Chapter 2
employment lottery
Weighing somewhere in the ballpark of five-hundred to eight-hundred pounds, give or take a dime, Orenthal Wellesley is a whale of a man. Being of a particular rosy-pink pigment, bulbously rotund, and perpetually dripping with oily sweat, he looks like a hunk of corned beef was neglectfully left out on the counter overnight, and through the benevolent grace of some omnipotent creator, endowed with sentience. Not to belabor the point, but if we were to perform a scientific experiment, wherein Orenthal was placed in a moderately furnished, yet tastefully designed living room, holding an atomic clock, and an observer was standing on the other side of the room next to a grandfather clock, based on Orenthal’s gravitational field—as affected by his mass—one second would actually tick by measurably slower from the perspective of the observer. How much slower is dubious among pataphysicists, as this experiment has never been properly conducted. In addition, even his voice sounds morbidly obese, an audible fusion of a bullfrog with throat polyps and an out-of-tune double bass.
Vincent sits across the desk from Mr. Wellesley, the owner and president of Wellesley Staffing Agency.
“You’re late again, Mr. Mudd.” He says, before taking a swig from a bottle of pink bismuth.
“I’m very sorry. I stopped for a cup of coffee and ended up chatting with a couple of ladies. I must’ve lost track of time.” Vincent grovels.
“That’s hardly an excuse.” He says, a guttural belch underscoring his matter-of-factness.
“Nor do I intend it to be, sir. It’s simply the truth.” He acknowledges.
“To be completely honest, you’re already skating on thin ice. Look, I’m not going to mince words, I haven’t been receiving glowing reviews from some of the companies you’ve worked for as of late.” He pauses to inhale an unnaturally long and stentorian breath. The vacuum-like effect turns the office into an instant wind tunnel, pulling all stationary objects forward, including a potted fiddle leaf fig tree by the door, a domed dustbin in the corner, the chair Vincent is sitting in, as well as off-centering the hung frames on the wall. Upon thunderously exhaling, the frames rightfully realign; Vincent, the trashcan and potted tree all return to their previous positions. Without missing a beat, Mr. Wellesley continues, “In fact, one employer told me she thought I had sent her a mannequin because you apparently stood motionless in the front window of the business all day.”
Vincent nods along knowingly. “To which I have a perfectly sound reason for doing so, Mr. Wellesley. I foolishly swapped the job description with another, as I was scheduled to work at Wiley’s Department Store the following day as a still model. At the end of my shift when I realized the mixup, I went directly to the office manager and explained my faux pas. She said she understood.”
“That’s all well and good, Vincent. But even still, these types of mishaps do not reflect well on my agency. Furthermore, this isn’t an isolated incident. Several companies have suggested to me that you haven’t been qualified to perform the duties of these jobs even when you aren’t motionless.”
“If I may, sir, and I don’t intend to misdirect blame, but perhaps if you were to reevaluate the method by which you assign positions, in so much as—and I’m just ruminating here —orienting my specific skill sets to similar, or even comparable job descriptions?”
Mr. Wellesley shakes his head disapprovingly. “Are you suggesting that my patented scratch off lottery ticket system is ineffective?” He motions to the acrylic spindles on his desk stocked with rolls of scratch off tickets. “Where is your sense of accountability, man?”
“Again, it’s not my intention to misdirect blame. It’s just that, well, case in point, last month I was given a three day assignment at Valley North Hospital as a surgeon...”
“Exactly.” Orenthal interrupts. “That’s one of the benefits of the lottery system, a worker such as yourself, who, mind you, has no identifiable skills to speak of, is afforded the opportunity to work at a higher level. And wasn’t that a good paying job?“
“It was, sir, but that’s not exactly my grievance. I don’t have a medical background. I lost two patients.”
“Vincent, your line of reasoning quite simply doesn’t hold water. Even an accomplished surgeon is going to lose a patient from time to time, it’s called ‘occupational hazard’.”
Being nothing if not obsequious, Vincent begins to toady to Mr. Wellesley. “It’s not my place to criticize. Please don’t think me unappreciative. I’m very thankful for the opportunities you’ve given me. I feel like we’ve established a good working relationship, and I for one would never want to say or do anything to diminish that. If my work as of late has come up short or sub par, then I want nothing more than to mend the situation. If that means doubling my efforts, that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
“I appreciate you saying that, Vincent. Your comments show a lot of verve. While you’ve never struck me as an individual who will amount to much in this life, your eagerness, as well your obedience lend itself dutifully to the type of indentured servitude we specifically look to employ at this staffing agency. Having said that, go ahead and rip yourself off a scratch off ticket. No more dilly-dallying, let’s get you back to work.”
Vincent tears a ticket from the dispenser. He scratches off the job assignment with a quarter.
“Well, where did you land now, son?”
“Substitute philosophy teacher at the community college. But I don’t know anything about philosophy.” Vincent confesses.
Mr. Wellesley gives a hardy laugh. “There’s nothing to know. Philosophy is just a lot of hogwash. This assignment will basically be a mini vacation for you.” He then priggishly begins to advise Vincent. “All you need to do is stand up in front of the classroom, give ‘em some pretentious monologuing—the more convoluted and difficult to follow the better—then bring it on home with something, like, ‘we all manifest our own destinies’. They’ll eat it up. These are godless philosophy students, after all. Let’s not kid ourselves, they’re destined to jockey a register at a filling station for the rest of their lives. They’re merely attempting to feel self-important before fate renders them welfare leaches.”
Vincent stands ups. “Thank you, Mr. Wellesley.”
Orenthal snaps his fingers. The office door swings open. Two strongmen wearing zoot suits, black-rimmed sunglasses and sporting slicked-back, Brylcreem pompadours—if it helps, imagine Roy Orbison on steroids—stroll in with purpose. They each grab one of Vincent’s arms, hoist him up and carry him out.
“Bring in the next runt when you’re finished.” Orenthal grumbles.
As Vincent is carried through the crowded lobby passed the receptionist’s desk, he politely says, ‘Have a good day Lucille.”
“You too Vincent.” She replies, not bothering to look up from her steam-powered typewriter.
That’s right, your eyes did not deceive you, I said STEAM-POWERED TYPEWRITER.
(Note to reader: Narrator’s cadence changes. The following is spoken in patter, with a tonal shift not unlike that of a late-night infomercial.)
The future is now, folks. This modern marvel is the definition of, not only productivity, but energy efficiency as well. Designed for both home and office use, the steam-powered typewriter is compact and portable. Say goodbye to your computers and tablets, they’re nothing more than clutter and cruft now. Cordless. Screen-less. Keyless. Wait, what? Did he just say ‘keyless’? I did! But how, you ask? Allow me to explain this cutting edge technology as dreamed up by the enterprising folks at Mapple Acintosh. First, it began with a vision of organic word processing, to write letters and numbers and symbols without the need for electricity. The very idea when proposed was met with contempt and ridicule; in fact, the engineer who first suggested the concept was immediately placed in a straight-jacket and locked away for life inside a sanatarium. But in secret there were those who believed it possible and they continued the ambitious work unabated in the shadows. Of course there were false starts and setbacks, animal and human casualties, industrial waste and class-action lawsuits, but anything worth doing is worth doing right. The first prototype required a water reservoir for the steam engine, but it was decided early on that it simply added too much weight to the apparatus, so it was deemed unviable. But as in all things, with a little ingenuity and luck, a workaround was soon implemented. The second prototype was housed in a metal cuboid, though it too proved too cumbersome. By quite literally thinking outside the box, one dimension was abstractly removed from the three-dimensional design. Although rendered in two-dimensions, the metal fabrication was still considered too heavy for practical application. The engineers seemed to have reached an impasse, until an idea, one simple and straightforward idea—as if delivered from on high—occurred to the group simultaneously during a weekend-long ayahuasca powwow: instead of building the two-dimensional rectangular shape out of steel, make it instead out of paper! This in turn solved two problems: the weight and the need for a QWERTY keyboard. Now the operator could effortlessly write their desired message on the steam-powered typewriter with a pen or pencil or, hell, even crayon. This also subsequently eliminated the need for steam. Some people may think the steam-powered typewriter is nothing more than a piece of paper. Then again, some people have no appreciation for marketing!
(Narrator’s cadence returns to normal.)
One of the goons kicks open the front door before they throw Vincent out onto the stoop of the office building. The young man barrel rolls down the steps, landing upright with his legs splayed. He then stands up and stretches his back, his spine sounding like a wooden fish. (Because this book only employs words to tell its story and not audio, the reader will simply have to imagine the sound effect to appreciate the cartoonish-like humor.)
Looking around, he is surprised to find that his red motor scooter is no longer parked out on the sidewalk. In its place, however, laying rather conspicuously on the concrete is an envelope. Vincent bends over and picks it up. He examines it briefly, noticing that it is sealed and addressed to: Owner of the red scooter. And so he opens it. Inside there is a folded handwritten letter. But because the letter was apparently written in haste, the words and punctuation are all jumbled. Vincent shakes the paper a few times, jostling the letters about until the intended syntax is restored.
The letter now reads:
To Whom It May Concern:
It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you, your scooter has been stolen. The perpetrator of this dastardly deed is none other than me. Who am I? For obvious reasons I must remain anonymous. You may be asking yourself, why would someone take that in which does not belong to them? You’ll receive no argument from me, this is a most levelheaded question. Unfortunately, the answer shall offer you no immediate comfort. Quite simply, I took it because I wanted it. It’s a cruel world to be sure. Nonetheless, your scooter is gone and there’s nothing that can change this fact now. My advice to you is this: move on. The past is the past, best not to linger there too long.
Best wishes,
Your scooter thief
P.S. For your inconvenience, I have graciously arranged transportation for you to get to your next destination. Please wait for a white and turquoise Volkswagen Microbus to pick you up. Driver’s name is Nelson.
While Vincent is visibly upset that his scooter has been stolen, he is also somewhat impressed by the time and effort the thief premeditatedly put into composing such a finely written note. As well, he admires the thief’s thoughtfulness in arranging transportation for him in restitution for the slight. Certainly he recognizes that stealing is unequivocally wrong, and yet, he thinks, if one is going to lower themselves to such skulduggery, a touch of civility goes a long way. It is with his unique brand of optimism and acceptance that Vincent waits for his ride.
(To be continued…)