The Moon In Its Flight

THE DIGNITY OF LABOR

The White Shirt

Some young man, Bill will do for a name, out of the Army for three months and tinged, if you will, all right, tinged with a gloom well short of despair, got a job. This was Bill’s first job, save for six months spent as a dishwasher and three years as an infantryman, neither of which are now considered actually to be jobs, but are thought of as burdens, or perhaps misfortunes. How wise and wonderful the world has become, filled to bursting with careers!

There he was, in the basement stockroom of Art Adventures, an art-supply store in midtown Manhattan. One of the somewhat shabby and unenthusiastic of Bill’s chores was to fill exceedingly small glass jars with glaringly bright poster paints “in all popular colors,” these paints having been mixed in hundredgallon vats in Art Adventures’ laboratory, you’ll pardon the word, affix identifying labels to these filled jars, and stack them, in neatest rows, on the steel shelves reserved for them and other sundries of the art business.

Bill’s immediate boss was an adenoidal schlepper from Ozone Park whose name was Stewie, a self-proclaimed hipster, drenched in mambo lore, who sang, hummed, and whistled, day in and day out — to employ a poster-paint phrase—“Rock Around the Clock.” Had Stewie’s name not been Stewie, it would have been Carl, Ernie, Cliffie, or Sheldon. Now you know who he is! Of course, Stewie took stern delight in telling Bill and his colleague, a Puerto Rican headbreaker, Felix, what to do and how to do it. Felix had been “given a break” and hired, freshly paroled, God only knows why, out of Coxsackie; he often quietly mused, when he and Bill took a smoke break, on the possibility of accidentally maybe stabbing Stewie to death. So the days of that sunny, crisp fall passed, a ragged dream of honest work’s rewards and the second chance.

One morning, Stewie told Bill and Felix that he wanted the jars of poster paint shelved so that the virtually unnecessary labels — which comically and redundantly described the startling red or sickly green paints within their jars as RED or green — faced forward, so that, Stewie wisely reasoned, you fuckin well know what you’re fuckin pickin when you fill a fuckin order. He was a logical sort, take him all in all. Bill suggested, gently, gently, that this seemed wasteful of time and effort, for a half-blind drunken idiot could tell the difference between colors, and in the dark, for Christ sake. But Stewie, with the sort of ravaged and tottering intelligence that might well have sent him to law school had he not been so ambitious, was not having any of this. Yizzel fuckin do what I say, he noted; or, perhaps, yizzel fuckin do it right; or yizzel fuckin well do it. Bill rejoined, weakly, that, hell, come on, there’s nobody who could mistake RED for YELLOW, etcetera. But this argument cut no ice with Stewie. Felix, attentive to this dialogue, fingered the switch-blade knife in his pocket, his eye on Stewie’s pallid neck, till the latter ended the conversation by arguing that Bill just thought he was a wise guy because he’d been in the fuckin Army. Bill fell silent, searching for the arcane meaning hidden in this observation, but gave up. What the hell. Felix, in a quiet aside, suggested to Bill that they might seriously injure Stewie’s sconce with a carelessly wielded gallon jug of India ink, the faggot punk jive motherfucker.

I have not yet mentioned Mr. Pearl, the stockroom supervisor, shipping (he preferred to call it “traffic”) coordinator, keeper of the inventory, and he who answered to Art Adventures’ purchasing agent. Mr. Pearl had a sad little desk, about as big as a minute, as simple people were wont to say in “a more innocent time” (see: Second World War, the Holocaust, Korean “police action,” etc.). On this lugubrious surface, he marshaled his inventory records, daily-order forms, back-order memoranda, pens, pencils (red, green, blue), erasers, and scarred wooden ruler. And off it he ate his lunch, a homely, unassuming, and pedestrian sandwich, a nice piece of fresh fruit, and a pint of milk, the last wrapped in wax paper in the superstitious belief — daily disproved — that this helped keep the milk cool. He was, one might say, a sap. And from the vantage of this handkerchief-sized desk, he looked kindly upon young Stewie, and why? As if you didn’t know! Because he had once been just like young Stewie. Yea, even unto his sweaty face and dingy cardigan.

Bill, poor Bill, then made the classic yet banal mistake, common enough among all lowly and callow employees, of appealing the irrational decisions of the corporal-mind to a higher, and supposedly saner authority. (May I digress for a moment? Ho! Ho! Ho!) Or, as Felix put it when Bill told him of his intentions, You must have shit for brains, coño. Cruel yet clear-eyed Felix. Mr. Pearl, seated at his toy desk, a partially destroyed baloney-and-American-cheese sandwich before him on a white handkerchief somewhat drearily adorned with a frayed, faded, embroidered “P” in an infirm pale green, his hands, shiny and grimy with charcoal dust from the drawing pencils he had personally unpacked that morning, resting on the Mirror, looked at Bill. Then he spoke:

Stewie is your boss just like I am, your boss, and when Stewie talks I, talk, it’s like I talk you unnastan, but, different but, like a, second boss so do as you’re told and you’ll you’ll, get along cause one hand washes, the other am I correct or, am I correct, you ain’t like the, other gazabo, the Spanish, Spanish boy from the reform, school you don’t want to be like, him, from Harlem, is he, Spanish, you’re not, Spanish are you, no offense, I get along, with all kinds of, all people, ask Stewie, Porto Rickans, the colored, ask Stewie, but you, you want to be, a real man, a mensch like they say in Jewish, like Stewie like, me, a man with a wife some day you can look up at a clean fine, American sort of a young lady, you’re a pretty clean-cut, fellow, clean-cut sort, a veteran if I’m right well, we can’t all be veterans, look at, me, look at, Stewie, I was believe it or, not, I was just, like, Stewie once upon a time, can you, believe it, can you believe it, can you, but that young fellow hasn’t found the girl of his dreams yet, but the girls, upstairs, in the office, they all, all, they like him, don’t, get, me, wrong, I’m not inferring that he don’t like the, girls, no, he just reminds, me, a lot, a lot of myself when I was first starting out on my first job as a messenger, in the garment, yes, the business, remnants, and now as you, see, as you can see, now I wear the white shirt, you see, what, I mean, the, white, shirt, the white shirt, if you wanna wear the white shirt you, gotta, I always say to Stewie, you got, to, and let me say it, to you, you got, to, keep your nose clean and get along, all kinds, I don’t care coloreds, Spanish persons, one hand, washes, you know, the other, Stewie knows this, oh yes, where his bread is buttered what, side it is, the hands washing, uh-huh, he’s got, his, eye on the white shirt, I tell him like a, son, I tell, Stewie you got your eye on, right, the white, right, ha ha, don’t you, and Stewie just, well, smiles, because I know his, plans, his, I was just like Stewie once can, you believe, believe it, can you, now, look at the desk, my personal desk, the pens and pencils, the white, shirt, the white, right, pens, pencils, my phone, look, you should know you, should unnastan, soon when I go, upstairs, upstairs, soon, Stewie will, be, Stewie will have, this, this will be, his desk, with the daily orders the white, yes, the white shirt, yes indeedy, the tie, the white, uh-huh, so keep your nose, clean, don’t be a wise-guy nobody, not nobody, likes a wise-guy vet, we can’t all be, no, or like that spick from the penitentiary, with a chip on, somebody will, oh yes, knock, it, off, we can’t all, for instance, you’re not Spanish, are you, no offense, we couldn’t all, all be, take Stewie who tried to join the Army, we can’t all be, or sit around in the penitentiary, living off, you know, the taxpayers, look at Stewie, who, tried, who tried to join, the Army the, Marines, but his asthma his, flat feet his, punctured ear, adenoids, some family, you know, problems out in Queens, astigmatic, an astigmatic condition, the National Guard, we’re not, all, so lucky, no, can’t all run away from obligations, join, the Army the, you know, jail, no, so you shelve the poster, the paints, like Stewie asks he’s, got, his, methods, they’re good, remember the white shirt if you got, sort of problems, am I right, am I right, am I or am I not, right, you bet your gosh-darn life I’m right, now go, take your lunch take, you got an extra, six, minutes, go ahead and, take my, advice, stay away from that shtarker, thug, that, Felix from up in Harlem, I hate, to, say it but, they’re all animals up, jabbering in Porto Rickan in, God knows what, language, like monkeys with the knives and, the guns, so keep your nose clean if you, want to get, to move up on, you know, the, ladder, like Stewie, he was nobody just, like, you a couple years, ago, a nothing you hear me.

Bill was fired a couple of weeks later for manifesting what the personnel director of Art Adventures termed “a negative attitude.” He disappeared soon after. Mr. Pearl “went upstairs,” to assist the purchasing agent of Art Adventures. Six years later, he died in the men’s room. Stewie took his desk when he left, wore the white shirt, and then he, too, “went upstairs,” leaving his job to one Carl Sheldon. He is still there, dumb as ever. Felix was last known to be working as an orderly at Flower Fifth Avenue Hospital. He is married with four daughters.

Up and Running Smooth as Silk

T. Lawless, Branch Manager: Loquitor

It’s too warm in here. Close the door. It’s too goddamned cold. Open the door. Fix the air conditioner. It’s stuffy as hell. Turn up the heat. Leave the air conditioner alone. Have a cigar. Fix the copying machine. Fix the light. Help the salesmen with anything they want. Let’s see your legs. Put out that cigarette. Let’s have some lunch. Fix the door. Get the orders out toot sweet. Unload that truck. Tell your wife you’ll be late. What’s this. What’s that. Cross your legs. Open the air conditioner. Don’t piss all over the floor. Call the main office right now. Have a smoke. Always bring in the new stock first. Put the stationery over there. Put the machines over here. Put the machines over by the stationery. Put the stationery over by the machines. Put the machines and the stationery where I tell you. Get me a Coke. Who told you to order this many lightbulbs. Put a tie on for Christ sake. Labels OUT, always. Leave that pallet there. Leave that pallet by the elevator. Close the door and lock it. Ship the machines now, now, right now. Go fuck yourself. Don’t do what the salesmen want. Come in this weekend. Where’s the skid. What’s a flat. Turn out the window. Close the bathroom. Wash the windows. Close the heat. Take off that goddamned tie. Take off your dress. Take off your cigar. Green here, red there, red here, green there, blue there, white there, black there, no there, there, THERE. Ship the fucking air conditioner. Put the heat on the shelf next to the stationery. Open your blouse. What do you mean no room. Repair the door. Where is your eraser. Nice cross. Where is your pencil. Where’s my pen. Where are yesterday’s orders. Ship all the inventory. Forget the paperwork. Come in early tomorrow. Ignore the heat. It’s too sunny. Put up the blinds by the cigar. Close the drapes. Bend over. It’s too noisy. It’s too quiet. I’ve got nothing against those people. Get my white shirts out of the Chink laundry. Don’t hang around the salesmen. Don’t hang around the stockroom. Don’t come near my office. Deliver the mail to every single goddamned desk. Pick up all the mail all the time. Who told you to pick up the machines. Shovel the snow off the sidewalk. Stack the doors next to the heat. Move the cigars. Put your bra back on. Don’t think you’ll drink the cocktails. Keep your nose clean. Open the salesmen. Ignore the secretaries. Don’t talk to the ups man. Don’t talk to the mailman. Don’t hang out with those goddamned truckers. Don’t worry about every little thing in the inventory. Why doesn’t my pen work. Send back the heat. What do you mean back ordered. Close your blouse. Close your skirt. Pull up your panties. Let sleeping dogs lie. Fix the office. Fix this. Fix that. Fix the salesmen. Who told you to wear a tie. Scrub the floor. Unclog the sink. Unclog the drain. Unclog the clog. Stock your skirt. Red the cabinet. Open the keys. Buy some pencils and Danish. Make the blue. Make the coffee. You’ll drink water. No sugar on the orders now or ever. Put your slip on the shelf right here, no here, no there, no here, put it back on. Shut your mouth. Get my wife on the phone. Get that mockie bastard Mr. Pearl on the phone. Get the phone fixed. Cross the green out, no, the red out, no, the air conditioner. Put the files in your socks. It’s too damn comfortable in here. No white shirts, no white shirts, goddamnit, no white shirts in the fucking stockroom. Don’t eat lunch in here. Don’t eat lunch in there. Don’t eat lunch over there. Who said you could eat lunch now. No radios in the stockroom. Don’t ever wear that old OD shirt in here again. Who hired that guinea whore. Get Sven Bjornstrom on the phone, the crazy Swede bastard. Touch me there, yes, there, and now here. It’s too warm in here, sultry, close, no, it’s too hot. Fix the vent or whatever you call it. And also the air conditioner goddamn door machine right fucking now immediately. And tell your troubles to Jesus you little faggot prick.

Cocktails

Hello, I’m Sven Bjornstrom. Often, various people have called me a crazy Swedish person, and I admit that I am of pale skin and have somewhat yellowed teeth. I am fairly skilled though unfluent in three languages, including, as you may surmise instantly, in English. I’m not in liberty to divulge at the present the identity, or name, of the other, or third language, for many reasons which will soon be made as clear as the limping waters. Well, and you wonder why it may be that I admit to being called a crazy Swedish person? That is quite easy! I look forward, to filling you in as my story unfolds. You will see that my life has not been wholly lacking in contented moments and my fair share of a bevy of hearty laughter, along with the rather occasional attention of some partially attractive, running all the way down the scale, to varied homely if not worse-looking ladies. Not all of which I actually knew very well.

I have always tried to act honorably and even with a pinch of stern honesty toward my fellow humans, some sort of trait that is to be continuously knocked into the head of Swedish babies, no matter who they may be. Day after day and year after year, honorableness and honest. Those are what you call the Swedish tickets! Many of these traits of habits are based right on the many teachings of Jesus Christ, or as we Swedish people jokingly daub him now and then, “the first Lutheran.” A person or two will sometimes hint that this is very close to blasphemy, and yet Jesus himself often enjoyed a good laugh and a cold glass of beer, yes. The world is filled up with plenty of people who are not actually good sports. Some opine, half as jest, that they should be killed every once in a while, ha ha.

I have sometimes been thought of as a martinet, a word I have looked up, by subordinates, co-workers, and sundry ladies of my past acquaintance. The word has no counter-something in the Swedish language, but insofar as I know, the closest expression to it might be translated as “fucking corporal.” A rude term, I opine, and yet it is in my open nature to speak with rugged vim. The ill will aimed upon me bursts directly out of the fact, like night from day, that I have setted my sights, ever since the proud day that I stepped off the plane from Sweden’s greener pleasant land to this great country of opportunity and money, on success of the sort that will, at long last, allow me to purchase, on credit, the Hickey-Freeman suits, the Bally-Bush shoes, the sportlike coats and tastily faded shirts created by Lauren Polo, not to mention the fine foods and the quaffing of the best French vintages. And, upon nearing the pinnacle, I attained the disputeless symbol of success, the signal of the arrival, whatever that truly means, the white shirt! In this last item, I am as much like a man I happen to know slightly, merely to say hello! and hi! and such greetings when we are strolling the avenues and quiet streets of Jackson Heights, which lies in Queens. This is a man who is a self-made man, a man who started his business career as some sort of a grimy lowlife sweaty type of a kike off the streets. Laboring in warehouses, shipping in shipping rooms, packing and taping in dusty basements surrounded up to the knees in old newspapers and excelsior. However, yes! by dints of cheerful smiles and judicially selected asskissing of those in charge of labor, he rose up slowly to the position of a stern but fair supervisor, as I’ve carefully pointed to, and one who wears the white shirt to business each and every day, also starched! with a knockout of a tie. In short. I have always myself dared to have a dream of being atop the hill of the rat race, where I can relax in a sophisticated manner or mode, donned in ascot and smoking gown and velvet slippers, with a pipe filled with the smoldering aromatic tobacco that women adore, and casually just lean back and kick over and drink tasty cocktails to my heart’s content with the best of them! And smile gently while I gently toy with my cultured fiancée, a university graduate and not necessarily, believe you me, a Swedish girl.

In brief. My résumé is as thus. First, I toiled in a bookstore where I had to contend, as weekend evening acting assistant manager, with loutish clerks who were constantly hanging about in the stockroom reading trashy magazines and the Daily News, and chatting of dirty jokes. As well, they seemed to enjoy eating baloney sandwiches on hard rolls, although I mention these culinarial obsessions only because they ate these foodstuffs in full view of the customers, while paying little heed to sorting and caring for the store’s large stock of bullfight posters, an item that we could not keep upon the shelves and walking out the door, as they say. They mocked and razzed at my sense of orderly behavior and fell into bouts of laughter when I employed a tape measure to make sure about the even, neat quality of the stacks of books stacked upon the tables and quite attractive, too. Each stack was displayed so that browsers could view them with ease, even though they were mostly cheapskates and made few purchases. This devoted attention on my part to swift care was not, I insist, crypto-fascist leanings on my part. I am, you must recall, a Swedish person, as I have suggested. I wore a neatly buttoned cardigan while performing my duties, along with a rather jaunty bow tie, somewhat like a college professor, I believe, and such dress is not the signs and such of tyranny in hiding and mental distress. No! I stoutly protest.

I admit, and have jovially admitted in the recent past in both oral and written chats, that I did, I do attest, at times, indulge in somewhat wild arm-waving, hoarse shouts, Swedish oaths, and ear-splitting, uh, screams, while on duty, along with a vigorous stamping of the floor with my feet and a pounding of the counter with my fist. Nothing of a serious nature, yet I saw the desired cocktail shaker floating away from me on a cloud of detested baloney sandwiches. It was a sour pill to watch the silvery dream break up into many pieces. The store manager, a swarty Italian guinea fellow, suggested to me in a harsh tone that I was alarming the customers and frightening them off, the cheap deadbeats! And also that the riffraff clerks were quitting regularly, since I disturbed their sandwich breaks. But what, I asked myself, does this greasy ball know of my desires for ultimate success? You can be sure that he was drinking the cocktails! “Sir,” I smilingly averred to him one evening, “you are drinking the cocktails, is this not the fact? What about my chance at the life of milk and honey?” He stepped back from me in what he made believe, I am quite certain, was puzzled alarm, and I was swiftly told to gather my cardigans and leave the premises. I was not working out as weekend evening acting assistant manager, so this gangster stated.

Soon hard upon this, my wife packed her bags and left me, tired, or so she claimed, of listening to my dreams. “Make a living!” the harlot attested. But never saying “die!” I soon claimed another forte as a translator for an import-export firm, until the windows of my mind began their slow fogging over with pesky lustful thoughts, brought on by gazing on a woman in my department who took to wearing the donning of skirts that were disturbingly tight as well as much too short for a lady. My fellow workers all smoked as well, a habit more dangerous to the innocent bystander than a month in heavy combat, so researchers have proved. And to their hearts’ content. I am happy to report that with the savings I have saved by not smoking, I have regaled myself with educational treats like various scientific magazines and flashlight batteries. And not just a few! I did not actually know Portuguese, my area of translational responsibility at the firm, and yet I pressed on. My sturdy versions of letters and contracts composed in this barbarous tongue were not exactly as precise as they might have been, and what with my attentive glare upon the body of the immodest lady and the translations, which the departmental chief termed “quite unbelievable,” if I recall aright, I was sent unnobly packing as a result of being canned. I had, I may add, drunk nothing but beer with my paltry lunches, while all about me cocktails were quaffed by people no better than I.

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

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

The Wheels Turn

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

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

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

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

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

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