forward to me. Paychecks are issued every two weeks. You’re eligible through us for a full health insurance package at forty dollars per month. Any questions?”
“No.”
“Good luck to you, Max. And welcome aboard.”
20.
And then it really was true—the honeymoon was over. That Monday morning Livy and I were to go our separate ways for the first time. Some major turn on the highway had been negotiated—where it would take us was anybody’s guess.
I shaved, using a red, ball-like gadget that heated the cream as it spurted out of the Barbasol can. It was a sort of bon voyage gift from Livy, who looked like a fashion model in a new ensemble she’d snuck out and bought when I wasn’t looking. As usual, it was dark and form hugging, and a flaming orange-and-black scarf that was knotted at her neck set off the whole shebang. I hadn’t noticed those high suede pumps on her feet before, either.
Dressed to fucking kill, I thought as I watched her primp and preen in the bedroom mirror. The sight was enough to stir my prick to attention. I pushed it into her ass.
“Let’s do it,” I proposed, “as a sort of farewell bang.”
“You’ll mess my makeup,” she whined, disengaging herself. “Maybe when we get home. And if you don’t get a move on, you’ll be late.”
Which, of course, was the point. Let the bastards wait.
But off we went nevertheless, she in her taxi dancer’s outfit,
me in my only blazer, tie, and worsted wool trousers, an outfit befitting a young man going places….
I jumped into my rusted-out beast and drove. The signs for exclusive country clubs and gated communities I passed along the highway made me feel like a chimpanzee being rocketed to a distant planet. The folks living in these Somerset Hills were the genteel set, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and her ilk. They played polo and hunted foxes—where the hell did I fit in down here?
Headquarters for the communications monolith was a gargantuan pagoda-like concrete-and-glass complex that had killed off hundreds of acres of virgin forest in one of the Northeast’s most expensive counties. A little sick at heart, I followed Tarlecky’s instructions and turned into a gaping maw that led into the underground parking facility, in the process dodging a gaggle of carefree Canadian geese that I suddenly envied. The elevator was packed tight with grim-faced, cologne-scented men and perfumed women in Brooks Brothers suits. By the time I reached the main concourse, I knew I’d made a fucking terrible mistake. My palms were clammy from sheer claustrophobia. A rivulet of sweat rolled out from under my armpit and made its way toward my elbow. I was a prisoner on his way to the gallows. The thought of a drink crossed my mind.
I don’t know why I didn’t turn back. For one thing, I needed the jack. I felt a little guilty, for another—I’d been given a long free ride by Livy. But even that didn’t explain my passivity at the open elevator door.
What did, at the bottom of it all, was the uneasy sensation that I had no choice in the matter, that I was being nudged from behind by some supernatural imperative, some invisible finger of fate, and no matter what I did or didn’t do at that moment, I was condemned to lose my illusion of will —that I was punier thanthe puniest rat flea that subsisted off the scum of the earth, and that the course of things was being decided by some entity much greater than my frail self….
So like Bukowski entering the U.S. Postal Service or Melville at the customhouse or Kafka and his nameless insurance company, I reported like an automaton to the front desk, to be inducted into the ranks of corporate America.
All around the vast hall the products and accoutrements of the coming new age were on display—videophones … computer terminals … fantastic futuristic telephone receivers of all shapes and sizes. The walls were covered with stunning murals, oil paintings, watercolors, etchings, and drawings. Looking
“No.”
“Good luck to you, Max. And welcome aboard.”
20.
And then it really was true—the honeymoon was over. That Monday morning Livy and I were to go our separate ways for the first time. Some major turn on the highway had been negotiated—where it would take us was anybody’s guess.
I shaved, using a red, ball-like gadget that heated the cream as it spurted out of the Barbasol can. It was a sort of bon voyage gift from Livy, who looked like a fashion model in a new ensemble she’d snuck out and bought when I wasn’t looking. As usual, it was dark and form hugging, and a flaming orange-and-black scarf that was knotted at her neck set off the whole shebang. I hadn’t noticed those high suede pumps on her feet before, either.
Dressed to fucking kill, I thought as I watched her primp and preen in the bedroom mirror. The sight was enough to stir my prick to attention. I pushed it into her ass.
“Let’s do it,” I proposed, “as a sort of farewell bang.”
“You’ll mess my makeup,” she whined, disengaging herself. “Maybe when we get home. And if you don’t get a move on, you’ll be late.”
Which, of course, was the point. Let the bastards wait.
But off we went nevertheless, she in her taxi dancer’s outfit,
me in my only blazer, tie, and worsted wool trousers, an outfit befitting a young man going places….
I jumped into my rusted-out beast and drove. The signs for exclusive country clubs and gated communities I passed along the highway made me feel like a chimpanzee being rocketed to a distant planet. The folks living in these Somerset Hills were the genteel set, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and her ilk. They played polo and hunted foxes—where the hell did I fit in down here?
Headquarters for the communications monolith was a gargantuan pagoda-like concrete-and-glass complex that had killed off hundreds of acres of virgin forest in one of the Northeast’s most expensive counties. A little sick at heart, I followed Tarlecky’s instructions and turned into a gaping maw that led into the underground parking facility, in the process dodging a gaggle of carefree Canadian geese that I suddenly envied. The elevator was packed tight with grim-faced, cologne-scented men and perfumed women in Brooks Brothers suits. By the time I reached the main concourse, I knew I’d made a fucking terrible mistake. My palms were clammy from sheer claustrophobia. A rivulet of sweat rolled out from under my armpit and made its way toward my elbow. I was a prisoner on his way to the gallows. The thought of a drink crossed my mind.
I don’t know why I didn’t turn back. For one thing, I needed the jack. I felt a little guilty, for another—I’d been given a long free ride by Livy. But even that didn’t explain my passivity at the open elevator door.
What did, at the bottom of it all, was the uneasy sensation that I had no choice in the matter, that I was being nudged from behind by some supernatural imperative, some invisible finger of fate, and no matter what I did or didn’t do at that moment, I was condemned to lose my illusion of will —that I was punier thanthe puniest rat flea that subsisted off the scum of the earth, and that the course of things was being decided by some entity much greater than my frail self….
So like Bukowski entering the U.S. Postal Service or Melville at the customhouse or Kafka and his nameless insurance company, I reported like an automaton to the front desk, to be inducted into the ranks of corporate America.
All around the vast hall the products and accoutrements of the coming new age were on display—videophones … computer terminals … fantastic futuristic telephone receivers of all shapes and sizes. The walls were covered with stunning murals, oil paintings, watercolors, etchings, and drawings. Looking
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