop really, to deflect questions, and bent the colored cardboard with the force of her desperation. He would never make the connection. Never! Why did he imprison her with this silent freedom, this rotting dependence on so many wires and molded plastic and curved glass? Why could she not resist?
The questions were futile.
One black booted foot in front of the other, wearily ambling across the dark, diamond patterned carpet, she was so lost in thought she didn't sense the silence. Collins actually stopped talking about his boat. Barb stood frozen, hand hovering over the Xerox start button. Lorna forgot what she was collating. Alice put down the Avon catalogue. The office was paralyzed.
Was she merely kidding herself? She knew Lipschen. She knew him as few knew him. She knew his obsession with the Art Institute's suits of armor, the Georgia O'Keefes, the sometimes blue-gray skin of an oil-painted Jesus. There were haikus, there were sonnets—he wanted to come … she knew it … she … Why couldn’t she make him see?
It been three long tortuous months since a cavalier systems administrator took down the corporate firewall due to problems on 17 that split the company like a Turkish earthquake. With the firewall down, a little “open sesame” and the internet’s most precious jewels lay splayed and sparkling in front of any employee. The siren song of the chat room could no longer be easily ignored. But Meg knew, she understood the boundaries, she read the employee manual, she saw friends, colleagues, lovers fall before her, but this time ... this time ... this time ... somehow she could never finish that mantra, even to herself. Why wasn't that a sign?
The words struck like lightening in Arial 10 point bold.
I am a choco
late alien. I melt with
a chocolate smooth
I have one promi
nent eye. Mary on
the half shell. Find Me.
Find me find me find me. Soon.
That fateful chat room. That fateful poem—deliciously strange,. The same day, in a torrent of searches, uncoverings, pleadings with IT administrators, she traced the posting and discovered the author. Her CEO. Her paramour. Her spatzel.
Lipschen.
Lipschen, that bastard.
As she turned the corner the next morning and eyed the piece of notebook paper scotch-taped to her computer screen, Meg felt an electric fizzle shoot up her spine. It’s him. It's an apology. An apology. Apologized. He apologized. Yes. But wait, because it won't be an easily read one. It won't be in so many words. It'll be subtle, virtually subliminal. Like maybe please deliver this as soon as you can Meg or or could you grab that from accounts payable and deliver it directly to me Meg? Forgive my outburst yesterday, I was having a hell of a day—Pam used up the last of my manillas and blah blah-blee blah-blee blah blah. Meg carefully peeled the tape off the screen leaving four identical cloudy rectangles of adhesive where the sides of the paper were taped, evenly spaced. She pressed and slowly lifted up her finger from the stickiness. God he's so symmetrical.
"06:47 Friday. Re: Poor workmanship. Meg, should have delivered Emerson memo to me day earlier than due—you know I need earlier sometimes. Your foolishness has cost you your files because I needed to get immediately and accidentally erased. Not my fault. Now you know for next time. –LS”
Not only did he play a silly Parker Brothers version of hard to get, Meg cursed breathlessly looking at Windows Explorer’s report of her empty C drive. He had deleted everything! EVERYTHING! The holiday planner, the tofu cookbook—the one Barb sent her after hissing at the bowl of fried chicken she had on her plate downstairs in the cafeteria. And oh Jesus Christ, 34 sales records spreadsheets—the spreadsheets linked to four animated promotion-ensuring PowerPoint presentations that were now useless, nonfunctioning. And of course all of the … relevant e-mails. The “Meg’s Special Time” emails. The ones where she kept notes on herself in a diary-like fashion day to day. Her own autobiography, gone. Evaporated into pure energy, maybe now reincarnated into that game of solitaire that Gerald was staring at googly-eyed in the next cubicle.
Damn that Nazi. But even more, damn her for loving him! Damn her! DAMN HER!!! This couldn't go on. This tortured longing, this painful, fruitless outreach into the unrequited void. She held her shaking hands, palms upturned, in front of her. The lines didn't mirror each other, the messages were conflicting. Damn that shoddy palmistry class. Damn the internet sites predicting her wedding day, predicting her compatibility with Lipschen, what Lipschen was really thinking, how to email your lover, how to how to how to—her forehead sank into her hands. She wouldn't cry—how could she and why would she? For a step she never took, for a life she never dared lead? No. Meg just sighed.
She saw pad thai from two weeks ago ground into her shirt and for the first time, she was revolted. Faster than Jefferson could send a document to print, a long, pale finger reached forward. Veered right. Sank home. Power off. The screen went blank, but she would leave the monitor on today—a quiet statement. A blank screen still powered—precious energy wasted on an incommunicative rectangle of glass. Only upon inspection would Lipschen realize that she was costing him fractions of a cent in wasted ComEd power.
Meg stood and looked around at the florescent-lit wasteland. She was taking a personal day today. She was not going to be stopped. She was going to relax. This was absolutely one hundred and ten percent Meg time now.
She sat there in the midst of her newly self-empowered state, arms folded, nose up, wry smile, and imagined herself sipping a nice cold Bargs. Before she could say "jackrabbit" she was up and at ‘em, walking past Hanson and Jefferson as they furrowed their brows at her. Past Claire and Amy in MIS, both wearing black blouses and sipping their coffees in twin AOL.com mugs. Past Chris's cubicle with his collage of Calvin & Hobbes and Lee Travino golf swings tattooed all over his bulletin board. She walked completely through Operations, through Marketing, through Accounting. It seemed as though everybody was noticing. People began to get up halfway with phone in hand as she walked by them, pausing in their conversations. Clicking their mouses to save, everybody looked at each other then pointing their heads and eyes towards Meg. She caught wind of their voices as she strolled by, a trail-mix of conversation:
"Is that that Meg?"
"I think so."
"What's she up to?"
"I dunno."
"I think she's getting a soda."
"A soda?"
"Yeah. A root beer."
"A root beer?"
"What kind?"
"Bargs."
"Bargs? The hell is..."
"Bargs?... Not a MUG?"
"No Bargs."
"What the hell—not Barq's?"
"It's Meg. She likes generics."
"Still. Never even heard of Bargs."
"We have three kinds of root beer and not one diet cola."
"Shut up, Simmons."
"Why doesn't she just go the machine in the 1st copy room right near her?"
“I dunno, why don’t you ask her?”
“Naw.”
“Why don’t you guys mind your own business?!”
“Hey, why don’t you shut your yaphole Nancy.”
“Ask her!”
“No!”
“Jesus, we’ve seen that top a few times, huh.”
“Fine then …”
“HEY MEG! WHY ARE YOU WALKING THROUGH THE ENTIRE BUILDING JUST TO GET A SOFT DRINK?”
“MEGmeg meg m, WHYwhy y, y, AREare r r, YOU u, u, TAKING SUCH A LONG ong, ong, ROUTE oute, oute, o,??????”
Loud reverberating echoes followed her through the shiny wooden lobby, past the bimbos flirting with Todd and Avery at Reception, onto the next office space where Harry and the others worked in Development. But she wouldn't let it get to her. Tears started to form in her eyes. She was going to the second floor. She was going to the second floor vending machine and taking the stairs that were at the end of the hallway. SHE WAS GOING UP TO THE SECOND FLOOR TO GET AN ICE COLD BARGS EVEN IF SHE GOT STABBED IN THE EYES WITH RUSTY DAGGERS AND WAS BLIND. And then ... with the red exit sign above the stairwell in sight, she ... began to hear among the echoes a ... an ... accent.
"Vasestas, Cumminks. You taken time und time to make schpradscheet vot doz not ed? Cumminks, you are reported!"
"With all due respect, sir, in this instance—"
"Vis all dyoo reschpect—you embaraz my schtafen, Cumminks! I cem ep here to theenk mehbee you like career in hughmant rezorses! No meth dere little fairy haha man emberezmnt!"
"I—"
"Convrence vinisht."
"Uh um, eeeh—"
"VOT, you neet kartoonen? Uunduley! Eeepeh! Eeepeh! LEEF!"
The door shut. Inside those two gray doors were 38 flights of stairs, 38 matching doorways, cigarette butts, and Li—llllll—(exhale) that God. Damn. Lipschen. She was there, paused before the stairwell doors, the "bargsbargsbargs" chant momentarily silenced. The old "lusciouslipschenlipschenlipshine" electrical storm picked up volume in her parietal lobe, German flags eclipsing the teal and beige of the Bargs cans. NO. GODDAMIT. THIS WAS A PERSONAL DAY. She crossed the two inches of space separating her and the door, cranked the stainless steel violently. Pulse raced. She threw herself against the door. They could hear her cross the threshold of the stairwell in reception. Tammy twittered at a suggestive email forward, and the sound was soon forgotten. But not by Lipschen. Not by Meg.
Bargs Bargs Bargs Bargs Bargs.
She started to whisper it to herself to steel her resolve. The number of stairs between the size 8's and the size 13's was shrinking. "Oh, vot dis ist, eh heh ... my kurlfrenden ... heh."
She tossed her hair back from her face and pulled out the few strands that got caught in her mouth during her walk.
"Pardon me."
Elbows behind his back resting on the handrail with ease, Lipschen smiled a toothy smile while he unbuttoned his blazer with the delicate finger movements of an acoustic guitar player. Later Meg swore on her mother to wide-eyed colleagues that he was curving and swaying his hips slightly as he did this. Lipschen loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt. Meg felt the headlights on her and couldn't move. She had one foot below on its toes and the other on the step above with her left hand glued to the rail. A mirror flashed into her head and then thoughts of Madonna's "Express Yourself" video. Lipschen nodded upwards at her.
"Vere eees da forrline goingk in such a floshstuh?"
"A-heh aaaauuummm...I justed wanted to w-walk—Imean stretch. Stretch my feet a bit."
Lipschen dug out a pack of Big Red chewing gum out of his breast pocket and then pinched a wrapper's tinfoiled end with his teeth, pulling out a stick. His tongue then captured the whole piece, red wrapper and all, into his mouth. Meg felt her grip getting greasy. She looked on with a space between her lips and the awe of watching a fakir conjure up a cobra from a fruit basket. After lolling and swishing his tongue all over the parameters of his mouth, Lipschen laid out his tongue like a red carpet with the wrapper resting on top. He retrieved it with a thumb and forefinger, flicked it down the stairwell.
"So how fahr vid you oont planh to stvtretchen your foots?”
"Oh um, not too far—or long, I mean I just want to get a roo—“
"Ohh, oont forgive... Vould jew like a piese unt shewing gaum?"
"NO. Um, I mean no thank you. I'm just going to get a root beer."
"Vas es das? 'Oont juhst goingk to get a ruet beehr?’ Juhst goingk to completlehy disregardingk office etiquetteink? Unt alcohleec behvarege unt de clock? Jehsus Meg!”
"No, it's root beer. Ya know ... it's like a regular soda. Heh I wouldn't drink—"
"Vhat unt doing on lucnh houhr es bussinuees noht mine, but yuou going not havehn drink oont alcoholeec behvarage on—“
"No it’s—“
"Oont my time."
"—No it's just like Coca-Cola.”
With precise, timed jerks, Lipschen straightened his tie.
"Meg ... I'm shorry. Meg ..."
Meg looked on trying to keep a gleam in her eye smiling, trying to convince with every bone her body that a root beer is just that. A root beer. Not Beck's, not Heineken. But as he buttoned up, Meg saw the familiar furrowed brow and felt the heat rising.
"Meg. I'm goingk to hahv to spank jew."
"Um, what?"
"Vhats es dat deafen!? No speekan de engleeshen? I said spahnk you, spahnk you! Now leanen againsten oont railing."
All Meg saw was red. She felt hot pokers stabbing her chest and hot cinders stinging her eyes as the tears started to come. She'd heard horror stories like this before. Janice had a particularly grizzly one about one of the account executives at Bausch & Lomb calling a new receptionist in to test her "oratory skills."
"Meg?"
"..."
"MEG!?... Helloe, anyvody in dere? I believe I said assumink the position?"
"I... I..."
"Meg."
Lipschen kept eyeing her with the stern look of a lion tamer, and then the corners of his mouth began to rise giving Meg a feeling she didn’t know quite where to place.
"Meg. Dhed you heer me? Meg?”
"Mr. Schlimmer, I ... I must tell you I ..."
"Meg—JUST KIDDINK!!!!"
"Ahh ..."
"Ahaahahah ahink kink kink KAA HAA hhaa haa haa. Daht was goog yes? I messink your minden?! HA HA KINK kaaaaaa..."
"Ahh ... ummm ... I think I'm goin—“
"Aahhnk aaahnk kaa. Oooo shtop shtop eets too much!"
The guttural guffaws hammered their way into every corner of the stairwell. She could hear the Bavarian "aahhnk" work its way into the dust and exposed guts of the nearly re-renovated 13th floor, snake around the undiscovered cigarette butts, lace its slimy reverberation around each joint in her white knuckled left hand losing its grip on the Pennsylvania aluminum. It was too much.
She had been looking up at Lipschen through two eyebrows grown wild with the tweezer's neglect, angling her head to hide her bloodshot love lights. It was a subconscious adherence to the www.dating911.com lead article authored by Kylene Barker, Miss America 1979, and proof that even at her most downtrodden, Meg could not give up hope that there was something beautiful inside Lipschen raging to come out.
Everything seemed so wrong. The spanking? Alcohol? Her emotions were a ping pong ball spazzing in every direction at once on the Schlimmeruda triangle, the churning Lipschen rapids, the wake of her boss's V6 speedboat. Her head began to spin uncontrollably, like she was running around that damn halo she had secretly doodled and retraced so many times over Schlimmer's face in her copy of Lorna and Tom at the company picnic last June, where you could just make out Lipschen berating Allen over an Italian beef in the background. Meg's gaze dropped straight in front of her, where she could see the crease of the caszh-Friday kakhis fall onto smooth beige Rockports that he altered his steps for so as to avoid creasing. Struggling to focus on that embroidered "Rockport" on the side of Schlimmer's left shoe, Meg began to sway, unbalanced.
"Ahaahahah ahink kink kink KAA HAA hhaa haa haa! Mek! Jew jook—ak! Nein—aaaakh—jew mek me gikkle all DAY!"
He started to stomp and twitch, like he was performing some odd bluegrass line dance and raising his foot out of her line of vision, her Rockport of Gibralter was lost. Her pupils dialated. Her jaw fell slack. Lipschenlipschenlipschen. She stumbled backwards, arch of her shoe slipping over the edge of the first stair, then another stair, then she fell, like laundry in a dryer, a tossed pasta of legs and arms, limp and whirling down to the first floor landing and stopping schlump, with face to the wall, legs akimbo, arms pretzeled to her right.
Lipschen held his breath. And then, like a gurgling geyser, he sat down threw his head back, and howled with laughter.
" AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH AHAHA HA HAHAHS AHSDFHA HAHHA HA HAHA HAAHA HAHHA HA!!! KEEE-oooo-AAAAH HAHA HHAAA! AHK! KLEEEEM KSSSSS HEEEE HOOOOOOOO! A KOMEDIAN"
He beat the cinderblock wall next to him, clutched the breast pocket of his chambray shirt to make sure the keycard/ID didn't slip out as he threw himself forward and back, forward and back, sucked in air like that old Polish woman's industrial vacuum humming on the 18th floor.
He started to hyperventilate.
* * *
In the weeks after reading that first posting on the poem2thepeople website, Meg had been scrambling for something to set her apart from the crappy haiku, spoken word, fourth-grade drivel. She had to show Lipschen that she could reach the same literary heights—that she was an equal. An attractive equal at that.
She submitted a long prose piece about the warm wrinkled earthiness of the oft ignored, utilitarian paper bag, making surreal connections with art and Belgian confectioneries, right up her leiber herr's aisle. This prose piece hit Lipschen like a baseball bat to a piñata, his newly inspired poems sprinkling like Toostie rolls and pennies into Meg's outstretched cyber-apron. Meg thought to herself: Lipschen didn't have her used-to-date advantage with Chris in IT, so he couldn't uncover her identity. To him, Meg fancied herself the perfect woman wrapped in a 5-sided box of earthy-brown paper, razor sharp edges, intersecting angular folds and symmetrical zig-zag top, appealing viscerally to the ancient Visagoth within him.
He called himself BionicTeutonic, she posted under Volkshottie. As Volkshottie, Meg had submitted a long series of limericks about the thrill and majesty of paper bags and how one always rode in her back pocket, neatly folded and concealed. In a case of Life Imitating Internet, Meg would carry this with her on the odd Friday as a talisman, or a hope, she never could decide which. In her fevered rejection that morning as she broke her bond with the computer and decided to put it all behind her, Meg forgot to remove that one little calling card.
* * *
As Lipschen looked around the stairwell, he saw pixels of color flash before him. He grabbed the railing and pulled himself up.
Sliding down the flight of stairs had upset everything. Meg's quarter and 4 dimes destined for that damn Bargs machine were scattered all around her. Her corporate ID was laying face up, the picture of her reaction to Mequisha's odd pianist joke frozen in time. And just barely revealing itself, three millimeters of dull brown peeked out of her back right pocket.
And Lipschen noticed.
* * *
Three days before, while looking in the Sharper Image catalogue for nifty gadgets for the birthday of his cousin Otto, now residing in Wisconsin (“Za Reich unt zha shtates!" Otto constantly declared), Lipschen found himself playing a little game that hadn't struck his fancy since he was an eighth grader at Gruben academy. "Sighnennomin." Maybe it was the Sunday morning laziness of the powder blue slippers that comforted his feet, or his digestive system breaking down the fabulous wiener schnitzel leftovers he had had for breakfast. Whatever the reason, before he knew it he had completely filled the electronic massage page with signatures of the name "Volkshottie" wherever there was white space.
It was the "V" he loved the most; the beginning and ending Ionic swirls—he writhed from it. He knew Volkshottie would like it. He knew it. She would have to. She seemed to be the only one who could ever reach him. A fan of not only Frost, Dickinson and Cummings, she also had up her sleeve the references of Karl Kurtlager and Francis Shiffengruber, Earth’s true people, representing the callused and blistered Volkish farmers who worked with blood, sweat, and foreheads dusty brown from harvesting for sauerkraut all season. They indeed were this planet's true purveyors and translators of all that is beautiful.
It was exciting.
He thought about how ideal she would be for his partner. Late at night, he fantasized that her genes and his mixed together would amalgamate into an astounding specimen. A true uber-being who could not only be great on the fields of competition, but would know his way around grand mahogany shelves of literature as well. Oh Volkshottie. She would complete his desperate equation. If they were together side by side, he could deal with any burden or foul-up at the office, whether it be Pam grossly miscalculating pencil and pen count at his desk, or Ted not using his margins properly, the Volkshottie would purr it away in his ear, ooooaaahhhh...
* * *
"AH MEEHG?"
"Yes. Oh I'm sorry for falling down. I'll be out—"
"Mehg vasestas in brown papeh?”
"Out of your...whwhat?”
Lipschen loosened his collar to let engine steam whistle out.
"Dis cardehn in brohwn paper bagen is de … unt."
“Um. You uhm mean this right here—“
"Dis paperhn in kefeltavish bagen unt peom of Volkshottie-kblitsck?"
" Lipschen I—"
"Unt peom volskhotten shniffer—unt gruben shtaffen lokksen—"
"Lipschen...I can’t—what?”
"Unt rrrrrrrah rrah uber erbrb bur eeeeeb eeeeeeeb..."
He was down the stairs pinning her shoulders back against the 6-foot aqua 1 marking the floor. A small inch separated the length of the trembling Meg and Lipschen.
"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeleeeeeeeeeeeeeee—"
Without taking his eyes off her, he released her left shoulder, felt down to her left hand, grabbed the end of the bag she wasn't holding and got very quiet.
"Ein zleftein deutschlork-kk-kkk kk k..."
They were opposite poles of a magnet, red and black jumper cables, finally millimeters apart. Hazelnut coffee breath mixed with Big Red, follicles constricted, electrons hit the fever pitch.
* * *
[1 hour before]
"Heya Mikey, how ya doin' today?!"
"Good good, Mr. Rudd, how are you?"
"Great great. Mmmmmm, great ... so'd ya add that Bossen ledger to the Curby file yet?"
"YEAH. Yeah there're just a few corrections that need to be made, heh. The wife was having an ordeal with the father-in-law last night so I had a full house I guess, heh. Pretty much done though, aside from the little tiny tweaks that need to take place."
"Mmmhmm. Fabulous. Listen, since you don't have it complete now aaaannnd—you'll have it done by one right?”
"OH yeah yeah. Sure—yeah. I'll—"
"Awesome. Listen. I’m gonna be at Spago’s for a lunch or so … so do me a favor and deliver the copies directly to Lipschen Schlimmer for me—yeah?"
"Oh. Okay."
"Gahdamn budget deadlines. You’re cool with that?”
"Yeah, no worries."
"Good, yeah. Tina’s got that sonogram this morning so I’ll needja to add Legal’s section to the rest—already told Don to deliver them to your cube, can ya manage? Just give the full binders to Mr. Schlimmer in his office up on 2 there, and explain all the necessary changes, especially Lyle's contract with Henson—needs to be edited—I think that was under option 6.”
"Mmmmhhmmmmm, 6.”
"Ho-kay then Mr. Mike!”
"Have a good nibble Mr. Rudd ...”
(ext. 3090)
“Hello Laurie? Hi it's Mike Perkins in Legal … Hi. I need someone down here asap is th—yes oh yes it was fabulous … I—heh yes although I'm allergic to coffee cake but I—no. No it’s fine. Not at all—listen. I need someone down here ASAP … yeah, is that possible? Good. Fine. Yeah. Sure. Who? Mr. O'Malley's son? Oh. Yes. I remember him. Oh? Training for executive vice president? Well he must be. Heh … yes I guess I had better do a good job I … no. No that’s okay … I don't want any heh I'm allergic remember? Heh. Yes. Okay. Good, as soon as possible. Right. Great. Thanks-bye.”
(30 min later)
"Yo waasup playa. Sorry for takin so long but dat new machine was fro'in. Here. Gottcha copies paved n' saved."
"Oh thanks, Henry. Couldja put them by those binders over there?"
"Oh riiight rigght, my bad. Here ya go. So damn, you check that Lakers game last night?"
"Uhh, no I didn't. Was it good?"
"Awww, maaan. Shaq steele playan just like Jordan used to ‘cause now he makin’ his freethrows'nshit even though they in the 4th."
"Mmmmmmm. Were you at the game?"
"AWW YE-ah! My P's got box seats. They were niiiiice. We were chillen with my Dad’s boys from the Notre Dame Days. You ever heard uh Rudy Ruettinger?"
"No, I can’t say—hey Henry?"
"What’s up?"
"I think you forgot to copy the sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth sheets in all 50 copies."
"Ohhh word?"
"Yeah.” (sigh) “Um. Here. Start running these off and I'll be over there with you in a second. Heh, we need these in the next ten minutes.”
"Oh aiiight bet. I'll run them shits fast."
"Okay, just kinda pay attention so you don't miss any pages."
"Ahh no problem dude—so you comin' too?"
"I'll be there in a second but just go on down there now."
"Cool. I'll check you."
(Ext. 6500)
"Hi, is Mr. Schlimmer around? It's Mike Perkins in Legal I—Ok... Jesus Christ—hello? He's not? Do you know where I could reach him? Ok. Do you know what floor? Ok. Right. Thanks."
(In the copy room)
"...With speed I'm Agile plus I work ya wild one hundred per-cent intel-li-gent black child—oh wassup man I just got done wid eight n' nine now I'm on ten."
"Hmmmm, you're copying each page individually?"
"Yeah man. I figure that shit would be mad faster than copyin' alla legal section ovah again. Plus I don’t wanna front on tha environment—I ain’t wastin’ no reams, dawg—doin' that shit is bad karma. My pops had this greenhouse built for my moms chrysanthemum and white rose collections an shit, so it’s made me—"
"Right, right. Henry? I'm sorry, but umm ... It'll go a lot faster to copy all 50 all over again, because that way you don't have to insert those missing pages in each one."
"Awww straight? But um damn Mike, won't we still be like wastin' mad trees? HEY you suppose to lift witchor laigs, dawg! My p’s goda collapse disk yo, an—”
"Henry, I’m gonna put these on the counter. If you man the copier, I’ll put the sections in the binders. No don’t—"
“Damn, y’all got one of those ancient Amenhotep copiahs n’shit. Isnot seperatin’ the copies, huh. Ima tell my p’s you jokaaz need a new copiah—”
“No, here, just put it on collate.”
"Oh shit! Check that shit!“
"We really have to get this to Mr. Schlimmer as fast as we possibly can.”
"Aiggghht aiight, I'm feelin' you, my fault. Heyyo you smell that choco-lahtay? Someone I thinks havin’ a celebration right outside—damn, Ima go out and get my cake on ... You wanna slice?"
"Henry? Let’s just run ten that we've completed to Mr. Schlimmer ‘cause he REALLY needs to get these budgets right now and I don't know exactly where he is—we'll tell him the rest are on the way when we see him. Couldja help me with that?"
"Yeah I got you, Mike. Let's go by way of the chocolate cake though—bet?"
"I think it's best if you grab a piece of cake later.“
"Awww commawn, MI-EEEKE.”
“Henry—“
“Look I was just there see? Ah ha-ha. See? Ima do it again but getta brownie, pass me the rubba finger—I’ll sort the files all around me, yo man you rootin’ for the sobriety of the Junior Robert Downey? Yo man—check this out: Chocolate fix to be quick, escape my dull prison like Chester Cragwich. Yo check it: See I’m rough n’ silver-plated like True Value house key edges you got equations to be solved I’ll stick my woody in the wedges, ai-ai-ai-ai YA I got the bling bli—"
* * *
The hot-sauce kiss that produced enough oomph to launch an oil tanker had ended, with the two partakers still grasping each other with the desperation TWA passengers must have with their neighbor when they know they're going down for the count. Lipschen's entire sound mechanisms were wiped out and replaced by little spasms of the mouth and uncontrollable blinking of the eyes. Meg remained in his arms with her mouth opened just enough for air to escape, staring at Lipschen. She started to smile a little and slowly licked her lips.
"Well."
"....AHH OH YES. AHH MEGG? AHHM vut ... khan you ummm..."
"What?”
"Oont kisssenstahg, I meen...aheh heh heh... dat vittle ehxchange ve just hahd... aheh heh..."
Scratching the back of his head and gaping at Meg's feet, Lipschen tried to gather himself. Meg watched him.
"Vhat exchahnge we just...you orr za author oont those poems in vis paper bag?"
"Yes. I guess I am. There's no problem is there?"
"OH no-no-no-no-no-no... I juhst... I juhst... heh." Lipschen looked at his right hand while he ran his thumb through all four fingers. "Eeets like I knowen dis thruth all da time, but... buht I just don't pey eet atten—“
Just then Mike and Henry whipped through the exit door in a frenzy, cracking open momentary echoes of rustling papers and monotone conversations of the floor behind them. Henry came through first, beat boxing, with a nosh of cake in one hand and four copies of the budgets precariously balanced in the other; the dividing tabs of the topmost copy slathered with chocolate frosting. Mike waddled close behind, red and flustered carrying six other copies, mouth shaped in a silent “eee” as his chin anchored his freight.
"Aww dude! We've been lookin all ov—"
But before Henry could finish his exclamation, he felt his feet mistake air for ground and saw the gray stairwell suddenly take up his whole visual frame of reference. Mike, practically attached to Henry's hip, launched the budgets down the stairwell with a gawk as he flailed his arms for unrecognized support. Then the disintegrating bowling ball made up of Henry, Mike, chocolate cake and papers erupting from their 3-rings, blasted into Lipschen and Meg leaving the whole mess of them sprawled out on the platform in sticky, contorted dispositions. Orphaned budgets bled down between the gaps in the stairs. It was quiet.
With his dress shirt completely untucked, buttons ripped off his blazer, and blood mixed with chocolate stains on his slacks, Lipschen was the first to rise. Mike, with a few pages stuck to his unbuttoned crotch, immediately followed, and immediately lost his footing on a table of contents. He got back up and sputtered apologies while wading through paper to give mechanical support to Lipschen. Meg eventually came to and using the back wall as support, slowly slid herself upright. She checked her face to see if it was all right and felt a huge smear of cake on her nose and cheek. Henry lay there, mouth open, eyes wide, legs crunched against the wall, still gripping an empty binder with his fist.
"Jesus, Mr. Schlimmer, I'm so sorry—"
"ACK GEHT OFF OV ME NUURSE!! WHO IN HEELL ARE YOO? YOUR FADER EVER TEECH YOUH HOW TO UUSE YOUR LEFT FOOT OONT YOUR RIIIGHT DUMKOPFF!!?"
"I'm! I'm so sorry, sir! We've been trying to find you for the past twenty minutes—"
"VELL YOU SCERTAINLEE UNT FOUND ME DIDN'T YOOU!!? SO HOW DO I TAASTE? DO YOU THINK I NEED A TIC-TAC FOR MY BREADTH?”
"Yo, I think we just went through an f-5 tornado an' shit ... daaaamn!!"
"WHO EN GODS GHRRET NAME EES ZIS? WE RUHUNNING DAYCARE CENTER HERE? VAHTS THISZ LITTLE CHILDRENS RUNNINGK AROUND HERE?"
“I'm sorry, sir, this is Mr. O’Malley’s! He was my floater help for the day! He helped me with Legal’s section—“
“OH YAA YAA ZA LEGAL SECTION—EF ZA BUDGETK! YOUU MEAHN THESE SCRAPS OF PAHPER ALL OVER ZA FUKINGK SHTAIRWELL OONT STUCK TO YOUR SCHNITZEL AZ WELL YA!?”
"No, sir! ... I mean yes!" Mike swatted away the pages caught on his zipper. "We were in such a hurry to get it to you because it was so late!"
"YOU LITTLE FAHRMER! YOU ARRR SUCH A LITTLE NOTINGK! JEZUS! WHY AM I SULLRROUNDED BY SUHCH INCOPMEHTENCE!!?" His balance wavered, more paper dove from the landing.
“Lipschen, I don’t think they meant to fall down the stairs and crash into us.”
Lipschen shifted his eyes to Meg standing in the corner.
“Forreal doe!” Henry looked up from his paper cuts. “We were just tryin' to deliver the goods ay-saap, jack."
"WHOOOOOOOO ES THIS TALKINNNGK!!!!!! WOULD SOMEONE PLEAHHS CALL THE NUHRSERY KAMP ANT GET THIS LITTLE PEHRSON OUT EF MY LIVE!?”
"WHAT? Man, you better take a pause—“
"Lipschen, please. They didn't mean it. Let's just gather as much as we can."
Silence.
The fluorescent lights hummed.
A bead of sweat from Mike’s forehead plopped onto a page 29.
Mike looked at Meg then he looked at Lipschen. Henry looked at Meg then Lipschen. Lipschen looked at Mike and then Henry. Henry bobbed his head and said “word up!”
Lipschen focused back to Meg.She wiped her cheek with a knuckle creating a chocolate comet tail across her face. Lipschen’s mouth tightened and a short hacking sound burst from his nostrils. He started giggling. Meg smiled sheepishly and wiped the other side of her face, becoming a defensive lineman. Still giggling, Lipschen bent down only at the waist and gathered some budgets floating mid-calf.
“Ankeh kee hehehheh.”
Mike joined in with an agreeing chortle and looked to Henry who was eyeing Lipschen as if he wanted to choke him.
“Keh heh ehh ve shut pick ep? Wet. Tell me whoo schpeek dis wisdom, I ask? Whoooo, eeeess talkeeeeeeengk, nooooow? Heh, mmmm? Oh yaa! YOOUUU my deahr UUHNT FIIHVE DAY LUNCHBREAHKER!” Budgets crumpled in his fists, “LEHT ME TELL YOU SOMTINGK MY MIHNSTREL ZSHOW EMPLOHYEE!! IF YOU HADN'T BEEN LOITERINGK AHHROUND ONNT DRAWINGK MY ZUSPICIONS IN ZA FIRHST PLAHCE STARE-IE STARE-IE COMBUTAH HORSE BRAIN, THIS WHOLE DEBALACLE WVOULDN'T HAVE EVEHR OKKURRT! IT’S ERALLY TRULY AMAZINK HOW MUCH INCOMPETENCE EXIHSTS VITHIN YOUR FRAME YOU! OVAHPAIT!! INNANE! CORPULENGT! ILLITERATE! EXTRANEOUSZ! DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISHVASHAAAAAAA!!” He fired the wadded paper at her head.
Tears sprang down Meg’s cheeks. They intercepted and mixed with the cake smear making it look like that she was crying chocolate on one side. Meg slowly started to wipe her face with her palm. Mike dragged Henry up the stairs along with as much paper and binder as he could carry, furiously apologizing, saying he'll make new copies of the whole budget faster than fast while Henry kicked at paper and whipped out unemployed threats at Lipschen.
"RIGHT AWAY, sir–I … I promise we'll get—"
"Yeah muthafucker you betta start lookin' for a bratwurst stand to work at Bitch... 'specially when ya see that RED TAG in your mailbox tomorrow."
"Ya ya thenk you. Just pleahse take Mr. Pahmpers back to the playpen ya? I'll deal vith you later."
Arms crossed, Lipschen waited patiently and dotted his eyes back and forth from the two climbing the stairs to Meg sobbing in the corner. He leaned forward as they closed the door. Then he sighed a smile and swished his hands together.
“Whoo heh heh. Vaht a mess no?” Lipschen looked at Meg. "Heh heh. Uhm Mehg … I hope I vasn't oont too harsh. It was … necessary … bet … all in good fun ya? Heh heh. I'm soh glad you vere oont good sporten. You reahhlly came through fohr me. Youh now how it is. It look kindah bahd iffen they saw de boss beingk you know … I'm really haahpy you did this thingk for me.”
Meg focused on the broken jaws of a binder and wiped her tears as Lipschen kept talking. She looked up at him, sniffling, with a pained expression.
"Oh come come now, Mehg. It wahs joke, yes? Kiddingk, yes? Fohr faze keeping yes? You knew all the tihme mmm? I was kind of angry for da sliipink in thingks buht like you said they diddn't meahn it, yes? You smile Volkshottie? You smiiile for BionicTeutonic, yes?... No?"
Meg looked back down at the expansive pile. She moved her foot, lightly kicked the MIS dividing tab revealing a brown, poem-covered piece of paper. She picked it up, saw individual letters, the pencil lines that had guided her words. A smile started to form. Sucking in her upper lip, Meg closed and opened her tear-filled eyes back at Lipschen. She sniffled and shook her gleaming, dimpled cheeks at him.
"Yehs you OK yehs? Heh. Yes, yes! Oh Volkshottie! I'm so hahhppy for uhs. You showen me now thaht youh are truhe uberspirit Volkshottie. Vid you say you wanted to go unt Art Instituten? Not oont Feld Muesuem? Or both! Unt cake and eat it too heh! Mehg, I ... I ... love … hey. Hey! Mehg! Where you goingk? Why you goingk!”
Meg was halfway up the stairs with the poem in hand, still smiling and shaking her head.
"Mehg, pleehse! Vas I too harsh? Ihm sorry I'm soh soory I. Please don't go! UBER ESSHEN MEIN VOLKSHOTTIE!”
At this Meg stopped climbing. She was at the second to last step. She trotted back and handed Lipschen the poem.
"Vaht's this? Wvy you given me poem?! Why are you so upsetten!? Are you upsetten?! Mehg please?! Mehg Volkshottie graben kefelt kleinhousen! Gruben est MEIN?! MEGMEG ME-MEHG WHERE ARE YOU GOEENK, PLEEE-HS!!?"
Meg looked back down at Lipschen as she opened the stairwell door and sniffled.
"To work, sir."
THE END
That Bastard
A Story
There she sat. Forlorn. Abandoned. Still wearing the same acrylic blend knit blue sweater and the same 501s, refusing to budge as the clock marked time swirling down the drain, clicking "New Hotmail" like a rat for a corn kernel. Her breath ricocheted off the screen—she was sitting too close; although her now shriveled, mucus encrusted, bloodshot eyes should have told her that. Could she no longer feel? Had she transcended the physical? Could she even still read? But she could only wait, muttering to herself, naming nouns alphabetically, a pathetic game to pass the time. Muscles tensed. Fingers clawed. NewHotmailNewHotmailNewHotmail.
Oh, when would it end? But she knew what this was about. She knew. She fooled everyone else with her camouflage of lies, little side tracked paths she constructed expertly to throw back the ever-so-curious. Things like answering questions with questions, constantly complementing, and sometimes, flat out ignoring.
"You're still sittin' here Meg?"
".……… I LIKE those shoes Ed!"
She was completely obsessed and over-the-top. Her own fault, she knew very well, missing the meetings, mailing empty envelopes, drinking flavored coffee. Her computer time was all she had left that she didn't completely corrupt yet. The screen was more delicious each time she saw it in front of her. And all the while fooling and kidding, kidding and fooling everyone around her, turning them in circles, sure ... but there was one person she couldn't hide from, the one face that turned her into Swiss cheese, the very creature that would appear before her eyes no matter how tight and crinkled they became.
She couldn't fool. LIPSCHEN.
* * *
"Vat es kombputer on shtill Meg?"
"Um ... ummm ha-hi Lipschen. Ha-how are you?"
"Vas es quesgion fworline! Gavund est swvitchen off kombputer!”
“Uuhh, ohh. H-hey, I saw you eating in the cafet—“
"MEG!”
"Uhh h—"
"Listen, I tahking to Robinshten today. He vants know outputs of my shtaff ooont last two veeksen. You szhape ep or I en reccomenden oont resignation!”
“Ooo oohh ummm. Ok. I’ve been just looking up a few things on the Internet for accounting. Hey... hey. I'm going to the Art Institute tomorr—“
"Vahsts dis babbeling?"
"Nnn-no wait listen. I wanted to know if. Umm. If you want to Idunnomaybe go with me?"
"Vat?"
“Um go with me?”
"Vad et sdas? Un daten? Vith youu?"
"Yeah... Yeah."
“Hhahahahhhhaaaaha ggeeewwd come-edy. Ka ak ak akakkaa.”
“Ohh. Uhh, I didn't realize it was so—“
"Bbbaaa baaa ha ha haaa. You make me shplitten vas shuit buttons va baa. Date vith you—ha ha ha h aahaaa...”
It was hopeless.
Lipschen. That bastard Lipschen, she thought to herself, as his small frame and handlebar moustache and bbaaa baaa ha ha haaa were blocked from view by the ding and huhsssss of the closing elevator doors. With a rickety exhale and eyelids fighting to slip over dried orbs, she clutched the third-cut folders, a prop really, to deflect questions, and bent the colored cardboard with the force of her desperation. He would never make the connection. Never! Why did he imprison her with this silent freedom, this rotting dependence on so many wires and molded plastic and curved glass? Why could she not resist?
The questions were futile.
One black booted foot in front of the other, wearily ambling across the dark, diamond patterned carpet, she was so lost in thought she didn't sense the silence. Collins actually stopped talking about his boat. Barb stood frozen, hand hovering over the Xerox start button. Lorna forgot what she was collating. Alice put down the Avon catalogue. The office was paralyzed.
Was she merely kidding herself? She knew Lipschen. She knew him as few knew him. She knew his obsession with the Art Institute's suits of armor, the Georgia O'Keefes, the sometimes blue-gray skin of an oil-painted Jesus. There were haikus, there were sonnets—he wanted to come … she knew it … she … Why couldn’t she make him see?
It been three long tortuous months since a cavalier systems administrator took down the corporate firewall due to problems on 17 that split the company like a Turkish earthquake. With the firewall down, a little “open sesame” and the internet’s most precious jewels lay splayed and sparkling in front of any employee. The siren song of the chat room could no longer be easily ignored. But Meg knew, she understood the boundaries, she read the employee manual, she saw friends, colleagues, lovers fall before her, but this time ... this time ... this time ... somehow she could never finish that mantra, even to herself. Why wasn't that a sign?
The words struck like lightening in Arial 10 point bold.
I am a choco
late alien. I melt with
a chocolate smooth
I have one promi
nent eye. Mary on
the half shell. Find Me.
Find me find me find me. Soon.
That fateful chat room. That fateful poem—deliciously strange,. The same day, in a torrent of searches, uncoverings, pleadings with IT administrators, she traced the posting and discovered the author. Her CEO. Her paramour. Her spatzel.
Lipschen.
Lipschen, that bastard.
As she turned the corner the next morning and eyed the piece of notebook paper scotch-taped to her computer screen, Meg felt an electric fizzle shoot up her spine. It’s him. It's an apology. An apology. Apologized. He apologized. Yes. But wait, because it won't be an easily read one. It won't be in so many words. It'll be subtle, virtually subliminal. Like maybe please deliver this as soon as you can Meg or or could you grab that from accounts payable and deliver it directly to me Meg? Forgive my outburst yesterday, I was having a hell of a day—Pam used up the last of my manillas and blah blah-blee blah-blee blah blah. Meg carefully peeled the tape off the screen leaving four identical cloudy rectangles of adhesive where the sides of the paper were taped, evenly spaced. She pressed and slowly lifted up her finger from the stickiness. God he's so symmetrical.
"06:47 Friday. Re: Poor workmanship. Meg, should have delivered Emerson memo to me day earlier than due—you know I need earlier sometimes. Your foolishness has cost you your files because I needed to get immediately and accidentally erased. Not my fault. Now you know for next time. –LS”
Not only did he play a silly Parker Brothers version of hard to get, Meg cursed breathlessly looking at Windows Explorer’s report of her empty C drive. He had deleted everything! EVERYTHING! The holiday planner, the tofu cookbook—the one Barb sent her after hissing at the bowl of fried chicken she had on her plate downstairs in the cafeteria. And oh Jesus Christ, 34 sales records spreadsheets—the spreadsheets linked to four animated promotion-ensuring PowerPoint presentations that were now useless, nonfunctioning. And of course all of the … relevant e-mails. The “Meg’s Special Time” emails. The ones where she kept notes on herself in a diary-like fashion day to day. Her own autobiography, gone. Evaporated into pure energy, maybe now reincarnated into that game of solitaire that Gerald was staring at googly-eyed in the next cubicle.
Damn that Nazi. But even more, damn her for loving him! Damn her! DAMN HER!!! This couldn't go on. This tortured longing, this painful, fruitless outreach into the unrequited void. She held her shaking hands, palms upturned, in front of her. The lines didn't mirror each other, the messages were conflicting. Damn that shoddy palmistry class. Damn the internet sites predicting her wedding day, predicting her compatibility with Lipschen, what Lipschen was really thinking, how to email your lover, how to how to how to—her forehead sank into her hands. She wouldn't cry—how could she and why would she? For a step she never took, for a life she never dared lead? No. Meg just sighed.
She saw pad thai from two weeks ago ground into her shirt and for the first time, she was revolted. Faster than Jefferson could send a document to print, a long, pale finger reached forward. Veered right. Sank home. Power off. The screen went blank, but she would leave the monitor on today—a quiet statement. A blank screen still powered—precious energy wasted on an incommunicative rectangle of glass. Only upon inspection would Lipschen realize that she was costing him fractions of a cent in wasted ComEd power.
Meg stood and looked around at the florescent-lit wasteland. She was taking a personal day today. She was not going to be stopped. She was going to relax. This was absolutely one hundred and ten percent Meg time now.
She sat there in the midst of her newly self-empowered state, arms folded, nose up, wry smile, and imagined herself sipping a nice cold Bargs. Before she could say "jackrabbit" she was up and at ‘em, walking past Hanson and Jefferson as they furrowed their brows at her. Past Claire and Amy in MIS, both wearing black blouses and sipping their coffees in twin AOL.com mugs. Past Chris's cubicle with his collage of Calvin & Hobbes and Lee Travino golf swings tattooed all over his bulletin board. She walked completely through Operations, through Marketing, through Accounting. It seemed as though everybody was noticing. People began to get up halfway with phone in hand as she walked by them, pausing in their conversations. Clicking their mouses to save, everybody looked at each other then pointing their heads and eyes towards Meg. She caught wind of their voices as she strolled by, a trail-mix of conversation:
"Is that that Meg?"
"I think so."
"What's she up to?"
"I dunno."
"I think she's getting a soda."
"A soda?"
"Yeah. A root beer."
"A root beer?"
"What kind?"
"Bargs."
"Bargs? The hell is..."
"Bargs?... Not a MUG?"
"No Bargs."
"What the hell—not Barq's?"
"It's Meg. She likes generics."
"Still. Never even heard of Bargs."
"We have three kinds of root beer and not one diet cola."
"Shut up, Simmons."
"Why doesn't she just go the machine in the 1st copy room right near her?"
“I dunno, why don’t you ask her?”
“Naw.”
“Why don’t you guys mind your own business?!”
“Hey, why don’t you shut your yaphole Nancy.”
“Ask her!”
“No!”
“Jesus, we’ve seen that top a few times, huh.”
“Fine then …”
“HEY MEG! WHY ARE YOU WALKING THROUGH THE ENTIRE BUILDING JUST TO GET A SOFT DRINK?”
“MEGmeg meg m, WHYwhy y, y, AREare r r, YOU u, u, TAKING SUCH A LONG ong, ong, ROUTE oute, oute, o,??????”
Loud reverberating echoes followed her through the shiny wooden lobby, past the bimbos flirting with Todd and Avery at Reception, onto the next office space where Harry and the others worked in Development. But she wouldn't let it get to her. Tears started to form in her eyes. She was going to the second floor. She was going to the second floor vending machine and taking the stairs that were at the end of the hallway. SHE WAS GOING UP TO THE SECOND FLOOR TO GET AN ICE COLD BARGS EVEN IF SHE GOT STABBED IN THE EYES WITH RUSTY DAGGERS AND WAS BLIND. And then ... with the red exit sign above the stairwell in sight, she ... began to hear among the echoes a ... an ... accent.
"Vasestas, Cumminks. You taken time und time to make schpradscheet vot doz not ed? Cumminks, you are reported!"
"With all due respect, sir, in this instance—"
"Vis all dyoo reschpect—you embaraz my schtafen, Cumminks! I cem ep here to theenk mehbee you like career in hughmant rezorses! No meth dere little fairy haha man emberezmnt!"
"I—"
"Convrence vinisht."
"Uh um, eeeh—"
"VOT, you neet kartoonen? Uunduley! Eeepeh! Eeepeh! LEEF!"
The door shut. Inside those two gray doors were 38 flights of stairs, 38 matching doorways, cigarette butts, and Li—llllll—(exhale) that God. Damn. Lipschen. She was there, paused before the stairwell doors, the "bargsbargsbargs" chant momentarily silenced. The old "lusciouslipschenlipschenlipshine" electrical storm picked up volume in her parietal lobe, German flags eclipsing the teal and beige of the Bargs cans. NO. GODDAMIT. THIS WAS A PERSONAL DAY. She crossed the two inches of space separating her and the door, cranked the stainless steel violently. Pulse raced. She threw herself against the door. They could hear her cross the threshold of the stairwell in reception. Tammy twittered at a suggestive email forward, and the sound was soon forgotten. But not by Lipschen. Not by Meg.
Bargs Bargs Bargs Bargs Bargs.
She started to whisper it to herself to steel her resolve. The number of stairs between the size 8's and the size 13's was shrinking. "Oh, vot dis ist, eh heh ... my kurlfrenden ... heh."
She tossed her hair back from her face and pulled out the few strands that got caught in her mouth during her walk.
"Pardon me."
Elbows behind his back resting on the handrail with ease, Lipschen smiled a toothy smile while he unbuttoned his blazer with the delicate finger movements of an acoustic guitar player. Later Meg swore on her mother to wide-eyed colleagues that he was curving and swaying his hips slightly as he did this. Lipschen loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt. Meg felt the headlights on her and couldn't move. She had one foot below on its toes and the other on the step above with her left hand glued to the rail. A mirror flashed into her head and then thoughts of Madonna's "Express Yourself" video. Lipschen nodded upwards at her.
"Vere eees da forrline goingk in such a floshstuh?"
"A-heh aaaauuummm...I justed wanted to w-walk—Imean stretch. Stretch my feet a bit."
Lipschen dug out a pack of Big Red chewing gum out of his breast pocket and then pinched a wrapper's tinfoiled end with his teeth, pulling out a stick. His tongue then captured the whole piece, red wrapper and all, into his mouth. Meg felt her grip getting greasy. She looked on with a space between her lips and the awe of watching a fakir conjure up a cobra from a fruit basket. After lolling and swishing his tongue all over the parameters of his mouth, Lipschen laid out his tongue like a red carpet with the wrapper resting on top. He retrieved it with a thumb and forefinger, flicked it down the stairwell.
"So how fahr vid you oont planh to stvtretchen your foots?”
"Oh um, not too far—or long, I mean I just want to get a roo—“
"Ohh, oont forgive... Vould jew like a piese unt shewing gaum?"
"NO. Um, I mean no thank you. I'm just going to get a root beer."
"Vas es das? 'Oont juhst goingk to get a ruet beehr?’ Juhst goingk to completlehy disregardingk office etiquetteink? Unt alcohleec behvarege unt de clock? Jehsus Meg!”
"No, it's root beer. Ya know ... it's like a regular soda. Heh I wouldn't drink—"
"Vhat unt doing on lucnh houhr es bussinuees noht mine, but yuou going not havehn drink oont alcoholeec behvarage on—“
"No it’s—“
"Oont my time."
"—No it's just like Coca-Cola.”
With precise, timed jerks, Lipschen straightened his tie.
"Meg ... I'm shorry. Meg ..."
Meg looked on trying to keep a gleam in her eye smiling, trying to convince with every bone her body that a root beer is just that. A root beer. Not Beck's, not Heineken. But as he buttoned up, Meg saw the familiar furrowed brow and felt the heat rising.
"Meg. I'm goingk to hahv to spank jew."
"Um, what?"
"Vhats es dat deafen!? No speekan de engleeshen? I said spahnk you, spahnk you! Now leanen againsten oont railing."
All Meg saw was red. She felt hot pokers stabbing her chest and hot cinders stinging her eyes as the tears started to come. She'd heard horror stories like this before. Janice had a particularly grizzly one about one of the account executives at Bausch & Lomb calling a new receptionist in to test her "oratory skills."
"Meg?"
"..."
"MEG!?... Helloe, anyvody in dere? I believe I said assumink the position?"
"I... I..."
"Meg."
Lipschen kept eyeing her with the stern look of a lion tamer, and then the corners of his mouth began to rise giving Meg a feeling she didn’t know quite where to place.
"Meg. Dhed you heer me? Meg?”
"Mr. Schlimmer, I ... I must tell you I ..."
"Meg—JUST KIDDINK!!!!"
"Ahh ..."
"Ahaahahah ahink kink kink KAA HAA hhaa haa haa. Daht was goog yes? I messink your minden?! HA HA KINK kaaaaaa..."
"Ahh ... ummm ... I think I'm goin—“
"Aahhnk aaahnk kaa. Oooo shtop shtop eets too much!"
The guttural guffaws hammered their way into every corner of the stairwell. She could hear the Bavarian "aahhnk" work its way into the dust and exposed guts of the nearly re-renovated 13th floor, snake around the undiscovered cigarette butts, lace its slimy reverberation around each joint in her white knuckled left hand losing its grip on the Pennsylvania aluminum. It was too much.
She had been looking up at Lipschen through two eyebrows grown wild with the tweezer's neglect, angling her head to hide her bloodshot love lights. It was a subconscious adherence to the www.dating911.com lead article authored by Kylene Barker, Miss America 1979, and proof that even at her most downtrodden, Meg could not give up hope that there was something beautiful inside Lipschen raging to come out.
Everything seemed so wrong. The spanking? Alcohol? Her emotions were a ping pong ball spazzing in every direction at once on the Schlimmeruda triangle, the churning Lipschen rapids, the wake of her boss's V6 speedboat. Her head began to spin uncontrollably, like she was running around that damn halo she had secretly doodled and retraced so many times over Schlimmer's face in her copy of Lorna and Tom at the company picnic last June, where you could just make out Lipschen berating Allen over an Italian beef in the background. Meg's gaze dropped straight in front of her, where she could see the crease of the caszh-Friday kakhis fall onto smooth beige Rockports that he altered his steps for so as to avoid creasing. Struggling to focus on that embroidered "Rockport" on the side of Schlimmer's left shoe, Meg began to sway, unbalanced.
"Ahaahahah ahink kink kink KAA HAA hhaa haa haa! Mek! Jew jook—ak! Nein—aaaakh—jew mek me gikkle all DAY!"
He started to stomp and twitch, like he was performing some odd bluegrass line dance and raising his foot out of her line of vision, her Rockport of Gibralter was lost. Her pupils dialated. Her jaw fell slack. Lipschenlipschenlipschen. She stumbled backwards, arch of her shoe slipping over the edge of the first stair, then another stair, then she fell, like laundry in a dryer, a tossed pasta of legs and arms, limp and whirling down to the first floor landing and stopping schlump, with face to the wall, legs akimbo, arms pretzeled to her right.
Lipschen held his breath. And then, like a gurgling geyser, he sat down threw his head back, and howled with laughter.
" AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH AHAHA HA HAHAHS AHSDFHA HAHHA HA HAHA HAAHA HAHHA HA!!! KEEE-oooo-AAAAH HAHA HHAAA! AHK! KLEEEEM KSSSSS HEEEE HOOOOOOOO! A KOMEDIAN"
He beat the cinderblock wall next to him, clutched the breast pocket of his chambray shirt to make sure the keycard/ID didn't slip out as he threw himself forward and back, forward and back, sucked in air like that old Polish woman's industrial vacuum humming on the 18th floor.
He started to hyperventilate.
* * *
In the weeks after reading that first posting on the poem2thepeople website, Meg had been scrambling for something to set her apart from the crappy haiku, spoken word, fourth-grade drivel. She had to show Lipschen that she could reach the same literary heights—that she was an equal. An attractive equal at that.
She submitted a long prose piece about the warm wrinkled earthiness of the oft ignored, utilitarian paper bag, making surreal connections with art and Belgian confectioneries, right up her leiber herr's aisle. This prose piece hit Lipschen like a baseball bat to a piñata, his newly inspired poems sprinkling like Toostie rolls and pennies into Meg's outstretched cyber-apron. Meg thought to herself: Lipschen didn't have her used-to-date advantage with Chris in IT, so he couldn't uncover her identity. To him, Meg fancied herself the perfect woman wrapped in a 5-sided box of earthy-brown paper, razor sharp edges, intersecting angular folds and symmetrical zig-zag top, appealing viscerally to the ancient Visagoth within him.
He called himself BionicTeutonic, she posted under Volkshottie. As Volkshottie, Meg had submitted a long series of limericks about the thrill and majesty of paper bags and how one always rode in her back pocket, neatly folded and concealed. In a case of Life Imitating Internet, Meg would carry this with her on the odd Friday as a talisman, or a hope, she never could decide which. In her fevered rejection that morning as she broke her bond with the computer and decided to put it all behind her, Meg forgot to remove that one little calling card.
* * *
As Lipschen looked around the stairwell, he saw pixels of color flash before him. He grabbed the railing and pulled himself up.
Sliding down the flight of stairs had upset everything. Meg's quarter and 4 dimes destined for that damn Bargs machine were scattered all around her. Her corporate ID was laying face up, the picture of her reaction to Mequisha's odd pianist joke frozen in time. And just barely revealing itself, three millimeters of dull brown peeked out of her back right pocket.
And Lipschen noticed.
* * *
Three days before, while looking in the Sharper Image catalogue for nifty gadgets for the birthday of his cousin Otto, now residing in Wisconsin (“Za Reich unt zha shtates!" Otto constantly declared), Lipschen found himself playing a little game that hadn't struck his fancy since he was an eighth grader at Gruben academy. "Sighnennomin." Maybe it was the Sunday morning laziness of the powder blue slippers that comforted his feet, or his digestive system breaking down the fabulous wiener schnitzel leftovers he had had for breakfast. Whatever the reason, before he knew it he had completely filled the electronic massage page with signatures of the name "Volkshottie" wherever there was white space.
It was the "V" he loved the most; the beginning and ending Ionic swirls—he writhed from it. He knew Volkshottie would like it. He knew it. She would have to. She seemed to be the only one who could ever reach him. A fan of not only Frost, Dickinson and Cummings, she also had up her sleeve the references of Karl Kurtlager and Francis Shiffengruber, Earth’s true people, representing the callused and blistered Volkish farmers who worked with blood, sweat, and foreheads dusty brown from harvesting for sauerkraut all season. They indeed were this planet's true purveyors and translators of all that is beautiful.
It was exciting.
He thought about how ideal she would be for his partner. Late at night, he fantasized that her genes and his mixed together would amalgamate into an astounding specimen. A true uber-being who could not only be great on the fields of competition, but would know his way around grand mahogany shelves of literature as well. Oh Volkshottie. She would complete his desperate equation. If they were together side by side, he could deal with any burden or foul-up at the office, whether it be Pam grossly miscalculating pencil and pen count at his desk, or Ted not using his margins properly, the Volkshottie would purr it away in his ear, ooooaaahhhh...
* * *
"AH MEEHG?"
"Yes. Oh I'm sorry for falling down. I'll be out—"
"Mehg vasestas in brown papeh?”
"Out of your...whwhat?”
Lipschen loosened his collar to let engine steam whistle out.
"Dis cardehn in brohwn paper bagen is de … unt."
“Um. You uhm mean this right here—“
"Dis paperhn in kefeltavish bagen unt peom of Volkshottie-kblitsck?"
" Lipschen I—"
"Unt peom volskhotten shniffer—unt gruben shtaffen lokksen—"
"Lipschen...I can’t—what?”
"Unt rrrrrrrah rrah uber erbrb bur eeeeeb eeeeeeeb..."
He was down the stairs pinning her shoulders back against the 6-foot aqua 1 marking the floor. A small inch separated the length of the trembling Meg and Lipschen.
"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeleeeeeeeeeeeeeee—"
Without taking his eyes off her, he released her left shoulder, felt down to her left hand, grabbed the end of the bag she wasn't holding and got very quiet.
"Ein zleftein deutschlork-kk-kkk kk k..."
They were opposite poles of a magnet, red and black jumper cables, finally millimeters apart. Hazelnut coffee breath mixed with Big Red, follicles constricted, electrons hit the fever pitch.
* * *
[1 hour before]
"Heya Mikey, how ya doin' today?!"
"Good good, Mr. Rudd, how are you?"
"Great great. Mmmmmm, great ... so'd ya add that Bossen ledger to the Curby file yet?"
"YEAH. Yeah there're just a few corrections that need to be made, heh. The wife was having an ordeal with the father-in-law last night so I had a full house I guess, heh. Pretty much done though, aside from the little tiny tweaks that need to take place."
"Mmmhmm. Fabulous. Listen, since you don't have it complete now aaaannnd—you'll have it done by one right?”
"OH yeah yeah. Sure—yeah. I'll—"
"Awesome. Listen. I’m gonna be at Spago’s for a lunch or so … so do me a favor and deliver the copies directly to Lipschen Schlimmer for me—yeah?"
"Oh. Okay."
"Gahdamn budget deadlines. You’re cool with that?”
"Yeah, no worries."
"Good, yeah. Tina’s got that sonogram this morning so I’ll needja to add Legal’s section to the rest—already told Don to deliver them to your cube, can ya manage? Just give the full binders to Mr. Schlimmer in his office up on 2 there, and explain all the necessary changes, especially Lyle's contract with Henson—needs to be edited—I think that was under option 6.”
"Mmmmhhmmmmm, 6.”
"Ho-kay then Mr. Mike!”
"Have a good nibble Mr. Rudd ...”
(ext. 3090)
“Hello Laurie? Hi it's Mike Perkins in Legal … Hi. I need someone down here asap is th—yes oh yes it was fabulous … I—heh yes although I'm allergic to coffee cake but I—no. No it’s fine. Not at all—listen. I need someone down here ASAP … yeah, is that possible? Good. Fine. Yeah. Sure. Who? Mr. O'Malley's son? Oh. Yes. I remember him. Oh? Training for executive vice president? Well he must be. Heh … yes I guess I had better do a good job I … no. No that’s okay … I don't want any heh I'm allergic remember? Heh. Yes. Okay. Good, as soon as possible. Right. Great. Thanks-bye.”
(30 min later)
"Yo waasup playa. Sorry for takin so long but dat new machine was fro'in. Here. Gottcha copies paved n' saved."
"Oh thanks, Henry. Couldja put them by those binders over there?"
"Oh riiight rigght, my bad. Here ya go. So damn, you check that Lakers game last night?"
"Uhh, no I didn't. Was it good?"
"Awww, maaan. Shaq steele playan just like Jordan used to ‘cause now he makin’ his freethrows'nshit even though they in the 4th."
"Mmmmmmm. Were you at the game?"
"AWW YE-ah! My P's got box seats. They were niiiiice. We were chillen with my Dad’s boys from the Notre Dame Days. You ever heard uh Rudy Ruettinger?"
"No, I can’t say—hey Henry?"
"What’s up?"
"I think you forgot to copy the sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth sheets in all 50 copies."
"Ohhh word?"
"Yeah.” (sigh) “Um. Here. Start running these off and I'll be over there with you in a second. Heh, we need these in the next ten minutes.”
"Oh aiiight bet. I'll run them shits fast."
"Okay, just kinda pay attention so you don't miss any pages."
"Ahh no problem dude—so you comin' too?"
"I'll be there in a second but just go on down there now."
"Cool. I'll check you."
(Ext. 6500)
"Hi, is Mr. Schlimmer around? It's Mike Perkins in Legal I—Ok... Jesus Christ—hello? He's not? Do you know where I could reach him? Ok. Do you know what floor? Ok. Right. Thanks."
(In the copy room)
"...With speed I'm Agile plus I work ya wild one hundred per-cent intel-li-gent black child—oh wassup man I just got done wid eight n' nine now I'm on ten."
"Hmmmm, you're copying each page individually?"
"Yeah man. I figure that shit would be mad faster than copyin' alla legal section ovah again. Plus I don’t wanna front on tha environment—I ain’t wastin’ no reams, dawg—doin' that shit is bad karma. My pops had this greenhouse built for my moms chrysanthemum and white rose collections an shit, so it’s made me—"
"Right, right. Henry? I'm sorry, but umm ... It'll go a lot faster to copy all 50 all over again, because that way you don't have to insert those missing pages in each one."
"Awww straight? But um damn Mike, won't we still be like wastin' mad trees? HEY you suppose to lift witchor laigs, dawg! My p’s goda collapse disk yo, an—”
"Henry, I’m gonna put these on the counter. If you man the copier, I’ll put the sections in the binders. No don’t—"
“Damn, y’all got one of those ancient Amenhotep copiahs n’shit. Isnot seperatin’ the copies, huh. Ima tell my p’s you jokaaz need a new copiah—”
“No, here, just put it on collate.”
"Oh shit! Check that shit!“
"We really have to get this to Mr. Schlimmer as fast as we possibly can.”
"Aiggghht aiight, I'm feelin' you, my fault. Heyyo you smell that choco-lahtay? Someone I thinks havin’ a celebration right outside—damn, Ima go out and get my cake on ... You wanna slice?"
"Henry? Let’s just run ten that we've completed to Mr. Schlimmer ‘cause he REALLY needs to get these budgets right now and I don't know exactly where he is—we'll tell him the rest are on the way when we see him. Couldja help me with that?"
"Yeah I got you, Mike. Let's go by way of the chocolate cake though—bet?"
"I think it's best if you grab a piece of cake later.“
"Awww commawn, MI-EEEKE.”
“Henry—“
“Look I was just there see? Ah ha-ha. See? Ima do it again but getta brownie, pass me the rubba finger—I’ll sort the files all around me, yo man you rootin’ for the sobriety of the Junior Robert Downey? Yo man—check this out: Chocolate fix to be quick, escape my dull prison like Chester Cragwich. Yo check it: See I’m rough n’ silver-plated like True Value house key edges you got equations to be solved I’ll stick my woody in the wedges, ai-ai-ai-ai YA I got the bling bli—"
* * *
The hot-sauce kiss that produced enough oomph to launch an oil tanker had ended, with the two partakers still grasping each other with the desperation TWA passengers must have with their neighbor when they know they're going down for the count. Lipschen's entire sound mechanisms were wiped out and replaced by little spasms of the mouth and uncontrollable blinking of the eyes. Meg remained in his arms with her mouth opened just enough for air to escape, staring at Lipschen. She started to smile a little and slowly licked her lips.
"Well."
"....AHH OH YES. AHH MEGG? AHHM vut ... khan you ummm..."
"What?”
"Oont kisssenstahg, I meen...aheh heh heh... dat vittle ehxchange ve just hahd... aheh heh..."
Scratching the back of his head and gaping at Meg's feet, Lipschen tried to gather himself. Meg watched him.
"Vhat exchahnge we just...you orr za author oont those poems in vis paper bag?"
"Yes. I guess I am. There's no problem is there?"
"OH no-no-no-no-no-no... I juhst... I juhst... heh." Lipschen looked at his right hand while he ran his thumb through all four fingers. "Eeets like I knowen dis thruth all da time, but... buht I just don't pey eet atten—“
Just then Mike and Henry whipped through the exit door in a frenzy, cracking open momentary echoes of rustling papers and monotone conversations of the floor behind them. Henry came through first, beat boxing, with a nosh of cake in one hand and four copies of the budgets precariously balanced in the other; the dividing tabs of the topmost copy slathered with chocolate frosting. Mike waddled close behind, red and flustered carrying six other copies, mouth shaped in a silent “eee” as his chin anchored his freight.
"Aww dude! We've been lookin all ov—"
But before Henry could finish his exclamation, he felt his feet mistake air for ground and saw the gray stairwell suddenly take up his whole visual frame of reference. Mike, practically attached to Henry's hip, launched the budgets down the stairwell with a gawk as he flailed his arms for unrecognized support. Then the disintegrating bowling ball made up of Henry, Mike, chocolate cake and papers erupting from their 3-rings, blasted into Lipschen and Meg leaving the whole mess of them sprawled out on the platform in sticky, contorted dispositions. Orphaned budgets bled down between the gaps in the stairs. It was quiet.
With his dress shirt completely untucked, buttons ripped off his blazer, and blood mixed with chocolate stains on his slacks, Lipschen was the first to rise. Mike, with a few pages stuck to his unbuttoned crotch, immediately followed, and immediately lost his footing on a table of contents. He got back up and sputtered apologies while wading through paper to give mechanical support to Lipschen. Meg eventually came to and using the back wall as support, slowly slid herself upright. She checked her face to see if it was all right and felt a huge smear of cake on her nose and cheek. Henry lay there, mouth open, eyes wide, legs crunched against the wall, still gripping an empty binder with his fist.
"Jesus, Mr. Schlimmer, I'm so sorry—"
"ACK GEHT OFF OV ME NUURSE!! WHO IN HEELL ARE YOO? YOUR FADER EVER TEECH YOUH HOW TO UUSE YOUR LEFT FOOT OONT YOUR RIIIGHT DUMKOPFF!!?"
"I'm! I'm so sorry, sir! We've been trying to find you for the past twenty minutes—"
"VELL YOU SCERTAINLEE UNT FOUND ME DIDN'T YOOU!!? SO HOW DO I TAASTE? DO YOU THINK I NEED A TIC-TAC FOR MY BREADTH?”
"Yo, I think we just went through an f-5 tornado an' shit ... daaaamn!!"
"WHO EN GODS GHRRET NAME EES ZIS? WE RUHUNNING DAYCARE CENTER HERE? VAHTS THISZ LITTLE CHILDRENS RUNNINGK AROUND HERE?"
“I'm sorry, sir, this is Mr. O’Malley’s! He was my floater help for the day! He helped me with Legal’s section—“
“OH YAA YAA ZA LEGAL SECTION—EF ZA BUDGETK! YOUU MEAHN THESE SCRAPS OF PAHPER ALL OVER ZA FUKINGK SHTAIRWELL OONT STUCK TO YOUR SCHNITZEL AZ WELL YA!?”
"No, sir! ... I mean yes!" Mike swatted away the pages caught on his zipper. "We were in such a hurry to get it to you because it was so late!"
"YOU LITTLE FAHRMER! YOU ARRR SUCH A LITTLE NOTINGK! JEZUS! WHY AM I SULLRROUNDED BY SUHCH INCOPMEHTENCE!!?" His balance wavered, more paper dove from the landing.
“Lipschen, I don’t think they meant to fall down the stairs and crash into us.”
Lipschen shifted his eyes to Meg standing in the corner.
“Forreal doe!” Henry looked up from his paper cuts. “We were just tryin' to deliver the goods ay-saap, jack."
"WHOOOOOOOO ES THIS TALKINNNGK!!!!!! WOULD SOMEONE PLEAHHS CALL THE NUHRSERY KAMP ANT GET THIS LITTLE PEHRSON OUT EF MY LIVE!?”
"WHAT? Man, you better take a pause—“
"Lipschen, please. They didn't mean it. Let's just gather as much as we can."
Silence.
The fluorescent lights hummed.
A bead of sweat from Mike’s forehead plopped onto a page 29.
Mike looked at Meg then he looked at Lipschen. Henry looked at Meg then Lipschen. Lipschen looked at Mike and then Henry. Henry bobbed his head and said “word up!”
Lipschen focused back to Meg.She wiped her cheek with a knuckle creating a chocolate comet tail across her face. Lipschen’s mouth tightened and a short hacking sound burst from his nostrils. He started giggling. Meg smiled sheepishly and wiped the other side of her face, becoming a defensive lineman. Still giggling, Lipschen bent down only at the waist and gathered some budgets floating mid-calf.
“Ankeh kee hehehheh.”
Mike joined in with an agreeing chortle and looked to Henry who was eyeing Lipschen as if he wanted to choke him.
“Keh heh ehh ve shut pick ep? Wet. Tell me whoo schpeek dis wisdom, I ask? Whoooo, eeeess talkeeeeeeengk, nooooow? Heh, mmmm? Oh yaa! YOOUUU my deahr UUHNT FIIHVE DAY LUNCHBREAHKER!” Budgets crumpled in his fists, “LEHT ME TELL YOU SOMTINGK MY MIHNSTREL ZSHOW EMPLOHYEE!! IF YOU HADN'T BEEN LOITERINGK AHHROUND ONNT DRAWINGK MY ZUSPICIONS IN ZA FIRHST PLAHCE STARE-IE STARE-IE COMBUTAH HORSE BRAIN, THIS WHOLE DEBALACLE WVOULDN'T HAVE EVEHR OKKURRT! IT’S ERALLY TRULY AMAZINK HOW MUCH INCOMPETENCE EXIHSTS VITHIN YOUR FRAME YOU! OVAHPAIT!! INNANE! CORPULENGT! ILLITERATE! EXTRANEOUSZ! DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISHVASHAAAAAAA!!” He fired the wadded paper at her head.
Tears sprang down Meg’s cheeks. They intercepted and mixed with the cake smear making it look like that she was crying chocolate on one side. Meg slowly started to wipe her face with her palm. Mike dragged Henry up the stairs along with as much paper and binder as he could carry, furiously apologizing, saying he'll make new copies of the whole budget faster than fast while Henry kicked at paper and whipped out unemployed threats at Lipschen.
"RIGHT AWAY, sir–I … I promise we'll get—"
"Yeah muthafucker you betta start lookin' for a bratwurst stand to work at Bitch... 'specially when ya see that RED TAG in your mailbox tomorrow."
"Ya ya thenk you. Just pleahse take Mr. Pahmpers back to the playpen ya? I'll deal vith you later."
Arms crossed, Lipschen waited patiently and dotted his eyes back and forth from the two climbing the stairs to Meg sobbing in the corner. He leaned forward as they closed the door. Then he sighed a smile and swished his hands together.
“Whoo heh heh. Vaht a mess no?” Lipschen looked at Meg. "Heh heh. Uhm Mehg … I hope I vasn't oont too harsh. It was … necessary … bet … all in good fun ya? Heh heh. I'm soh glad you vere oont good sporten. You reahhlly came through fohr me. Youh now how it is. It look kindah bahd iffen they saw de boss beingk you know … I'm really haahpy you did this thingk for me.”
Meg focused on the broken jaws of a binder and wiped her tears as Lipschen kept talking. She looked up at him, sniffling, with a pained expression.
"Oh come come now, Mehg. It wahs joke, yes? Kiddingk, yes? Fohr faze keeping yes? You knew all the tihme mmm? I was kind of angry for da sliipink in thingks buht like you said they diddn't meahn it, yes? You smile Volkshottie? You smiiile for BionicTeutonic, yes?... No?"
Meg looked back down at the expansive pile. She moved her foot, lightly kicked the MIS dividing tab revealing a brown, poem-covered piece of paper. She picked it up, saw individual letters, the pencil lines that had guided her words. A smile started to form. Sucking in her upper lip, Meg closed and opened her tear-filled eyes back at Lipschen. She sniffled and shook her gleaming, dimpled cheeks at him.
"Yehs you OK yehs? Heh. Yes, yes! Oh Volkshottie! I'm so hahhppy for uhs. You showen me now thaht youh are truhe uberspirit Volkshottie. Vid you say you wanted to go unt Art Instituten? Not oont Feld Muesuem? Or both! Unt cake and eat it too heh! Mehg, I ... I ... love … hey. Hey! Mehg! Where you goingk? Why you goingk!”
Meg was halfway up the stairs with the poem in hand, still smiling and shaking her head.
"Mehg, pleehse! Vas I too harsh? Ihm sorry I'm soh soory I. Please don't go! UBER ESSHEN MEIN VOLKSHOTTIE!”
At this Meg stopped climbing. She was at the second to last step. She trotted back and handed Lipschen the poem.
"Vaht's this? Wvy you given me poem?! Why are you so upsetten!? Are you upsetten?! Mehg please?! Mehg Volkshottie graben kefelt kleinhousen! Gruben est MEIN?! MEGMEG ME-MEHG WHERE ARE YOU GOEENK, PLEEE-HS!!?"
Meg looked back down at Lipschen as she opened the stairwell door and sniffled.
"To work, sir."
THE END
Wednesday, March 28, 2001
Jesus H. Megan, get to work, seriously. This is your THIRD (?) post for toDAY and am I reading my clock wrong heh or is it not even noon, no it's not even noon. So you take one five-day caffine break and start again and what is THIS might I ask serIOUsly.
This from Salon.com. This post is almost as long as the questions asking whether or not one should leave one's spouse + children.
"Dear Mr. Blue,
"Where I work, team members share a single large gray cubicle so that we can all work together. The guy who sits nearest me is like some hyperactive third-grader. He makes noises. He sings (badly), crunches ice and pretzels with his mouth open, groans when he eats a doughnut, slurps, slobbers, talks almost without pause (even while eating) about ... NOTHING! He knows, from the way that I ignore him, that I am not interested in the same things, yet he continues to talk about them as though we are old friends. He sings my name. Sometimes he just sits and stares at the back of my head. It would be understandable if he were gay and had a thing for me, but he isn't. He's just obnoxious. I relish his vacation and sick days in a way that is not healthy. I am a nice person, but the only way I can get any peace is to rudely ignore him, get up and walk away while he is talking to me or turn my back and pick up the phone in the middle of his sentences. But sometimes not even that can stop him.
"What am I going to do? He is an insufferable brown-nose, and the boss thinks he's wonderfully creative, yet he can't think his way through even the most ordinary problem without consulting the entire team. Plus, he's been here longer than me, so I am afraid that if I complain, I'll be asked to leave.
"Man in a Gray Holding Cell"
This a story waiting to be written.
This from Salon.com. This post is almost as long as the questions asking whether or not one should leave one's spouse + children.
"Dear Mr. Blue,
"Where I work, team members share a single large gray cubicle so that we can all work together. The guy who sits nearest me is like some hyperactive third-grader. He makes noises. He sings (badly), crunches ice and pretzels with his mouth open, groans when he eats a doughnut, slurps, slobbers, talks almost without pause (even while eating) about ... NOTHING! He knows, from the way that I ignore him, that I am not interested in the same things, yet he continues to talk about them as though we are old friends. He sings my name. Sometimes he just sits and stares at the back of my head. It would be understandable if he were gay and had a thing for me, but he isn't. He's just obnoxious. I relish his vacation and sick days in a way that is not healthy. I am a nice person, but the only way I can get any peace is to rudely ignore him, get up and walk away while he is talking to me or turn my back and pick up the phone in the middle of his sentences. But sometimes not even that can stop him.
"What am I going to do? He is an insufferable brown-nose, and the boss thinks he's wonderfully creative, yet he can't think his way through even the most ordinary problem without consulting the entire team. Plus, he's been here longer than me, so I am afraid that if I complain, I'll be asked to leave.
"Man in a Gray Holding Cell"
This a story waiting to be written.
I apologize to the both of you.
The Christian Science Monitor is a Good Paper.
Especially on the world wide web.
www.csmonitor.com
Because at the end of everything, they attach web-links for further information NOT PENNED by aNY member of the MONITOR STAFF.
Here is the line of questioning:
1. Do you have to be a no-medicine sick-because-of-evil "Scientist" to be a writer, contributor, editor?
2. If not, are there separate meetings (prayer or otherwise, business bound to be discussed, is it okay to pray for financial future of the paper, are ideas delivered through prayer considered first) for "Scientists"?
3. What is the frequency of journalists, curious individuals, converting in order to get the credit on their resume of writing for the Monitor?
4. Do they (Scientist Managers) curb this falsehood/sin by a salary decrease once one has converted, claiming that the "Lord shall be your food"?
4.a. Is this written in the Bylaws of the Paper?
5. If the "Scientists" are so well informed, how do they harness this information?
6. Are their services inherently more connected and removed from pop-fluff than those of the quasi-secular Protestant religions providing quick emotional spirituality?
7. HOW DOES IT WORK THAT IT IS A GOOD PAPER AND THEY ARE CHRISTIAN SCIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEENTIIIIIIIITS?!!?!?!?!!!
8. Oh Jesus, is it the Devil's work that makes me doubt them?
9. Am I really a Christian Scientist?
10. Is this paper just a seductress for the masses tired of advertising and slanted information, a void that must be filled, recognized by the Scientists and funded in a membership recruitment gesture oh Jesus so that Brothers Al Thompson and Gary Freeport poke and giggle over go fish games and slap their knees at soaring membership increase rates and the cookie downloaded from the PC of Puis XV, pope-designate and anglo-phile, knowing that they've done it, they've done it by Gosh, they've cracked the nut of Catholicism without the services of Brother Terry Campbell, computer hacker victim of pride, and suceeded by word of mouth and quality, distilling capitalism down to competition of products recognized for their merits, means justifies the end IS AYN RAND A CHRISTIAN SCIENTISSSSSST AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!
The Christian Science Monitor is a Good Paper.
Especially on the world wide web.
www.csmonitor.com
Because at the end of everything, they attach web-links for further information NOT PENNED by aNY member of the MONITOR STAFF.
Here is the line of questioning:
1. Do you have to be a no-medicine sick-because-of-evil "Scientist" to be a writer, contributor, editor?
2. If not, are there separate meetings (prayer or otherwise, business bound to be discussed, is it okay to pray for financial future of the paper, are ideas delivered through prayer considered first) for "Scientists"?
3. What is the frequency of journalists, curious individuals, converting in order to get the credit on their resume of writing for the Monitor?
4. Do they (Scientist Managers) curb this falsehood/sin by a salary decrease once one has converted, claiming that the "Lord shall be your food"?
4.a. Is this written in the Bylaws of the Paper?
5. If the "Scientists" are so well informed, how do they harness this information?
6. Are their services inherently more connected and removed from pop-fluff than those of the quasi-secular Protestant religions providing quick emotional spirituality?
7. HOW DOES IT WORK THAT IT IS A GOOD PAPER AND THEY ARE CHRISTIAN SCIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEENTIIIIIIIITS?!!?!?!?!!!
8. Oh Jesus, is it the Devil's work that makes me doubt them?
9. Am I really a Christian Scientist?
10. Is this paper just a seductress for the masses tired of advertising and slanted information, a void that must be filled, recognized by the Scientists and funded in a membership recruitment gesture oh Jesus so that Brothers Al Thompson and Gary Freeport poke and giggle over go fish games and slap their knees at soaring membership increase rates and the cookie downloaded from the PC of Puis XV, pope-designate and anglo-phile, knowing that they've done it, they've done it by Gosh, they've cracked the nut of Catholicism without the services of Brother Terry Campbell, computer hacker victim of pride, and suceeded by word of mouth and quality, distilling capitalism down to competition of products recognized for their merits, means justifies the end IS AYN RAND A CHRISTIAN SCIENTISSSSSST AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!
This is a news flash.
Turns out Farrah Fawcett is boring, anal, and really overly concerned with exposure to sun AND correct use of bathing caps. She is also impatient, vain and quite possibly sole my bikini bottoms and an iridescent one-piece bathing suit forcing on me the crap orange one that quite possibly is cotton. When I asked her about it she said something I can't remember, only a whine and a vague reference to how my wanting to swim in MY indoor pool for like a SECOND is detaining and actively deterorating her meeting with her PARENTS (who live below and if she were visiting Chicago and was so into seeing them WHY did she stay with me, that "independance" reason is transparent and I think really one that her parents wish for her and an illusion she would like to give thEM because she is almost completely incapable of that desire for herself which is, let's be honest, sad).
This was revealed to me in a dream.
Talk to me about God.
Turns out Farrah Fawcett is boring, anal, and really overly concerned with exposure to sun AND correct use of bathing caps. She is also impatient, vain and quite possibly sole my bikini bottoms and an iridescent one-piece bathing suit forcing on me the crap orange one that quite possibly is cotton. When I asked her about it she said something I can't remember, only a whine and a vague reference to how my wanting to swim in MY indoor pool for like a SECOND is detaining and actively deterorating her meeting with her PARENTS (who live below and if she were visiting Chicago and was so into seeing them WHY did she stay with me, that "independance" reason is transparent and I think really one that her parents wish for her and an illusion she would like to give thEM because she is almost completely incapable of that desire for herself which is, let's be honest, sad).
This was revealed to me in a dream.
Talk to me about God.
Wednesday, March 21, 2001
No way, no way, you got me there, huh?! HA hahah ahaha hdhla;ksdhahaha, that's great, I'm not kidding.
Oh boy. Lemmie calm down.
Heh.
Yeah.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA
God I really don't know what my problem is.
Oh boy. Lemmie calm down.
Heh.
Yeah.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA
God I really don't know what my problem is.
Ha ha ha, those were really good posts Sam, Keyvon. Really great.
So I think there should be a scene, as per discussed mit S. Hallgre, that is only cliches that people should be required to perform and take as seriously as possible.
I can't think of anything right now that is concrete, but the line "Wait. Don't Go." must be included.
Kevin, I'm sorry, this is a very intelligent exercise and one with which one could wow the ukelele-yalie(s) and get me in with a scholarship and complemetary foreign vehicle.
So I think there should be a scene, as per discussed mit S. Hallgre, that is only cliches that people should be required to perform and take as seriously as possible.
I can't think of anything right now that is concrete, but the line "Wait. Don't Go." must be included.
Kevin, I'm sorry, this is a very intelligent exercise and one with which one could wow the ukelele-yalie(s) and get me in with a scholarship and complemetary foreign vehicle.
Tuesday, March 20, 2001
Post One.
Listen you people I happen to be very amused by things you people say to/about people.
I want to read revelations of Clanthee.
See if you can figure out how to work this magical internetical tool.
Then we can have very high brow cybermeetings and excuse ourselves from repetative tasks because our lucrative writing careers are being fostered, I'm sorry, you'll have to file that yourself hello I'm obviously typing.
Yes people?
Listen you people I happen to be very amused by things you people say to/about people.
I want to read revelations of Clanthee.
See if you can figure out how to work this magical internetical tool.
Then we can have very high brow cybermeetings and excuse ourselves from repetative tasks because our lucrative writing careers are being fostered, I'm sorry, you'll have to file that yourself hello I'm obviously typing.
Yes people?
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