Working for the man
The entrance cowered between two other buildings as I approached it, almost as if it wanted to avoid me. The only reason it failed was that a familiar face threw the door open, and ran straight into me. At first we began to yell at each other in the way that any person does when two shoulders and arms collide with another. Instantly the message is sent to the brain that the other person doesn’t know how to walk, or should watch where they are going. Another amusing thing, considering that it is always the other person who seems to be doing the wrong thing, and never yourself. When I reached the top of the stairs, a bunch of underpaid, under motivated men sat at there poorly furnished desks.
“So where is my office?†I asked, perhaps too quickly; I had made no attempt what-so-ever to actually observe much more than the fact that the room was filled with several oak desks that usually had nothing else except stacks of paper and half-chewed pencils. A fat pudgy man with a stained shirt that was busting at the buttons strolled up to me, a grin on his face as he looked at me. He raised only one fat finger and aimed it toward a desk in the corner, that was completely clear and had no signs of being used. Apparently I was deluded when asking if I had an office – silly me for assuming that a writer such as myself would be given an office. In fact, the more time my mind spent on that question, the more idiotic it made me feel. It was just a column in a paper, why would I receive an office?
I sat at the desk for hours, rapping my fingers on the paper that rested in front of me. The page was completely blank. It always struck me as funny that I was never able to write when I wasn’t in front of my trusty typewriter; things always took more effort, more time, more words for what in the end seemed to feel like half the reward. The problem was with these situations is that the money was always important to me and the money was always the reason that whenever I found myself uncomfortable being away from my jet-black typewriter with the faded letters, I just had to deal with it. Andrew had taken the time to give me this job and I felt obligated to make use of the opportunity.
More time passed, and I continued to feel unable to write, unable to talk about anything in a column. There isn’t anything that I could tell these Parisian people, there isn’t anything that they wouldn’t know already or anything that I could do to inspire them. I write mostly for myself, to tell myself things that I don’t know already, and even things that I do know myself. There was no way I could write anything worth putting to these morons, nothing that I could sweet up or dumb down to meet their level or please them with things that they want to hear. Forget the column, forget writing for this fat fuck of a man who had been doing nothing but smiling smugly at me ever since I arrived.
I need a drink, and there is an excellent bar that I haven’t tried yet which might provide some interesting entertainment and perhaps a little bit of inspiration. A writer at a desk, writing for a small-time newspaper – ah, but I need the money. The pen rested on the desk, right on the blank paper and I stood up, headed for the door and opened it; there was a moment where I knew that the overweight man was staring at me. A boss required an answer, and he being my boss, I was obligated to give him an answer for leaving so early and having produced nothing at all for him to see.
“I’m just getting lunch,†I told him and stepped out the door, closing it behind me. The sound of my laugh filled the small stairs that led to the front entrance – a liquid lunch on my mind.
You were provoked by Vittra at 7:32 pm | 10 opinions »
January 9th, 2006
After the high of the last piece, this is a little bland.
Unless you meant it to be bland, like work itself.
January 9th, 2006
Well, at first I was feeling a little cautious about this one because I wasn’t certain if I even liked what I had written. I spent a fair bit of time contemplating how to direct this one, what words I should say, how things should be placed, when to move on and so forth. Eventually I decided to leave it, because I felt that if people decided this wasn’t one of the “greatest” pieces I had written, it would be a good representation of how my character Lisa was feeling at that time. She couldn’t produce anything that she felt was worthwhile, or great. More effort, more time and more words for what ultimately feels like half the reward, no?
Lately I’ve been finding myself reflecting the actual message onto my readers; I’m still uncertain about whether this is a good thing or not. Sure, it’s nice to be able to make my readers feel the exact same thing as what I am writing about, but sometimes I want to get back to just writing the story and leaving everyone else detached. Not making them involved or able to relate, just force them to see things from a way that is objective. Fortunately for me, my desire isn’t entirely impossible to slake – I’ll stop letting my readers relate soon.
January 10th, 2006
I see your point Vittra, let me ask you something, which Jax most probably asked you before, who do you write for? You or them? The vapid cunt doesn’t know this, but the question is very much more defining then he already thinks it is, but of course he’ll say, he knows. So lets just agree he knows.I’d say, fuck them, and write what you want to. Let them relate or not. Write how you are, and chances are, somebody will get it the way you did. And for a vapid cunt, Jax does get it almost always. So there’s always somebody. Take this piece itself, I did say it was bland, I also got that you might want it to be bland. Work is always fucking bland to the common man/woman. So if your intent was/is bland, someone has got it, and that in itself is an achievement. Again, do not wonder about people relating, or wanting them to see it objectively, just put it down Vittrily, for everyone that doesn’t get it, there’ll be someone that does. Then you’ll have both, people being objective, and people relating.
January 10th, 2006
Its Vittrishly, prick. Vittrishly.
January 11th, 2006
Yes luv, it is. Just not to me. Besides, Vittrish sounds like licorice, and I recall an author making me dislike licorice altogether. Stephen King I think it was.
January 11th, 2006
Prick doesn’t want to associate me with “Vittrish” because he wants to keep liking me. That’s it, isn’t it, Prick?
January 11th, 2006
I just don’t want to have to destory so early in the game. I’m sure I’d get bored.
January 24th, 2006
If you’re wondering where some comments are, I deleted a few of them because I was beginning to notice that this was just turning into some ridiculous social conversation. While I don’t really mind a bit of it, the entire thing had become entirely removed from my actual entry and no longer commented about it. Yes, Teddy, most of my readers aren’t completely oblivious to the fact of where I am and why; I think it is common knowledge that you are privy to said information also.
Can we attempt to keep comments somewhat close to being a response to my entries as opposed to updates about what I apparently will and will not be doing? Yes, you were right that I mightn’t update as often, but if it was going to be an issue for anyone who reads my blog, then I would make an effort to inform them myself. I hate to seem like a tyrant with this entire comment; I just don’t find it very contributing in terms of responding to my work. I didn’t enable comments so users can have a “I know more about her life than you” contest, to increase their power over each other.
January 24th, 2006
Why why why..
That’s a contest Teddy had in her bag long before it started. Besides, it wouldn’t have gotten anywhere. I had already tired of it. And yes, I am completely oblivious to the fact of where you are and why.
The hunt is always more thrilling than the kill itself.
March 17th, 2006
Very characteristic of her (Lisa). This could’ve gone much farther and branched out, but I highly doubt that that’s what the character herself would’ve done. If some call it bland, so be it. I think I’m just restating what you and Prick have said, though, so I’ll quit while I’m behind.