The Correspondence

From: Peter SmithsonTo: Nathan HimesSubject: Happy Monday!Dear Nate-the-Great,Not that I need to remind you buddy, but this is going to be a most busy week. An initial report for the Chester account is due Wednesday and I’m going to need you to redraft your charts. Basically, a pie chart with only two sections looks a tad dull. So, what I’d like is for you to redo them as bar graphs. Thanks buddy.Speaking of bars, hope you didn’t get too drunk this weekend, lol. We don’t need another situation like last Monday, with you all hungover and slurping down a whole pot of coffee. That coffee’s for the whole office, buddy. Lol. Any-who, good luck with those graphs.Sincerely,PeteFrom: Nathan HimesTo: Peter SmithsonSubject: Crappy MondayDear Peter,I’m a full grown man. Call me Nathan. Call me Nate. But kill this Nate-the-Great shit. You sound like my grandfather.The Chester account is not my department. While you may be my superior, any graphs constructed were done only as a personal favor, not a professional duty. I gave you pie charts because I figured a fellow as portly as yourself would have an easier time relating to something that looked edible. My mistake. I’ve got my own work to do here. Any changes you need, make them yourself.Finally, as you know corporate can read all company e-mails. Therefore, I’d prefer you didn’t speculate when it comes to my weekend activities. I’m sure the higher ups might frown upon my off-hours drinking, just as they might frown upon the bottle of cheap whiskey in the bottom drawer of your desk. Oops, I forgot they can read our e-mails. Sorry. Lol.Very Truly Yours,NathanFrom: Peter SmithsonTo: Nathan HimesSubject: Sincere ApologiesDear Nate,I’m so, so sorry you took offense to the nickname. I assure you, it was meant only as a show of affection. However, since we're on the subject, I’d appreciate if you referred to me as Mr. Smithson, or simply Boss in all future communications.While the Chester account is not technically your responsibility, as your supervisor I have full authority to delegate tasks. So if I tell you I want a bar graph, give me a goddamn bar graph.To conclude this correspondence, whatever’s stored in my desk is entirely my business. Just as whatever’s stored in your desk, such as a huge pile of condoms, is entirely your business. And whatever happens to those condoms, such as their tendency to disappear each time your secretary frequents your office, well that’s your business too. Certainly not any of my business. And certainly not any of the higher ups’ business. And certainly, certainly not any of your wife’s business.With respect and admiration,Boss SmithsonFrom: Nathan HimesTo: Peter SmithsonSubject: Blow MeDear Captain Douche Bag,First, in all future communications, please refer to me as King Himes: Master of Pie Charts. Or better yet, don’t refer to me at all.Next, with respect to the Chester account, you can turn your bar graphs sideways and shove them up your fat ass. Be careful though, I wouldn’t want you to incur any brain damage.And lastly, I’d like to clear things up with regards to the interoffice romance referenced in your previous e-mail. Not that I owe you an explanation. As you may be aware, everything a man does, he does with one goal in mind. That goal, of course, being pussy. Some men prefer sporadic, varied pussy. Other men, frequent and familiar pussy.For example, one man might use his position of authority to diversify his pussy intake. By the same account, another man might embezzle a little cash so his wife doesn’t leave his pathetic, overweight ass. Thus stabilizing his flow of commonplace pussy. That being said, mention the secretary situation to my wife and I’ll choke you to death with your stupid fucking Tweety Bird necktie.Love you lots,Mr. Nathan HimesFrom: Martin ShawTo: Peter SmithsonCc: Nathan HimesSubject: UrgentDear Misters Smithson and Himes,I would very much like to see you both in my office as soon as possible. Feel free to bring your secretaries and/or whiskey bottles with you. While you will soon have little need for the former, the latter may provide some consolation.Many thanks,Martin ShawPresident, Shaw Analysts Group

Inappropriate Proposition

“Can you imagine the first bastard to ever eat an egg?” This is Big Larry talking. Talking with a mouth full of omelette. “All those other cavemen must have looked at him like he’d lost it.” Gil isn’t at all sure what Big Larry’s getting at. “I’m not at all sure what you’re getting at,” he says.“Listen kid, what in the name of fuck would compel a person to eat cooked chicken menstruation?” A string of American cheese stretches from the corner of Big Larry’s mouth to his chin. One hand holding a fork, the other stretched across the pleather booth like he’s cradling an invisible date. The waitress approaches and Big Larry waves her off before she can speak. Doesn’t even look at her, just waves her off. “Because that’s all an egg is, a goddamn chicken period. But some nut decided to eat one, figured it was tasty, now we call them eggs. Much more appetizing.”Across the table Gil nurses a cup of black coffee. Dark, like his prospects. Bitter, like Gil himself. “I guess you got a point.”“Of course I have a point,” Big Larry says. “But I haven’t gotten to it yet. Just listen, pollen is nothing but tree jizz. I’m telling you kid, that’s exactly what it is. But nobody calls it that. Can you imagine people walking around all spring and bitching ‘This damn Elm cum is making me sneeze.’ That would never fly. So we call it pollen. Now, do you get my point?”Gil has no fucking idea what Big Larry is talking about. But he doesn’t say as much. Gil, he just scratches at his two-day stubble and stares Big Larry straight in the eyes. All this, trying his damnedest to come off as thoughtful. “Listen Kid,” Big Larry says. “What I’m trying to get across is, in this life you’ve got two choices. Either you look at things the way you want them to be or you look at things the way they are. Either you choose to be right or you choose to be happy.” * * *The omelette, gone. Gil, on his third cup of coffee. “I got a question,” he says. “You can’t be more than five foot nine, a buck forty. So why’s everyone call you Big Larry?”Big Larry pats his not-so-big belly and says, “Kid, once was a time my reputation preceded me. My reputation, let’s say it entered the room about ten inches before I did. You get my point?”“I get it, yeah,” Gil says. And standing up, he chokes down the last of his stale coffee, grimaces at the taste and says, “Yeah, I get it. But there’s places I gotta be. Get my point?”“Your point is you’re a broke, shit-eating, ingrate,” Big Larry snaps. “So sit down and listen up. Sit down, and thank me for the three cups of joe I bought you. Listen up, and maybe you won’t be so goddamn broke this time tomorrow.”To save a shred of pride, Gil stares right back at Big Larry. He stares for a beat, but there isn’t any doubt who’s in control here. There isn’t any doubt Gil’s going to sit back down. The waitress approaches and this time it’s Gil who waves her off before she can speak. “Okay,” he says. “But I don’t wanna hear no more about any tree busting its load.”“Kid,” Big Larry says. “I can’t spit out a window without hitting someone you owe money to. Of this you’d have to agree.” Gil nods. “What I have for you is a proposition. Do what I ask, you’ll be rewarded. Will it be enough to wipe out your debts? No Gil, no it won’t. Will it be enough to keep your knee out of a cast for the next couple weeks? I would think so.”“Okay,” Gil says. “Let’s hear it.” * * *“Right now Kid, right now relations between Missus Big Larry and myself are a shambles. We kept the flame burning longer than most, but right now, right now the connection just isn’t there. And you know, these days they'll stick a prenup in your Happy Meal. But back when the Missus and I tied the knot, wasn’t the case.”“Jesus, man,” Gil says. And his eyes are so wide an onlooker would swear they’re Q-balls. The waitress approaches and both men wave her off before she can speak. “I don’t know what you heard about me but no, man. No. I won’t kill your wife.”Big Larry’s head flings back so hard it bounces off the pleather cushions and he laughs something awful. Sounds like smokers cough. “Kid, you’re alright,” he manages before another laughing spell. “Listen,” Big Larry says finally. “I can’t remember the last time the Missus and I had relations and I didn’t pretend she was someone else entirely. No different than masturbating really, if you had a right hand always bitching about the toilet seat being up.”And while Gil is relieved that murder was not the deal to be brokered, he’s also a little disappointed. When he figured Big Larry was setting up a hit, it was the only time all evening Gil felt they were on the same page. Everything said before and since may just as well have been Greek. “Here’s the point kid, I can’t divorce my wife on account of having no prenup. I can’t kill her on account of me not being a complete prick. What I’ve got to do is appease the lady. Keep her off my case. Keep her satisfied.” Big Larry winks a big wink. “However, as you might assume, half a lifetime married to a fellow with my reputation, Missus Big Larry has certain standards. But Gil, you have quite a reputation yourself.”“So, you’re asking me to bone your lady?” Gil says, totally tactful. “And you’re gonna give me coin to do it?”“Yeah Kid, that’s the offer,” Big Larry sighs. “Now, you can look at this two ways. Either you can look at this the way you want it to be. And then, you’re doing me a favor. Or you can look at this the way it is. And then, you’re nothing but a whore. Two choices kid, be happy or be right.”For the first time all evening, Gil grins. “I don’t care much about being happy or being right. The way I see it, in this life the only choice I have is to get paid.”“Kid,” says Big Larry. “We can shake on that.”

A Modern Magellan

Get this. There are no more frontiers. Not in terms of real estate. In now times, you can’t just move in and lay claim. Globalization and public relations and the Internet, they make it a bitch to pull off. Look at Iraq. Look how that’s turned out. No, you can’t barge in and grab land anymore. You’re liable to look like a real fuckheadYou say, I’m wrong. You say, ever see Star Trek? You say, space, it’s the final frontier. What I say is this: fuck space. Space is cold and dark. Space, nobody owns it so nobody wants it. It was the final frontier when everybody was trying to get there. It was the end-all be-all of adventure when there was a race on. Now, it’s nothing. Why do you think 1972 was the last moonwalk? Because we got there and nobody else owned it, so there was no point in taking it.But a frontier, it’s a border. Where something ends and another thing begins, another thing entirely. A border. Between comfort and the unknown. A border. Between what’s yours and what’s not. My point being this: frontiers, they don’t necessarily divide land.* * *Get this. New York City was all Lanape Indians when the first Europeans showed up. And after Whitey tired of trading with the Lanape, after all the beavers had been killed for their pelts and there wasn’t anything left to exploit, after all that the Europeans sent the Indians packing. Sent them West. And they turned New York into a crowded heap of concrete. What’s more, they kept the Lanape name “Manhattan.” Maybe because they weren’t creative enough to think of another title. Maybe because they liked to rub it in.They took. Moreover, they took with a certain satisfaction, a certain lack of shame that seemed to say, “Fuck you and everyone you know. And everyone they know too.” My point being this: even in the time of real adventurers, discovery was just another word for theft.* * *Get this. A good while ago, I stole a beer from some guy at a party. What I discovered, it was half drunk. What I discovered, it was still cold, it tasted good. Admittedly, that was both an asshole move and also disgusting. What’s more, the party was a kegger. So not only was stealing the beer fucked up and gnarly, it was completely unnecessary. That’s likely why it tasted so good.What people always say when I tell them about this. What people always say is, I’m a punk, not an adventurer. What I always say when people call me a punk. What I always say is, punks take candy from babies, adventurers take honey from bears. My point being this: adventure is in the risk, be it the risk of a drunken sucker punch or the risk of an expertly chucked tomahawk. * * *Get this. In any large city, see someone walking down the street holding a black plastic bag and inside is either liquor or pornography. Without exception. Find someone carrying a black plastic bag filled with baby formula or bibles and I’ll eat my hat. It never happens. Why I’m telling you this: black plastic bags are like frontiers for the twenty-first century.Steal a man’s $5 gin and he’ll come at you as if it were gold. Steal his copy of Midget Gang Bang 4 ½, it may as well be his first-born. Never will he call to bystanders for help. Never will he involve the police. But he’d sooner lick an electrical socket than let it go. Black plastic bags, pure fucking adventure. It’s not about whether you’ve nabbed yourself a bottle of Blue Label or the June issue of Foot Fancy. It’s about not knowing what you nabbed, not knowing if someone’s right about to nab it back. The first frontier or the last frontier or every frontier besides. An island or a beer or a black plastic bag. Every one an adventure. My point being this: there’s any number of ways to steal the unknown.
Posted by Derek Tench at 8:51 PM 5 comments