the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 507, June 17, 2004
Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)
J. Edgar Gets Married updates and information here
Second round of Auditions, June 21
“Ah!
I'm fed up: But, dear Satan, a less fiery eye I beg you! And while awaiting a
few small infamies in arrears, you who love the absence of the instructive or
descriptive faculty in a writer, for you let me tear out these few, hideous
pages from my notebook of one of the damned.”
—Arthur
Rimbaud, A Season in Hell
Hank’s
interview
The
résumé in Hank’s hand fluttered at the corners as he made his way under the
line of buzzing fluorescents toward Room 142. It seemed to be a long way down
the bright corridor, almost to the led to the breezeway to Building 3.
The offices
doors lining the corridor were all open. The men and women behind the desks
centered in the rooms looked up as Hank walked by. Mostly, he smiled when he
caught their eyes. But their faces were blank and stayed, bored, and almost
bothered.
Room
142. What, he thought, could possibly be interesting about the Wells, Johnson,
and Melly Corporation if housed in an office similar to this?
He set
his head down and began to walk, determined not to look into the offices any
more. He thought about taking a day off from the dungeon of the accounting firm
of Groenemeyer and Walsh to take an interview with WJM. It would be nice to get
it over with, if nothing else. After all, the WJM voice had been pleasant
enough, a woman’s, and he had received the call promptly after he sending his
application in response to an ad in the newspaper:
Seeking seasoned professional accountant and business
consultant to fortify and build client accounts of the Wells, Johnson, and
Melly Corporation, financial and trust advisors. Send portfolio, salary
requirements, and contact information to WMJ Corp., Room 142, Bldg, 2, Shamrock
Green, Waldorf, MO 64111. No telephone inquiries.
But
this, if these numbered offices with unnamed, bored people in them was the WMJ
Corp, was worse than the dungeon. At least G&W let him have a CD player.
These people seemed as if they had never heard music.
He
looked up again to see how far he still had to go, and he had only made half
the distance to the breezeway. If he made it there without finding Room 142, he
was done for. The sight of the light of day in this place, he thought, would
convince him to get out and stay out.
He
glanced into the office next to him, where a man spread ketchup on a bun.
Across the hall, a woman in a shortish skirt and white blouse was binding a man
to a chair with duct tape, and the man didn’t seem to mind much. He raised his
eyebrows to Hank. Hank couldn’t see if he was smiling through the duct tape on
his mouth.
Hank
stopped to say something, and the woman stopped running the tape around the man’s
midsection. Both the man and the woman looked at Hank. They seemed to want to
know if Hank needed any help. Hank shook his head, waved his résumé at them, and
continued forward.
In the
next set of offices, a pretty young woman sat on the floor giving a pedicure to
a middle aged woman who was taking dictation in a steno pad, it seemed, from an
intercom. The young woman smiled and tipped up her emery board to Hank as he
walked by.
My, she
has red lips, he thought.
He
slowed his gait enough to glance into the office opposite and spy a man scratching
behind the ears and kissing a cocker spaniel that was sitting in the middle of the
desk. “Good, Colonel,” the man said. “Good, dog.” The next pair of offices held
on one side, a pair of men in ties tossing a basketball, and, on the other, one
man in a vest sitting on the edge of a desk obviously pitching woo to a man
sitting in a guest’s chair in front of him.
He had
slowed to a saunter, taking in the wonders as he passed the offices, drawing
closer to the breezeway. Men and women in various states of undress, tending to
office chores or not. There were dogs and birds, people playing games, and, in
one office, several people in office chairs watching home movies projected
against the wall.
Hank
moved on now, more intrigued about Room 142 and the WJM Corp. By the time he
reached the room, he peered slowly around the corner and found a rather plain
looking man with a bow tie. The office was plain, colorless. Nothing distinguished
it from the ones he had seen earlier on.
“Hank?”
the man said. “Hank Walcott?”
“Yes,
sir,” Hank said, walking into the doorway.
“I’ve looked
over your material. We’ve been waiting for a man like you for a long time.”
“Well,
sir, I’m glad to hear it,” Hank said, approaching the man’s desk. “There’re
only two things I need from you.”
“You
don’t even know what we do here,” the man said, standing.
“I don’t
care, sir.” Hank cleared his throat authoritatively. “Two things only.”
“Name
them.” The man straightened some papers on his blotter.
“Beat
my salary requirements by ten percent and give me a job at this end of the
hall.”
Tomato plants
By Bill Bauer
Through the window I baby-sit
Droopy, Frisky, Mr. Upright
spicy smelling, fuzzy looking in pots,
absorbing mountain sunshine.
I cross my fingers voodoo style,
dance American Indian,
splash them herbal,
wishing them to survive.
Minorities here, not old time crops,
native folk claim they won't thrive.
Flatlander, raised on tomatoes,
I aim to prove them wrong.
Frisky already holds high a handful of yellow blossoms
and I've order a hormone spray to set them.
After sunset I'll bring the fledglings inside,
praying one day they'll deliver.
In mid July when begin to reproduce,
I'll pick something I once had and lost.
My teeth will break the love of their skins.
Sprinkled with salt, I'll taste again juicy joy.
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