The Office
I was on the subway at the crack of dawn today en route to The Office. The J train was packed. Two young teenage Jewish guys wearing yarmulkas stood next to two Puerto Ricans, with baggy jeans and basketball shirts. The Puerto Ricans start yelling across the commuters:
"Hey, We love Jews man! Jewish women are fuckin' hot!"
The commuters look around warily, waiting for gang warfare. The Puerto Ricans laugh loudly, punch each other, and start singing -
"J -E - W - S! J - E - W - S!"
The Jewish kids look over. There's a pause. One of them smiles.
"Hey dude, I'll tell you where to get the hottest Jewish women. Club Z man. Club fuckin' Z in the East Village."
Both Puerto Ricans and Jews launch enthusiastically into the relative merits of Jewish pussy, united by that universal, non-sectarian, manly bond - cock. Commuters exhale in relief.
In the office Brenda reveals to me a new gift in the form - of office attire, complete with shoulderpads.
"I thought, like, that you could do with some more suitable clothes. Maybe like, baggy combats aren't like, the best wear for some of our more priority clients? We're like, the same size, right?"
Brenda brandishes a size 16 jacket. I am a size 4.
Swamped in tweed, bolstered by shoulder pads, and inhaling the pungent stench of ozone and menopausal woman, I commence my nine hour sentence. The phone rings.
"Hello, Star Skivvies, How may I help you?"
It is Polly, the Septuagenarian Texan millionairess.
"Who's that? Who is it? Is that Brenda?"
"No it's Mimi. How are you Polly?"
Bill, Polly's dearly beloved, passed away three days ago, presumably after over-exposure to their noo colored nurse Dotzy from St Lucia.
"Ah've lost his teeth. They're gone. That noo nurse stole 'em. Tell her to give 'em back. Ah need Bill's teeth fer the funeral. Ah can't bury him without his teeth..."
She starts to weep hysterically. I switch to speakerphone. Brenda snickers cruelly before turning back to People magazine and a bumper packet of Twinkies, keeping one eye out for any new erotic Instant Messages from Leroy in PR. I transfer Polly to the harassed office assistant, Sally-Jane. Sally-Jane is Brenda's favorite target. She bears the brunt of the brutal and cutting Instant Messages which Brenda has honed to perfection after years of mastering the skilled art of office sadism.
SJ, R U S2pid? Do u want 2 keep this job?
Sally-Jane flutters anxiously.
Have u put on weight?
SJ palpitates visibly, and retires to the photocopier. I have informed Brenda that I have a debilitating and highly unpleasant bowel disorder which necessitates frequent hourly trips to the bathroom, thus ensuring my cigarette breaks go uninterrupted. Noting that I have twelve callers on hold, I decide it is prudent to exercise one of such breaks, and vanish to my usual spot outside the remnants of the WTC, in order to inflict cancer upon myself with a Marlboro.
Returning to The Office, I am greeted by a sheath of letters which have, yet again, failed to live up to the impossibly high standards set by Brenda, and must be retyped, by moi, for the sixth time. I surreptitiously click on Internet whilst Brenda works industriously on her eleventh Twinkie of the day, and start to write an email. Instantly my IM flashes.
R U on the internet?
I close the window and return to correcting letterheads. I check the time. 47 minutes until my debilitating bowel disorder / nicotine addiction necessitates another toilet trip. 7 hours, 43 minutes until freedom. I reach, quietly, for my cellphone for essential text-message relief in the form of contact with a world outside The Office. The IM icon flashes.
R U making personal calls?
The phone rings.
"Hello, Star Skivvies, How may I help you?"
"Hey, We love Jews man! Jewish women are fuckin' hot!"
The commuters look around warily, waiting for gang warfare. The Puerto Ricans laugh loudly, punch each other, and start singing -
"J -E - W - S! J - E - W - S!"
The Jewish kids look over. There's a pause. One of them smiles.
"Hey dude, I'll tell you where to get the hottest Jewish women. Club Z man. Club fuckin' Z in the East Village."
Both Puerto Ricans and Jews launch enthusiastically into the relative merits of Jewish pussy, united by that universal, non-sectarian, manly bond - cock. Commuters exhale in relief.
In the office Brenda reveals to me a new gift in the form - of office attire, complete with shoulderpads.
"I thought, like, that you could do with some more suitable clothes. Maybe like, baggy combats aren't like, the best wear for some of our more priority clients? We're like, the same size, right?"
Brenda brandishes a size 16 jacket. I am a size 4.
Swamped in tweed, bolstered by shoulder pads, and inhaling the pungent stench of ozone and menopausal woman, I commence my nine hour sentence. The phone rings.
"Hello, Star Skivvies, How may I help you?"
It is Polly, the Septuagenarian Texan millionairess.
"Who's that? Who is it? Is that Brenda?"
"No it's Mimi. How are you Polly?"
Bill, Polly's dearly beloved, passed away three days ago, presumably after over-exposure to their noo colored nurse Dotzy from St Lucia.
"Ah've lost his teeth. They're gone. That noo nurse stole 'em. Tell her to give 'em back. Ah need Bill's teeth fer the funeral. Ah can't bury him without his teeth..."
She starts to weep hysterically. I switch to speakerphone. Brenda snickers cruelly before turning back to People magazine and a bumper packet of Twinkies, keeping one eye out for any new erotic Instant Messages from Leroy in PR. I transfer Polly to the harassed office assistant, Sally-Jane. Sally-Jane is Brenda's favorite target. She bears the brunt of the brutal and cutting Instant Messages which Brenda has honed to perfection after years of mastering the skilled art of office sadism.
SJ, R U S2pid? Do u want 2 keep this job?
Sally-Jane flutters anxiously.
Have u put on weight?
SJ palpitates visibly, and retires to the photocopier. I have informed Brenda that I have a debilitating and highly unpleasant bowel disorder which necessitates frequent hourly trips to the bathroom, thus ensuring my cigarette breaks go uninterrupted. Noting that I have twelve callers on hold, I decide it is prudent to exercise one of such breaks, and vanish to my usual spot outside the remnants of the WTC, in order to inflict cancer upon myself with a Marlboro.
Returning to The Office, I am greeted by a sheath of letters which have, yet again, failed to live up to the impossibly high standards set by Brenda, and must be retyped, by moi, for the sixth time. I surreptitiously click on Internet whilst Brenda works industriously on her eleventh Twinkie of the day, and start to write an email. Instantly my IM flashes.
R U on the internet?
I close the window and return to correcting letterheads. I check the time. 47 minutes until my debilitating bowel disorder / nicotine addiction necessitates another toilet trip. 7 hours, 43 minutes until freedom. I reach, quietly, for my cellphone for essential text-message relief in the form of contact with a world outside The Office. The IM icon flashes.
R U making personal calls?
The phone rings.
"Hello, Star Skivvies, How may I help you?"
MIMI IN NY | 7:38 PM |
