Friday, April 11, 2008

Chapter 2 - A Latticework of Bliss and Desire

Waiting in the office lobby for the elevator, I take a bite from the dog. Though I had gotten it only minutes earlier, I had forgotten it was in my hand. I was intenting to toss it away, it was so ugly and unappetizing looking. But without thinking or looking at it I take a bite.

The flavors saturate and delight my mouth as I am swept into the elevator by the mob. My brain is overwhelmed by happiness. Harps and oboes begin to play. The hotdog tastes like Mozart, or maybe Picasso, or, could it be, yes, Uma Thurman, or newly mowed grass. I want to giggle; I want to dance; I want to sing showtunes; I want to throw my money out the window.

Only, I notice that in this elevator there is no window and that my fellow passengers are quite annoyed. And it is with me that they are annoyed! I notice that a rather tall woman is looking daggers at my two-bites eaten dog, and I notice, too, a foul smell -- like garlic and wet wool -- coming from the direction of what's in my hands.

"Aut dawk," I say, my mouth full, my lips wet with the strangely-colored condiments. "Id d'lishes. Wite dasdy." It's delicious; quite tasty, is what I mean to say, but the crowd seem uninterested; only perturbed. When the elevator arrives at my floor, I am hustled out the door. And I don't think I'm imagining it, the doors closed quite briskly and with a slam.

I try to sneak past my cubicle neighbors in the office -- something I am rather accomplished at doing with my experience at late arrivals -- when Jake bounds up from his chair like a Jack-in-the-Box.

"Geeeyaaad! It smells like horse droppings!" he says.

It's not, I tell him. And I tell him of my morning's travails: that I was running late for work, that there was this 'dog vendor, that it's a special da---

"I GET IT. I GET IT." he says.

Poor Jake. He likes to be offended, and he hates others' yammering. But me, I hate his ease at being offended -- especially when he's offended at something I've done -- so I yammer at him to annoy him. Aye! The evil swirl of battle at the base of EVERY human relationship. I would hate this evil swirl of battle if only I wasn't such a DAMN GOOD relationship warrior!

So, Dear Reader: Allow me to yammer at YOU for a while about relationship battles. You are welcome -- nay, ENCOURAGED -- to take notes. Now, I don't have a lot of time for this -- I'm supposed to be working, don't you see. Irv or Mathilda, my decadent bosses, could come onto "the floor" at any time. So I'll just relate to you Part 1. You'll get more later, if you're good, if you don't spill any coffee on this novel or burp in my face, or start running around hopping on one foot screaming about BLOODY ORANGUTANS!

How to Get Along with Others of the Human Species
Part I
by Tofer Grilleto

All people are insane. The indicator of their insanity are their hard spots and soft spots. The deal is this: Stay away from the hard spots, and know how to poke the soft ones.

Winning in a relationship battle involves "taking them down." Success is achieved by poking more of their soft spots than they do yours.

Of course, not having many soft spots is good. But just as good is to cover your soft spots with a thick, hard crust. But, if you cover your soft spots with a thick crust, the spot under the crust gets very soft indeed. And if your opponent [which is every human you come in contact with] is able to poke through to a very very soft spot of yours underneath a hard rock-like shell, then you are horribly defeated. Victory goes to your opponent. And you don't want this to happen, because then you lose, and losing hurts like hell.

It is Mathilda that taps on the back of my shoulder as I am addressing you, dear reader. "Goofing off, again, eh? You wastrel!" she says, rather loudly, making sure that everyone in a wide area can hear. "See me in my office, immediately!"

And so it is that I slump-walk over to the big woman's corner office, my workmates snickering, or peeping over their cubicle walls at me. Woe is me. But it is all just a performance: though not really for them, my disloyal workmates, but for Irv, who in his office has his ear pressed against the door. Irv cannot actually hear me slump-walk, but he can, with his keen senses, make out the mumbly-giddy sounds that are prompted my my woeful disposition and the stern earlier words of Mathilda, my sweet Matty.

"My sweet Matty," did I say? After I enter her office, I enter Matty. But I am getting ahead of myself. Matty shuts her door after I enter her office and does so rather loudly -- and immediately began unbuttoning my shirt. "Hulk," she whispers. "Buttercup," I whisper back as I slip my hands up under her blouse. But now, if you can visualize it, we are in a bit of a pickle -- my arms moving up her blouse; her arms moving down my shirt buttons -- so we must disengage and undress ourselves rather unceremoniously. An then, like hot buttered fish fillets, we leap onto her desk, pushing paperwork and office knickknackery off the plane of our desire.

It is a momentary thought that enters my mind -- a thought no bigger than a mouse: "What a racket you're making; what will the neighbors think?" But this mousy thought leaves me, chased away by the broom of my ardor and the fast cat of my passion. So there, on the silvery metal desktop, in thrusts and heaves and growns and stickiness we animalize our love and carmelize the sweet candy thoughts that had danced in our brains for days. "Hulk," she says. "Buttercup," I reply.

But as I say the word Buttercup, it is not Matty I am thinking of, it is the last bites of the hotdog I left on my desk. And the drink -- yes, the drink! -- whatever happened to it?

-- you have reached the end of chapter 2 -- all that is written thus far.

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