vr

a novel

Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss

June 1998

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

From: SAGReiss
Date: 12 June 1998
Subject: Customer Service

You were right, Nichelle, to be suspicious. I received a chickenshit, illustrated Shakes instead of the Original Spelling Edition. Furious, given the understandable no-return policy on used books, I ripped off an outraged, kiss-me-first letter to every address I could find @amazon.com. I almost immediately received an apology, saying they would renew the search and were sending me a return-mail coupon to send the bowdlerized shit back. Sometimes it pays to be right. And angry. Of course they'll probably never find the edition I'm looking for. Oh well.

RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss

From: Nichelle
Date: 12 June 1998
Subject: RE: Customer Service

Ah, who is always right? Hmm? Who might that be? Bongo Fury? Mur?

From: SAGReiss
Date: 15 June 1998
Subject: Your ad in Match

You are the girl I've always dreamed of, fat ass and hairy bush. I'm a stud with a ten-incher.

From: Maren
Date: 15 June 1998
Subject: Boys

Boys

We’re sitting at the kitchen table, looking at picture’s from A’s graduation and discussing the general problem with boys. There aren’t any. I’ve sampled the Washington DC metropolitan area and there aren’t any. A has sampled NJ and there aren’t any. Her friend K has sampled NY and there aren’t any. Florida doesn’t have any … and it goes on. So, we’ve established that the entire East Coast Corridor has no eligible bachelors. It’s maddening and frightening all at the same time. Our mother is mildly concerned, probably more concerned than she let’s on, chances are she’s never going to have grandchildren.

A doesn’t have to worry - she’s 22, beautiful and thin, the kind of girl most guys would die for. I, on the other hand, am looking down the barrel of 28 and fat. As far as men are concerned, there is no middle ground - you are either fat or skinny. There are no gray areas of chubby, average, or a little bit overweight; it’s black or white. Fat or skinny. A’s skinny. I’m fat. Plain and simple. But, bottom line is, neither of us can find a boy who is worthwhile dating.

I answer the phone before I look at the Caller ID. Shit, it’s him. My heart is beating faster. I want to talk to him but I also want to hit him with a blunt object. I’m in love with him, but I also hate him. A casual friendship which has evolved over time into a close friendship with the usual sexual undertones of most close male-female friendships. "You just need to cut him off, " is what everyone has been telling me. But, I can’t. I care about him too much, have invested too much time getting to know him and the loser side of me still hopes that some day he’ll confess his love to me. Fat chance.

Fat chance. That’s exactly what it is. I’m fat and he likes skinny women. He’s told me this. Many times. Each time I am reminded of this fact, a little piece of my heart breaks off and crumbles to the floor. My brain silently screams, "Then why are you here with me now? Why do you call me? Why do you seek me out? Spend time with me? Talk to me on the phone for hours? Why?" For the first year and a half of our friendship I had a boyfriend, a live-in boyfriend, which is why he so easily befriended me. I was safe and untouchable; no chance of rejection. Suddenly I was single and available; chance of rejection.

"You’re answering your phone, " he mutters. He never says, "Hi…", "Hello…" or any proper telephone salutation. He starts out in mid-conversation, catching me off-guard, leaving me flustered and speechless. Every time. But, it’s this idiosyncratic side of him that I love so much. 2 hours later, I’ve pulled every strand of hair out of my hair elastic, paced my apartment 20 times and sweated profusely on my silk shirt. 2 hours which I was supposed to be spending outside, in the sun, swimming laps in the pool. Wasted on the phone, talking about random things, the same things we always talk about. Sexual connotations flying, innuendoes left and right, by the time I finally work up the nerve to "let him go", I am in a state of panic. I hang up the phone and glance at the Caller ID - "3.24pm". It is now 5.24pm. 2 hours. Wasted.

From: SAGReiss
Date: 21 June 1998
Subject: The Sacred Shards

After a seven-hour turnaround, which, given my retiring and waking rituals, means two hours' sleep, I asked the day houseman what was going on: "We lost a thousand-year-old Torah last night." The whole nightmare came back, the fucking Bible. I had repeated, ironically, what the mother of the bride had said to me: "That Bible has been in our family for a thousand years." Apparently, through telling and retelling, my wit had become received truth, with much of the white-trash staff believing that we had misplaced a chapter of the Dead Sea Scrolls. It all began as I was trying to set up a buffet for a wedding party of two hundred. No big deal. We do this every week-end. The Evil Chinaman called me on the walkie-talkie: "I need you go to North lawn pick up wine." I had never even been to the North lawn, where the wedding ceremony was taking place. I asked someone where it was and proceeded North. There I found the sacred relics, a bottle of cheap white wine, a silver chalice, a large oval tray, a tray-jack and a table cloth. On the ground I beheld the Holy Objects, a handkerchief stained with the bride's lipstick, and a linen napkin holding the broken glass. I asked the Rabbi if I should keep that for the couple. He said it was a souvenir of this miraculous day. When I got back to the main dining room the Evil Chinaman wanted to discard the Sacred Shards: "No, Raymond. It's a souvenir." He put it on the cake table, and we both peacefully forgot about it." A few hours later he storms into the kitchen: "Where's my broken glasses?" "I don't know, Raymond. Wherever you put them." He told me to go get Nancy, whose sacred trust was the keeping of the cake table: "Nancy, you wouldn't by chance have thrown away some broken glass, would you?" Appraised of the facts I went back to the dish room and took a champagne flute out of a rack. I dangled it in front of the Evil Chinaman's face a six cubits above the floor. "We can no do that." "Raymond, do you want to go tell her we threw away their sacred memories?" His face went white, which is hard to do when you're yellow-skinned. I placed the flute on the floor and stepped on it. Nichelle has brought up the eschatological problem, currently being studied by Seattle seminary students, whether this means I'm now married to the bride. My punishment was swift and harsh. After the Father's Day fiasco (I had told everyone: "Who gives a fuck about Father's Day? All I've got is my mother's word for it, and I know she's a liar.") I was called upon to help in the snack bar, incongruously dressed in my soiled tux. I had never heard of most of the shit the kids ordered. While I once did work in a fast food restaurant, this was in France. Guys would come in and order twenty Ricard and then ask for a hamburger, which I wouldn't even charge them for since we sold the alcohol under the table because we only had a beer and wine license. Is this the first of ten plagues?

RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss

From: Veroneek
Date: 22 June 1998
Subject: Re: The Sacred Shards

Hi...

I really liked this one........I even considered forwarding it to a few people......But I thought they might be offended by the "evil chinaman" ....

VC
-M

From: SAGReiss
Date: 22 June 1998
Subject: Re: The Sacred Shards

This list has huge files of letters like that. I've just not been writing of late. The idea is that people answer to the whole list. You're welcome to forward as you see fit. When I began there were a hundred letters a month.

RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss

May 1998

July 1998

vr: 1998