vr
a novel
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
July 1997
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 7 Jul 1997
Subject: Drug Free Workplace
"So how did you hear about the Four Seasons?" "[I'm a fucking waiter, you
black bitch.] You've got quite a reputation." No wonder Human Resources has
the same letters as Human Refuse. I lost count, but I filled out almost a
dozen applications today, which is harder when one doesn't remember his phone
number or zip code. The only interview I got was with this British fag boy,
who told me: "We've got a minimum wage in Washington State." These cunts are
going to pay me $5.15 an hour (in September up from $4.90) to wait tables
and make tips. I am going to kick ass. Actually I've been kicking ass. Not
only did I not wreck the car, but we found a badass flat, more beautiful and
roomier than I had remembered, the cheapest one in the block. There are fucking
Cadillacs and convertible sportscars parked in the lot. These assholes pay
twelve hundred a month for the corner apartments. What kind of wanker would
spend that much money on rent? We're living in Spivak heaven. The sisters
own the streets. All the women have tatoos and tongue rings. I walked past
half a dozen male prostitute bars trying to find a place to drink. I wound
up in this sports bar. I had a pint. I drank it. I ordered another. The gay
boy bartender didn't give me back a quarter change. No problem. I went to
piss. S/he had taken away my beer. I was rude: "Is there something I don't
understand? The first beer was $2.75. The second was $3.00 and I didn't even
get to finish it." S/he was ruder: "I don't fuck up. There was half a glass
of beer left. I'll give you half a glass of beer." I quafed it and walked
out. As you can see, I am a professional. I've got my sorry ass all the way
across the country. Shit, we've even cleaned up on furniture. Nichelle's family
has garages and basements full of shit that we were urged to help ourselves
to. We eat off of white China made in Britain. We've got a set of knives
which cut. We have a pasta machine and a beautiful set of cast iron pots.
negatron is just jealous. He won't say anything about my now-defunct tetrachrome
whiskers because he was a twelve-year-old geek with a black moustache who
couldn't get a date for the prom. Matilda loves this place, huge windows with
a view of the Space Phallus. I'll probably have to take a drug test to get
a fucking job. I don't even know how they do that, not that I think it's
legal. Do the fucking AIDS-mongers stick me with a needle? Perhaps I'll just
bring a jar full of cat piss to the interview. Some of them even forbid alcohol
abuse. What the fuck is wrong with these people? This is a restaurant. At
least half of the professionals abuse drugs, alcohol and/or tobacco. As I
once said to Jim, the bartender, when he asked me which insurance program
I had chosen: "I just look at alcohol and psychiatric treatment. This is the
hospitality business."
From: Nichelle
Date: 7 Jul 1997
Subject: bring your own funnel
Hmm... I've never really had too much trouble peeing into those cups. And
apparently Gabe had some gf who could pee into a Ricard bottle.
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 7 July 1997
Subject: What the fuck is this shit?
@person negatron
------------------------------- negatron (male) -------------------------------
post-hardcore pre-apocalyptic science fiction drone-loving renaissance man
-- Politically Correct Featureful Player Class Created (with 8 other verbs)
--
Carrying: negatron's Gigantic Mutant Chicken(#41601)
Aliases for #100324: negatron, -tron, nega, neg, jellyfishbaby, not_too_amused_with_humans,
nortagen, post_hoc_ergo_propter_hoc
------------------------- Programmer (27 months old) --------------------------
In "victim's shelter" (#89263) with victim.
-------- Last connected: Mon Jul 7 21:10:06 1997 for 1:39 (2:48 ago) ---------
@person victim
------------------------------- victim (female) -------------------------------
narcotomized..
-- Politically Correct Featureful Player Class Created (with 3 other verbs)
--
Aliases for #92517: victim, >, {
------------------------- Programmer (31 months old) --------------------------
In "victim's shelter" (#89263) with no one.
----- Last connected: Tue Jul 1 22:30:23 1997 for 9:08 (5:22:45:09 ago)
------
From: Columbine
Date: 8 July 1997
Subject: Re: Drug Free Workplace
> I'll probably have
> to take a drug test to get a fucking job. I don't even know how they
do
> that, not that I think it's legal. Do the fucking AIDS-mongers stick
me
> with a needle? Perhaps I'll just bring a jar full of cat piss to the
> interview. Some of them even forbid alcohol abuse. What the fuck is
> wrong with these people?
You'll find that the area you're living in now has a very different public
vs. private attitude on substance abuse. I look forward to reading your rants
on hypocrisy in the future.
In a drug test, you urinate in a cup. (That is, YOU urinate in a cup. We
womenfolk attempt to urinate in a cup and end up being fairly unsanitary about
it.) No needles. They give you an elaborate receipt for your pee and that's
that. Two weeks later you get your test results in the mail.
-c
From: Columbine
Date: 8 July 1997
Subject: Re: bring your own funnel
Could just be me, then.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 8 July 1997
Subject: Sazerac
"We're going to do something a little different for a hotel in Seattle.
The men will be allowed to wear earings, kind of young and trendy." "Will
I have to get my nose pierced?" "No. We'll give you fake body jewelry." I
think I've got a job, room service, at the opening-August-first Hotel Monaco.
The lady seemed to think I had the stuff of management. They must have hired
some real toads. Moving up in the restaurant business means going from making
two thousand or twenty-five hundred a month as a waiter to making fifteen
as a supervisor. I don't mean to sound unambitious, but no thanks. Now all
I have to do is find some silly stop-gap job for the next three weeks. I've
just put together the ugliest cheapass desk I've ever owned. Well, not quite,
but close. I still haven't seen anything that looks like a neighborhood tavern.
I'm in no hurry to go back to that sports bar. Luckily we missed the Gay Pride
Parade on Capitol Hill. The was a letter in the Capitol Hill Times berating
the orgasmizers for excluding NAMBLA, the North American Man/Boy Love Association.
I must agree with the aggrieved reader about this scandalous sell-out to
Nazi-ass straight PC values. What's the world coming to? No tolerance for
child molesters? We opened up a bank account this morning and got slapped
with a three dollar fee before we had even finished. This little chink cunt
asked us to verify the spelling on her 'puter screen: "I suck at typing."
Is this normal? I have noticed that people here are a little more laid back.
On the East Coast nobody wants to say anything weird lest he get shot. A couple
of times strangers have said things to me that brought out that big-city urge
to scream: "Don't fuck with me," at the top of my lungs. I think the upstairs
neighbors are fucking again. Nichelle was speculating that it's two sisters.
I think so too. It's hard to tell because their TV is on.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 17 July 1997
Subject: Stairmaster
My head is ablur, a blur, abuzz, ablaze. I've just got home from my first
day at the Sorrento Hotel. I'm training for room service. I'll be working
Sunday through Thursday 5:30 AM to 1:30 PM. Farewell sleep. The room service
area is half the size of the hallway in our flat, about four feet wide by
six feet long. Two people work the morning shift. The second guy comes in
at seven. This morning was "steady", about twenty orders, which I thought
was pretty damned good for a hotel with only seventy-six rooms. The average
order is ten to fifteen dollars. There is a $1.50 room service charge, which
we don't get, and a fifteen percent tip, which we do, plus whatever the guest
adds. It looks like a hundred dollars a day split between two people, plus
five bucks an hour or so. I don't think we have to clock out for lunch. After
lunch we stock the (dis)honor bars. We get a slightly higher wage for this
and three percent of sales. I would guess the whole thing works out to five
hundred dollars a week, which is about as much as a serial drop-out like myself
can ever hope for. The only catch (aside from our cramped quarters) is that
there is only one elevator, which is for guests only. We basically have to
carry our trays up and down the stairs, but I guess the waiters walk to the
second floor and then take the elevator to the fifth, sixth and seventh floors.
There is also a dumb-waiter, well two, if you count me. I have also been
offered the job at Sauzerac in the new Hotel Monaco. I must admit I'm tempted
by that too, although I am happy with the job I've got. The Sorrento is a
high-class hotel, while the other will be a shitty three-star corporate chain.
Nichelle also thinks there'll be no business at the beginning. I don't know
about that. What do I care about working in one of the twenty-five best hotels
in Amerika (whatever that means)? I just want to pay my bills. My little
family is looking more and more middle class, white porcelaine on a white
tablecloth. I guess I'll have to buy blue linen napkins. The paper ones look
really dumb amongst all that finery. Blue seems to be the theme of our kitchen.
The bathroom colors are forest green and black. Just in case you're planning
on coming to visit and want to buy a toothbrush to match our team colors.
I'm sorry I haven't been writing. Things have been so weird the past seven
weeks, cleaning and packing and moving and cleaning and unpacking. Plus the
twin burden of poverty and unemployment. Nichelle and particularly Matilda
have been angels, and I'm, well, the Beast from the East. I'll just have
to get back in the habit. No thanks to my so-called MOOfriends (You didn't
think I had any of those, negatron, did you?) I've found the bar where the
hard core hangs out. I knew there had to be one. Fuck these clubs and cafes
where everyone has a nose ring and a different shade of hair. Every neighborhood
must have a place where men can go to drink and get away from their wives
and children and girlfriends and bosses. I went there for happy hour yesterday.
I guess it must be some kind of Seattle tradition, for, sure enough, the
first whisky cost me $3.50 and the second only $3.25. I ordered a third just
to see if the barmaid would charge me something else. It was also $3.25.
I've been trying out Firefly, columbine, since I saw the cover story in the
New York Times Sunday Magazine. I tried to send you a couple of messages.
I can't quite firgure it out. The little passport thing annoys me, like those
pop-up browsers on many porno sites. It keeps fucking up Netscape, either
freezing the screen or giving me one of those dumb-ass "illegal operations"
error messages.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Columbine
Date: 17 July 1997
Subject: Re: Stairmaster
> I've been trying out Firefly, columbine, since I saw the
>cover story in the New York Times Sunday Magazine. I tried to send you
a
>couple of messages. I can't quite firgure it out. The little passport
thing
>annoys me, like those pop-up browsers on many porno sites. It keeps
fucking
>up Netscape, either freezing the screen or giving me one of those dumb-ass
>"illegal operations" error messages.
I don't use the passport; as you've noticed, it crashes things. I bookmark
directly to the Venues Chat page, the only place I go on there these days.
If you skip the title page, the passport doesn't appear.
I've been looking through lists of porn sites a lot lately, in conjunction
with a side project I'm one of the editors for (http://www.mouthorgan.com/).
I found one list site which, along with the usual ratings (how many photos
on the site, are they free - why do people
like the pictures so? I still think the best porn is verbal), duly noted
whether the sites had "consoles" or not - which is their name for those pop-up
things you're talking about. They are, apparently, considered a Bad Sign and
an annoyance. Can't say I disagree. -c
From: SAGReiss
Date: 18 July 1997
Subject: Bluenose
At a quarter to six the dumb bitch Gilles had scheduled still hadn't showed
up. The MOD is asking me questions. I have no idea what the fuck he's talking
about. There is a pile of pre-orders. I have made coffee because that is the
only thing I know how to do. He says he's going to call... and rattles off
a list of names in which I recognize only Gilles', the F&B's and the
GM's. "Oh fuck. This isn't happening." I sort the orders by time and being
setting up the trays. I ask Fi, the crazy chinese cook, for things. While
I'm doing this a nasty menopausal waitress comes in and starts yelling at
me about my shirt. They had only given me one, so I washed it in the sink
and let it drip dry. She told me to take it off. It was wrinkled. "You fucking
crazy whore. I'm here alone on my second day, and you're criticizing my shirt?"
I took it off. She gave me someone else's shirt, an extra large. "Gee, I sure
look professional now." The drunken sot strolls in twenty-five minutes late
and starts babbling at me. I don't understand a word she's saying. "I'm sorry.
This is only my second day, and I'm not sure what you're talking about." She
sends me upstairs and begins sending up the orders on the dumb waiter. One
of them has no room number. I call to ask the number. "I'm sorry. It's two
oh two." "Two oh two?" "Two oh two." I knock on the door. There's no answer.
I knock again. There's a full house. I'm beginning to get nervous. I go back
to the dumb waiter and call down again. "Oh I'm sorry, that's two one two."
"You're fucking sorry? I almost woke some asshole up, and you're sorry?"
I deliver some more orders. The dumb waiter comes up with a creamer. I call.
"I forgot the cream in 503." "You fucking forgot?" I deliver an order to
a room, and ten minutes later the same order comes up again. I still look
calm, but by now my chest is throbbing. I'm wondering about my mental health.
I call. Gilles has arrived and answers the phone. "What the fuck is going
on down there? I just delivered that shit to 309. Did they call back and order
another one?" "Quoi? C'est deja fait?" "Mais oui." I get to one room, and
the guy starts screaming at me: "Take it back." "Sir, you ordered room service?"
He launches another round of abuse and slams the door in my face. I call.
"He said: 'Take it back.' I guess it wasn't fast enough." It was like that
for three straight hours, a fucking nightmare. When I get back downstairs
the girl is asking to be cut. Gilles sends her home. "Elle etait un peu nulle
ce matin." Apparently when he arrived she said: "That poor kid. This is only
his second day?" He suggested that she go upstairs to help me. She had a
blister. A fucking blister? The personnel director is certain I'm an illegal
alien because my passport is expired. "No problem, I'll give you my driver's
license." It expires on my birthday, eight days from now. "Gabriel [She's
looking at me very funny, looking at all those silly names.] were you born
in this country?" "Look, I got thrown the fuck out of France. Why the fuck
do you think I'm here? Why don't you harass Gilles, or the Puerto Rican dishwashers,
or the Chinese cook?" "Well, I'm going to need a valid passport, or a new
driver's license and a birth certificate or a social security card." Then
the GM walks in, dressed in jeans. My fucking shirt was wrinkled, but he's
wearing jeans? He tells me that Gilles is leaving to attend the police academy
in two weeks and asks if I'd be interested in replacing him as room service
manager. "Look, can I just fucking quit right now?" I really don't want that
fucking job. So they give me two bucks an hour more, and I have no peace,
ever. I just hope I do something so horrendously stupid that they'll take
my name off the short list. We had one lunch order, a huge fifty-dollar spread.
I've already delivered twice to the room, and they haven't tipped, not that
I'm making tips yet... The lady gives me two fives: "You've had a long day."
I give it to Gilles. At the end of the day he gives me six back. I don't
care. I stop at the grocer's and buy a twelve pack of Karling Kanada, the
cheapest beer they've got. It has indeed been a long day. Among the other
silly wastes of time and energy I have often thought about how to explain
to people who do not know Latin, German or some other heavily inflected language
how to use, but not to abuse, the English word "whom". I have come up with
no satisfactory answer. It just comes down to knowing the difference between
the subject and various kinds of object. There is a rather embarrassing example
of what we can call whom-abuse on your site, columbine. I can't find it right
now because I haven't got the patience and it won't print and I hate to read
on-screen and I'm too fucking tired. In the sentence: "Give earsex to whoever
wants it," the relative pronoun "who" is the subject of the verb "wants".
The whole verb phrase is the object of the preposition "to". In this sentence
"whomever" would be a really ugly case of overcorrection, or misguided pedantry.
In the famous Village Voice article entitled "A Rape in Cyberspace" legba
is quoted (from memory in my case) as saying: "Dr Bufu raped Starshit and
I [sic]." This is just wrong. Badly wrong. I don't care if her mother or
Kindergarten teacher slapped her every time she said: "Me and Starshit got
down and dirty." The subject is "Dr Bufu", so it should read "He raped Starshit
and me." I doubt this is the kind of constructive criticism you wished to
inspire, but I seldom comment on what I read, and then only on matters of
form. I hope you won't think I'm flaming you, for I'm not. I'm happy when
anyone tries to do anything even vaguely serious online. Far be it from me
to discourage you. I think that texts written in standard, academic English
should be written in proper English. I do not hold that up as an example.
Our web site contains very little standard, academic English, but I can write
it, if I am so inclined, which I seldom am. If you don't care, fine. I just
thought you might like to know. Please don't take it amiss.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 18 July 1997
Subject: how is my grammar (1-800-GRA-MMAR)
I was going to complain about my shitty job, but Gabe has already won the
Top Worst 25 Jobs in America contest. Let me see if I understand- you're training,
getting slammed with no help on your second day, getting screwed out of your
tips anyway, and they're asking you if you want to be fucking manager? I
must admit, I noticed how shitty your shirt looked when I got home last night
and just about cracked my head open on the tile because of the puddle it
left on the bathroom floor. Shit, maybe the Monaco will work out better for
you. There was a nice ad about it in the paper, and it's next door to The
Four Seasons (I think). You can have my fucking job anytime. I'm too old
and too smart to be working there, and if we didn't need the money, I'd be
out the door right fucking now. One of the managers (there are five employees,
three of whom are managers) didn't like the way I mopped the floor, and made
me do it again. "It was a little hard to get it clean with your four hundred
Chinese cousins doing their laundry in the sink." I took my time, bending
over to see that I got every little speck. She began to get impatient, so
I got out a brush to scrub the extremely dirty spots. I didn't care. I had
thirty minutes to wait for the bus, so I might as well get paid for my time.
Fucking cunt. "It doesn't look very clean to me. Do it again." "Honey, I
got all the time in the fucking world to mop your goddamned floor."
I can't think of anything nasty to say about columbine's site, even though
I'm extremely bitchy right now, which is kind of a compliment, if you want
to take it that way. There were only two things that bothered me about it.
One was the constant use of the word "we". We think this, we read that, etc.
The other was the statement about concealing the gender of the editors. Why
make a point of Concealing the gender rather than simply not mentioning the
gender of the editors. Whatever. I read everything I could find on the page,
and it's interesting.
Sorry, Gabriel.. I have to work on your birthday. I have Sun-Wed off. I
guess I'm the closing person now, so I'd better learn to mop properly. Well,
at least I got a check for 62 bucks today, which I'll put in the bank tomorrow
if it's open. My feet hurt. I can't concentrate. I hope tomorrow is better
for you. Good night.
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 19 July 1997
Subject: Badlove
Nichelle and I haven't spoken in three days. We leave notes, write e-mail.
Btw, sweetheart, I washed those white towels yesterday. I must do the dark
today because I'm working Sunday, Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday at
5:30 AM. I've got our work whites soaking in bleach in the sink. I called
the Monaco. I can sign up on Monday afternoon, though of course I haven't
got the proper documentation. The information is sitting in our mailbox, but
you, as Postmistress General, have got the key. I think I can wait for tomorrow
to read the biography of the Sauzerac executive chef and look at the sample
menus. I've got a week to make a decision. Can you please use our maxed-out
Visa card to buy an iron tomorrow? I'm fucking tired of people telling me
my shirts are wrinkled. I'm also officially nominating you as Haberdasher
General, since I have no fucking idea how to use an iron. August is going
to be a rough month. I don't think we'll be able to pay our bills without
your mother's help. I'll earn between $250 and three hundred dollars at the
Sorrento, but I won't be paid until the seventh. I'll probably just continue
eating scraps, since I can't bring myself to cook for myself. I'll probably
waste a good part of my day off Tuesday trying to get my papers straight.
I guess we just won't be seeing much of each other for the next six weeks.
I'm sorry. I wish I knew what I was doing, could make some money, so you
could relax and play your horn. I am inclined to think that the Monaco is
a better long-term deal than the Sorrento, but I'd like to see the ad you
mentioned, look at the info package I've got and talk it over with you. I
don't really give a fuck about screwing the Sorrento. They choose to hire
people on an "at-will" or "right-to-work" basis, meaning they can fire my
ass whenever the fuck they want for no good reason. Am I s'posed to respond
with corporate loyalty? Fuck giving them notice, the bastards. I took up an
order this morning, got a buck in cash, and the dude I was working with said:
"Fuck it. Keep it." I took up another one and got a five dollar bill. He
kept it. I still don't know what a "bluenose" is...
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 19 July 1997
Subject: life at the space phallus
I wish I had known you'd be working tomorrow. I got offered another girl's
shift of about nine hours... I will sit down and figure out what kind of financial
hole we're in and ask both of my folks for some help. Mom has already offered,
as you know. I can go to Sears tomorrow to get an iron, so we can use the
not-quite-maxed-out Sears card, rather than the maxed-out Visa. I'm really
racking up the titles: postmistress general, minister of finance, and now
haberdasher general... I really think it's time for you to give me a raise.
(I tried to give you a raise last night, but you rolled over and started
snoring.) You don't have to worry about cooking for yourself until Thursday
unless I get called in, which is a possibility. I guess I even got more tips
than you did today. Apparently, when we're working the register we get all
the nickels and dimes that people throw in the penny jar. The first few days,
I ignored them, but I've decided that I can stand to be a little more petty.
Bus change, you know. Maybe we'll get to talk tomorrow. I miss you.
crockena@maple.lemoyne.edu
From: SAGReiss
Date: 20 July 1997
Subject: New Zealand or bust
"The lady in 204 is a real bonde," said I after delivering an order. "I
was standing there talking to her husband about his tax exemption, and she
bursts out of the bathroom, stark naked, and almost runs me over." "What
did you say?" "Nothing. What did you want me to say: 'Nice bush Mrs. Ames'?"
It was that kind of day, fairly busy, but I'm still training, so there were
three of us to do two men's work. This other guy calls and says: "My wife
and I have just got back from the hospital. We look pretty bad, so could
you just leave the tray outside the door?" (That means no tip, not that I'm
getting any, but it's the principle.) "I'll just bring the tray in, Sir,
and you can sign the check. It's not a problem." This is my job, asshole.
Like I give a fuck if your liver is in a plastic bag on a shoulder strap.
He opens the door, and his whole head is bandaged up, eyes and nose swollen
and bloodied. "I'll just set this down here," and I hand him the check. He
says: "We're going to New Zealand." "That's wonderful, Sir." "We've had plastic
surgery. We're going incognito." "That's nice, Sir." "We mustn't be recognized
by anyone." He hands me the check. "Thank you, Sir." I haven't got my morning
timing down yet. I was twenty-five minutes early today. (negatron says: "how
the fuck can you be twenty-five minutes early to a five thirty job") (I'll
ignore that meaningless little interruption.) I walked four blocks to the
site of the Monaco, a brand-new, ten-story building with about two hundred
rooms. I think I'll do better there. I just can't see myself working for a
year or two in an area the size of our bedroom closet. This place will be
beautiful and spacious, with all new equipment and a service elevator. I
think I'll make money and I'll most likely be the best man on the crew. I'm
getting pretty good at room service. If I do it every day, I'll be a crac,
as we say in French. I think I'll tell Gilles on Thursday. If he still wants
me to work Friday and perhaps Sunday, that's fine. If not, fuck you and give
me my money. The Sheraton is also hiring in room service. If something fucks
up, I can always get another job. No one likes working at five or six in
the morning, so my expertise and experience should be in demand.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Columbine
Date: 21 July 1997
Subject: Re: how is my grammar (1-800-GRA-MMAR)
We've had a long weekend waiting for thrice-damned rained-out planes and
loading furniture and driving large trucks cross-country, so I'm too tired
to say much, but Nichelle, I'll take it as a compliment that you didn't dislike
anything too obvious about the site.
The use of "we" is a little stilted, I agree, but it's genuine ... some
of the columns are being written by two or three people jointly. The first
online chat column was written by two people, and the rest are hard to trace,
they came out of several brainstorming/bullshitting sessions.
We're not trying to be coy about the editors; that was just the easiest
way to say it. The people working on this vary from two to five. The "core"
bunch is two women and one man. The rest are occasionals. -c
From: Columbine
Date: 21 July 1997
Subject: Re: Bluenose
I don't take the who vs whom comments amiss. I never did master it. We already
decided to not go back and change articles once they were posted, so we'll
try to be on the ball in the future.
We altered the definition of "bluenose" slightly to serve our propaganda
purposes. Clicking on it gives you our definition, and the one a lot of people
use (someone who inflicts their prudery on others). The actual definition
in my dictionary is "someone who advocates a rigorous moral code." We didn't
like that. I mean, *I* advocate a rigorous moral code. So do you, probably.
But nowhere is it said that our moral codes have to have anything at all in
common, and you and I both do some things that a real bluenose probably wouldn't
like. -c
From: SAGReiss
Date: 22 July 1997
Subject: Le Chef vous propose:
Ses filets de saumon au beurre d'aneth
Son riz pilaf au safran
Ses courgettes et tomates
Sa tarte aux pecans
Nichelle and I are harsh critics of our culinary work. Artists and athletes
tend to be brutally self-critical because for so many years of lonely practice
and perfection no one but themselves can give them feedback. The faculty becomes
in-grown. Also supper is the main focus of our lives together, the common
project in which we invest our mental and physical energy and our main source
of sensual pleasure, since we don't like sex anymore. Writing and playing
the clarinet are solitary tasks. We share the results, but not the process.
Nichelle thought the pie was overcooked, which I think is slightly irrelevant.
The crust (pate sucree) and the filling (pecans, sugar and eggs) weren't
burnt but browned. It could have come out of the oven five minutes earlier,
but there was no harm done. I thought the salmon lacked luster. I wanted
the skin to sear to the flesh and have the little criss-cross pattern that
one sees in restaurants. Perhaps I should have oiled the fish instead of
the skillet or maybe even floured it. I was disappointed with the dill butter.
The garlic, as I had feared, overpowered the more subtle taste. Next time,
I'll use just dill and butter or possibly lemon juice too. The (arborio) rice
was outstanding, perfect texture, beautiful saffron color, delicate flavor,
a triumph. The vegetables were a little bland and overcooked because I misjudged
the cooking time of one-inch salmon filets. Now that I think of it, the dill
(garlic) butter would have livened up the zucchini, but I was more concentrated
on the fish and rice. I am going to take the job at Sazerac/Hotel Monaco.
It's a risk, but one of the reasons we came here was so that I could find
a better job, not financially better, but atmospherically better. It would
be cruel and stupid to play it safe now, after we've gone through so much.
The biggest gambles have paid off, so why begin being petty? (Is that a beautiful
phrase, or what? Look at that, my friends, and wonder why I call myself an
artist: "begin being". I did that thoughtlessly, just the easy result of
fifteen or twenty years of slaving away over a keyboard.) Even if the money
is no good at first. My feeling about the Sazerac/Monaco is: "This is rock
and roll, brothers. Let's kick ass. I'm just glad to be here."
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 22 July 1997
Subject: Re: Le Chef vous propose:
I don't know what he means by "we"...
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 23 July 1997
Subject: "Waiter, there's a goldfish in my glass!"
In this morning's paper there's a picture of the Monaco's general manager
taking a picture of Louis III, a goldfish, in the tackiest-decorated room
I have ever seen. It looked like something designed by Walt Disney on LSD.
Vertical red-and-yellow stripes adorned the walls. The bedspread was a tasteless
splash of psychedelic colors. This place is going to look gaudy, garish, gruesome,
grotesque and every other adjective in the English language beginning with
the letter g-. Still, I think it's better than working in a closet. To return
to the subject at hand. The hotel delivers (which I guess means that room
service delivers) a complimentary goldfish to guests upon request. The rationale
seems to be that travelers can't take their pets with them and might get
lonely if they can't find a whore. Only thing is, I want five bucks for every
motherfucking goldfish I deliver. I don't care if it's a service charge or
a tip. At the Sheraton we got twelve percent of the retail value of every
amenity (complimentary item) we brought up to the rooms. At the Sorrento
we get a dollar. When one brings up a free bottle of champagne to newlyweds,
that's working for nothing. I'm not sure how to calculate the rent of a goldfish
per night, but they'd best pay us. Otherwise I'll be job hunting again. I
was s'posed to have Saturday, my birthday, off, not that I asked for it,
but that's what the schedule said. I had planned to go to the bar Friday
and see Henry Weinhard's Beer Babes. I can hardly do that, since I'll now
be working the next morning at half past five. Of course it may not turn
out that way, since I intend to tell Gilles tomorrow that I've decided to
take another job. I'll work Saturday and Sunday, if they want, but I'd just
as soon not. Saturdays are dead and the extra hundred or two won't really
change anything. My mother has asked me what I'd like for my birthday. Would
it be rude to FedEx her a deposit slip? Anyway, so there be no confusion
(That's a weird subjunctive. I'm not sure why I wrote that.) all I ask of
you, my friends, is a MOOmail on RL MOO. I'll be getting some tips, so Nichelle
and I will go to M. Velly's on Thursday, Friday or Saturday night, depending
on what the Man decides about my immediate future once I tell him that I'm
quitting.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 24 July 1997
Subject: A resignation in three dialogues
Gilles was making next week's schedule. "Before you do that, perhaps I should
tell you that I've accepted another job offer. I begin Monday morning." "Where?"
"You're not even a cop yet and already you're curious. It's none of your fucking
business." I was trembling a little inside. I'm not very good at this quitting
thing. This is only the third time I've done it. The first time I wrote a
letter of resignation under intense pressure from the French government.
I wept as I wrote: "Cher Daniel, Etant donne les circumstances, j'ai le regret..."
The second time was easy. The only thing that worried me was the third week's
holiday pay. This time I felt like I was jumping off a ship. I already regret
it, but if I hadn't done it I'd have regretted not doing it and not knowing
what might have been. That would have been worse. At least now I'll know
what I gave up, and what I gave it up for, even if it turns out badly.
I came back from the office of human relations, having turned in my combination
lock, which I was never able to open, and my employee handbook, joking: "I
wouldn't like you to think I was stealing any company secrets." Gilles said:
"The F&B was just here. He asked me if I thought you'd be a good candidate
for the room service manager's job. I said: 'I don't think so. He's just gone
to Carol's office to quit.' He asked where you were going. I said: 'I don't
know.'" "You see? I've just saved your cop soul from doing one of two evils.
Either you would have committed a breach of trust, or you would have lied.
I knew they were going to offer me that job. For what, two bucks an hour
more?" "How did you know?" "I understand these cheap assholes."
I went to accounting to pick up my tips, thirty dollars from Monday and
thirty-five from yesterday. I returned to say good-bye to Gilles. I like
him for the same reasons I like any man. He's big, he's strong, he works
hard, and he speaks three languages. He also shares most of my foibles and
prejudices. He has a foul mouth, hates cheap, stupid and demanding guests,
nurtures a working-class rage against the Man, and holds neo-Neanderthal
views of women. What a shame he's going to be a pig. I shook his hand and
said: "Merci, Gilles. J'espere ne jamais..." He interrupted and finished
my sentence: "te revoir." "Adieu."
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 25 July 1997
Subject: M. Velly's
Nothing like a blood feud with the phone company to get the circulation
going. I've been arguing with these cocksuckers for three weeks about having
two phone lines, for which they are happily billing me despite the fact that
I can only use one, which is the cause of endless marital strife, as I'm sure
you all can imagine. My keen restaurant-professional senses immediately told
me I was calling the right place. I phoned M. Velly's at four in the afternoon
and this drunken idiot with an outrageous Mezzogiorno accent told me that
they don't accept reservations. "Will there be room for a party of two at
around nine o'clock?" "We have full bar. You have a drink if there's no table."
I thought I'd back up my argument: "It's a little birthday celebration." "We
have a drink together." "This sounds like my kind of man. I wonder if he's
the owner." When we arrived the place was still hopping. There were people
eating and drinking in the bar. Tables were still being turned over after
we had been seated. Wine was served at every table. I said to Nichelle: "This
is a two-hundred-dollar night for the waiter." He had the fifteen-odd tables
all to himself (with a bussgirl). He was discrete, quick and ruthlessly efficient.
I had been pouring beer down my throat all afternoon while writing you that
lovely little e-mail entitled "A resignation in three dialogues". I'd also
been MOOing. I think I've gotten myself into trouble on Dr Steve's MOO. As
negatron once put it, I must be troubling the social order. I knew something
was wrong when I greeted Nosredna a few days ago: "What's up, sis?" "I am
not your sister and object to the familiarity." I thought about her grievance
and answered carefully: "What's up, O Goddess of MOO and all things Cyber?"
Do you think that was rude? Anyway she said: "oh fuck off," and disconnected.
I'm now under house arrest. I can log on, but I can't teleport to the public
discussion rooms. Apparently my presence was found "inhibiting" to the "womb-like
atmosphere". It must be my testosterone breath. I was hoping to get settled
before I e-mailed Dr Steve. I'm not sure that will ever happen, given my weird
career moves and flexible schedule. Fuck it. I'll just go see him in his
office. (Monday and Wednesday from 2:30 to 3:30, n'est-ce pas?) I was going
to invite him to our happy home, but I'm too ashamed of the green placemats
Nichelle's mother sent for my birthday. They fuck up the whole color scheme.
(The sisters would say: "That's so queer of you.") Besides Nichelle was openly
hostile to the idea: "He'd best park that anal probe outside." I don't want
a scene. Anyway as things calmed down at M. Velly's the wino I'd had on the
phone, chef if not owner, sat down with some of his guests, drinking and entertaining.
This place is like the Farfalla West, except not quite so crazy. Nothing
could be as crazy as that place, which is simply the best place on Earth
that I've ever been (and I worked there, illegally and for no pay, except
food and drink, for two years) from the second day I arrived, still drunk
from the night before, and stuck post office letters to the door window reading
"Zum Pfiefele" meaning @blowjob in Alsatian. I introduced myself to the chef
of M. Velly's. He said: "The food is nothing. [Actually it was excellent.]
We get drunk together." I should work in that fucking place. I had a lot
of intelligent things to say, but I'm out of cigarettes and have to go collect
yesterday's tips in order to buy some... (PS. I wasn't s'posed to mention
this, but don't you think Nichelle should have entitled that letter: "Under
the Space Phallus"?)
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 26 July 1997
Subject: life at the influence (or "Drink Me")
SAGReiss says, "Gee I think Nichelle has a problem with her e-mail titles.."
Sorry, sweetheart. I didn't even get to see you on your birthday. I dug
out a little of what remained after all the checks cleared in Syracuse, leaving
a little for fees, and made a trip to the liquor store. For those of you who
either don't live with us, or can't see our "Dining Room" from here, I bought
a bottle of J&B Select (mellowed in old oak sherry casks), Martini &
Rossi red, and a little bottle of single malt (yet aged in two casks) whisky...
The guy at the liquor store was cool and said he'd order a case of Ricard
if we promise to buy it, and I took down his number. I'm beat. I'm going
to cruise for more gay porn on the internet (the only straight men on the
internet are those muscle guys whose weenies look small because they're so
bulked up). Shit, I should go ask the boys upstairs what their favorite sites
are. Guess what I woke up to this morning...
unhhh....
ahh... unhhh.... oooohhhhhh....
yeah.... oh yeah.... Ohhhh yah
OH yeah... RIP IT UP BABY!
YEAH!
YEAH!
Arrrrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhoooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hhhh....................
unh...
(It almost sounded like they were watching football.)
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 27 July 1997
Subject: Bluestocking
Thank you all for your kind birthday greetings on RL MOO, all of you except
the one, who shall remain anonymous, who didn't find the time. I heard the
same cries, but in my slumber I thought it was Nichelle dreaming about my
forgotten male prowess:
unhhh....
ahh... unhhh.... oooohhhhhh....
yeah.... oh yeah.... Ohhhh yah
OH yeah... RIP IT UP BABY!
YEAH!
YEAH!
Arrrrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhoooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hhhh....................
unh...
Well, that's one less job that I've got. Yesterday Ted, the pastry chef
who is very tall and thin and has big ears, told me he had given notice too.
He said he was starting a new job Monday, thought the kitchen isn't quite
finished yet. I guess I'll be seeing Ted at the Sazerac/Monaco. That's nice
in a way. I like Ted. He's not one of these schoolboy chefs. He apprenticed
at the Warwick under an aged German tutor. It also means two things. On the
one hand the Sorrento is having problems, the GM has been there for six months,
the F&B, who is leaving on 8 August, a year, the exectutive chef less
than a year, the pastry chef, who has just quit, less than a year, the room
service manager has quit, the front desk manager and housekeeping manager
are new. That sounds like a lot of turnover for such an old and staid institution.
On the other hand the Sazerac/Monaco is hiring away professionals. We should
have a good team. My bathroom reading of the moment gave me the title of this
letter, which it defines as "female intellectual".
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Columbine
Date: 27 July 1997
Subject: Re: Bluestocking
>My bathroom reading of the moment
>gave me the title of this letter, which it defines as "female intellectual".
I think I'm being fired upon here. Don't blame me for the lack of greetings,
Gabriel, I permanently trained myself to not connect to RL MOO after seven
straight attempts where no living soul was in the place, and Limbo had a fine
coating of cobwebs and dust upon the floor.
Also I can't connect to it from work (which is where I do most of my netstuff
these days, since I'm disgusted with my job and don't want to work on my current
project), due to the firewall.
Pity it doesn't see more traffic; this comes at a time when I'm starved
for intelligent chatrooms and am signing into a variety of online places
which I would never have contemplated sullying my fingers with before. I
even found intelligent life in Yahoo chat, and that takes work.
I mentally wished you a happy birthday anyway. -c
From: SAGReiss
Date: 27 July 1997
Subject: Can't you take a joke?
@next
You have no next message.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(from inside the pavilion) heyoka waves. happy birthday. belated, i know.
page heyoka Thanks.
heyoka heard that.
(from inside the pavilion) heyoka ooohs. i'm the recipient of the snide
comment about no birthday greeting huh?
page heyoka I'm sorry if it seemed snide. No offense intended.
heyoka heard that.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You sense that negatron is looking for you in victim's shelter.
He pages, "my apologies."
page negatron Don't mention it. Been working too hard?
Your message has been sent.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
columbine has arrived.
SAGReiss [to columbine]: What's up, sis?
columbine says, "Just having a look"
columbine says, "It's a rare day when someone is actually here."
SAGReiss [to columbine]: Um, I've got a confession to make.
columbine says, "Shoot"
SAGReiss [to columbine]: Hold on.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Columbine
Date: 27 July 1997
Subject: Re: Can't you take a joke?
I've been had!
Ah, well ....
From: SAGReiss
Date: 28 July 1997
Subject: FPPIC
Selections from Chef Jan's breakfast menu:
Old Fashioned Waffle $9.00
Buttermilk Brown Butter Pancakes with Stone Fruit Compote $9.00
Banana Stuffed Brioche French Toast with Molasses and Rye Whiskey Chantilly
$10.00
House Smoked Trout with a Grilled Bagel and Vine Ripe Tomatoes $10.00
Poached Eggs with Sweet Corn Hominy Cake and Sazerac Ham $10.00
Sorghum Biscuit with Andouille Sausage and a Fried Egg with Sauce Piquant[e]
$11.00
Garlic Lemon Spinach Omelette with Gaperon Cheese $11.00
Corned Beef Hash with Poached Eggs $13.00
I slammed my left index finger in the door last night, requiring immediate
whisky and iodine therapy, so I'm not typing as well or as comfortably as
usual. Chef Jan is about my size, but three-hundred pounds heavier. He's obviously
the corporate chef, only around for photo ops and to take his cut. Of course
if one eats andouille, favorite repast of the Marquise de Sade, for breakfast
weight gain might be a problem. I think this will be a good place to work.
There's some corporate bullshit involved, despite the youth and Spivak-friendly
nature of this San Francisco-based outfit. Our corporate values are (and
yes, there will be a quiz on this tomorrow): Focus, Passion, Personality,
Individuality and Creativity. These words are helpfully defined by repeating
them several times and observing how Chef Jan embodies each one. Luckily
room service and breakfast servers will miss out on most of the skill-training,
since we actually have to be shown how to do our job before Saturday morning,
when we'll be thrown to the wolves a week before everyone else. Typically
room service is the poor man's shift, not that one can't make money, but
somehow it's not a high-status position. They have hired some real toads.
There were seven or eight of us on the list, but only one or two of the others
seem to have any idea what they're doing. The group as a whole is a mixed
bag of black and white, Latino and Oriental, gay and straight, hard-nosed
pros and useless interlopers. I don't really care if anyone else knows what
he's doing. Tomorrow I get a look at the 'puters, a program called Squirrel...
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 29 July 1997
Subject: Keep clam
I have seen the room service area and it could be worse. It's small, but
right near the God-given service elevator. There is also a door to the outside,
so we can get some light, maybe even go out for a discrete smoke. We've also
lucked out on uniforms, none of this cobalt blue shirts from the Gap. We wear
black and white. (I'm going to push for tuxedo shirts.) They are going to
provide white jackets and black bow ties. They asked my size: "Well, the last
time I bought a jacket, back in '84 or '85, I wore a 36. Just give me the
smallest size you can find." If anything I've gotten smaller with age. It
might just be my imagination, but I think my shoulders have narrowed and my
arms grown longer. I never had any chest muscles. The 'puters weren't up,
so we still have no idea what we're doing. There was some hare-brained idea
of pooling tips from day and night, but the servers quickly vetoed that plan.
They have no idea what they're doing, so we'll be able to make some decisions.
So instead of training we tasted wine for four hours this afternoon. I'm
glad I had lunch at Ivar's, red clam chouder, which was lousy, and fish and
chips, which were average. What is clear is that we are going to be slaughtered
on Saturday morning. Full house. Good luck. I really don't know what they
intend to do with six or eight room servers. There are twenty-one shifts per
week, work for four men. I guess attrition will take care of it. I really
want to see a schedule and a room service menu.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 31 July 1997
Subject: Form IS content
I liked your story, Columbine, so much so that I'll take a few risks in
sharing a thought or two about it, not the least of which is that I've identified
you as the author, though nothing tells me as much. At least one piece of
external evidence would suggest that. I would consider the narrator, eighteen
when she looses her virginity, a "late bloomer" sexually. I believe you used
those words in an e-mail talking about yourself. Whatever, I'm not afraid
of being wrong. I understand your decision not to alter texts after they have
been posted. This is a wise move. Here then are the excerpts I wish to comment
on:
"Every so often he leaves off stroking my mons to run a finger down my leg,
to the garter and the band of my stocking. He plays with the garter, putting
his finger under it, and inches his finger down into the stocking. By dessert
I will not quite be frenzied, but very very expectant.
"Then we will go to a park we know which is generally so empty at that hour
that not even the rapists pass through. I will sit on a park bench, the concrete
cold under my ass.I will spread my legs apart, and he will sit beside me and
lift my skirt, push it up into my lap, exposing me to the passers-by whom
[sic] we know will not come, but whom [sic] it delights us to imagine will."
The first "whom" is the subject of the verb "come" and not the object of
the verb "know". You do not know the passers-by. You know that they (and not
"them") will not come. The last clause dies in incoherence. Even if it were
correct, it would be unreadable: "but who it delights us to imagine will."
In English the subject and verb are conjoined, usually SV. With the subject
("who[m]") way on the left and the verb ("will [come]") elliptical and way
on the right, this sentence severely taxes the reader's memory and attention
span, especially with the accumulation of verbs at the end, characteristic
of German but unheard of in English. The sentence reads as follows structurally:
"It delights us to imagine [that] they will [come]." BTW we fully intend to
add that link to Mouth Organ, but our web site is going down in a few days,
not to be reborn until we have a second phone line and a new ISP. More interesting
perhaps is my understanding of what happens after desert. The first use of
the future tense seems natural and stylistic. The temporal adverb "by desert"
makes it fit in very nicely as a prolepsis. The description in the present
sets up a conclusion in the future. The next paragraph, however, represents
a brutal stylistic shift, for the narration changes to the future tense.
The effect on the reader is indisputable. We move from the real and present
tale of events, with an elegant little transition at desert, to a fantasy,
an imagined sequel to the action. Obviously I have no idea who wrote the
text, what elements are based on experience and what others are imagined.
This is irrelevant. In five hundred years no one will know what is autobiographical
and what isn't. Indeed often Nichelle cannot tell what part of my e-mail is
made up and what part is fact and literal quotation. It doesn't make any difference
to me. What interests me, and what might interest you, is that the switch
from present narration to future makes all that follows seem like a dream
grafted on to a true story. It is as clear from the grammar as it is from
the black-and-white and color sequences in The Wizard of OZ.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
June 1997
August 1997
vr: 1997
