vr

a novel

Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss

November 1998

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

From: SAGReiss
Date: 5 November 1998
Subject: $70

Last night I must have spent twelve hours in bed, dozing, staring at the ceiling, reading the newspaper without understanding. Yesterday I felt weak and hurt. I recognize the signs of deep election-year depression, hypersensitive eyes and paranoia. There were signs of hope. The new dinner table, which I had thought was a coffee table, turned out to be a mildly short dinner table. Nichelle gave me a hundred bucks as I turn from an object of admiration and desire into an object of pity. Shame is nothing new to me. I'm on a beer cure, no white wine or hard liquor. Ricard and whisky heighten the sensibilities of the central nervous system, whereas I need to dumb it down, numb it, which is exactly what beer does. At least I'll drink beer until I get some money, which might mean as soon as payday, which is tomorrow. Today I found just rewards in unexpected places. I didn't feel strong enough to carry a hundred dollars in my pocket, so I went to put it in the tube of Balvenie single malt we used as a bank in the days when I made tips. Opening it revealed a long-forgotten fifty-dollar bill, put there I know not when nor by whom. As I finished clearing up my lunch party, a four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar dinner for twenty, the host, account number two, which means that he is the second-oldest living past president of the club, put four five-dollar bills in the checkbook saying: "This is highly illegal, but I won't say anything to the managers." "I didn't see anything, sir. Thank you."

RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss

October 1998

December 1998

vr: 1998