The Moon In Its Flight Read online

  For the past few months, I’ve been calling various colleagues of yore at three o’clock in the morning with stern words of anonymous hatred. Crazy Swedish person? I’ll be showing them crazy Swedish person! I’ve also stocked my larder and pantry, whatever the cupboards are called here in the land of dreams come true, with ready-to-imbibe Bloody Marys and Manhattans, and other alcoholic treats. They are not at their best at a room’s temperature, thus I wait for the electric company to accede to my wishes to turn the power back on. However, I am careful of my appearance, white shirt, bow tie, cardigan, all business. I have discovered this is called electric blue in color, what a book I once browsed through called “the color of madness.” The author is well-known to be a homosexual pervert, yet I must try to love him for all his improper moralistic leanings. I may give him a brief telephone call one early morning and we will just see how he likes them apples, as you say here. My goal of sophisticated cocktail-drinking with the smartest of the smart set is not, I assure you, but the goal of a feebleminded dumbbell! My Timex now informs me that my boiled potatoes bubbling tastily on my Sterno stove are ready. Along with a cup of savory instant coffee and a few choice pages from a good book, I’ll leisurely dine away, although I would prefer to exchange bon mots with discreet, beautiful women in the paled moonlight, as you may have guessed. It is good to be an alien in America despite the crudities encountered.

  The Wheels Turn

  The salesmen, dear new colleagues and friends, who are out in the field, have no time to be answering requests by clients or would-be clients for samples, information, direction, or guidance; nor do they have time to engage in amorous or sexual correspondence with these people. Unless, of course, they feel that such interchange will lead to a considerable account. Photographs of a compelling or arousing nature may accompany diverse missives, along with, at times, gifts of cash, and such items may be able to change the most focused minds. You, as correspondents, here in the Correspondence Department, are in no position, nor will you ever be in such a position, to judge whether or not the salesmen in the field will have the time or inclination to reply to such letters “personally,” if I may use such a word, freighted, oh freighted as it is with velleity and suggestion. It matters little, that is, what your opinions of such letters may be, since all letters that land—and I use the word advisedly—that land on your respective desks, cluttered though they may well become with odds and ends of folderol and impedimenta, will, of needs, be those that have already passed through the vetting process on the twenty-third floor, that is, in the Alpha Department of the School Division, Southwestern Branch, a department supervised by our Mr. Bjornstrom, a man known to our other supervisors—and they are many—as “the man with the rubber stamp,” or, as he often delights in roughly and somewhat jovially, even hysterically, describing himself, “the Stockholm Corporal.” Stockholm is, of course, in Sweden, Mr. Bjornstrom’s homeland. These instructions, then, are tendered you in the event that an unvetted letter from a client or would-be client lands on one of your desks, which will, of course, never happen. If it should, well, no need to go into the nooks and crannies of that impossible eventuality. At present.

  To your right, you will notice a series of shelves or pigeonholes stocked with stationery of varied hues, shades, tones, and colors. On closer inspection—do not attempt to inspect at this time, PLEASE!—on closer inspection you will see that the stationery contains the preprinted names and addresses of those salesmen who are yours to assist, obey, jolly along, praise, flatter, and take the blame for in all matters epistolary. There are also, in the drawers beneath the shelves and pigeonholes, paradigms, or model letters, which we call “dummies,” that will guide you in drafting replies to the various letters sent “your” particular salesmen, letters requesting samples, information, guidance, loans, photographs, reading lists, and, on those impossibly rare if not impossible occasions that I just mentioned, requests for sexual dalliances of diverse types. These, as I have said, will never reach you, actually, but in case they should get by Mr. Bjornstrom’s seasoned vetters, they are to be ignored by you, and such occasions brought to my attention, whereupon you will probably be, as they say, “let go.” For no reason should such a letter be answered in your salesman’s name, is that understood? Is that understood? It may seem unfair that one or more of you might possibly be “let go” through no fault of your own, through, as it were, your devotion to duty and the job. It is unfair, but life is always terribly hard on those with neither money nor power, despite propaganda to the contrary. Am I right? Of course I’m right! If you should, how shall I put it?, cheat, that is, fail to call such a misguided letter to my attention, the furnaces are always roaring in the sub-sub-basement! Ha! Ha! Ha! I like my little joke!

  You will discover that the stationery on the shelves is nothing, really, other than good American paper and nothing but; nothing to be in awe of, letterheads or no. And you would do well to ignore the rumors suggesting otherwise. Rumors of all sorts are born and circulate in a large and virtually omnipotent corporation such as this one. They emanate, for the most part, from the “creative” divisions of the firm, the Professional Trash-Fiction Division, the Memoir Division, the Hip-Youth Division, the Sure-Fire Division, the Dim-Bulb Division, the Texas School-Adoption-of-Everything Division, the Devout-Christian Rapture-Mania Division, the Unborn-Child-Series Division, as well as those divisions that support what the company likes to think of as its old soldiers—those editors, publicists, accountants, and lunch-eaters who have made their lives into one long testament to their belief that they have done their best to make real for all humankind the kind of book that is both an exciting read and a contribution to the general culture of regular Americans—and others, of course, depending on how the rights are spelled out in the contracts. As their unofficial coat-of-arms proclaims: GOOD BOOKS, BIG BUCKS. You may, at times, even hear a rumor that can be traced to the Shipping and Receiving Department, but the nonentities who toil therein are prone to whining, and may be ignored or, better yet, reviled at any opportunity that presents itself. Management and the Correspondence Department tend to think of these employees as we do waitresses—necessary, perhaps, but wonderful targets for insult. Best for you to ignore all information that is not included in the company newspaper, edited by Mr. Pearl, The White Shirt.

  The stationery, or paper, then, comes in the following colors—or hues or shades: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, black, and white. The letters that you send to your salesmen’s correspondents will be on white paper. Clear, sharp copies will be made on the varicolored stationery and distributed as follows: red to Mr. Bjornstrom; orange to the Correspondence Department Acting Chief Supervisor—currently Mr. Bjornstrom; yellow to the salesmen, for their files; green to the salesmen who are not “your” salesmen and who work in areas other than those in which your salesmen work—this will be explained to you as soon as Mr. Bjornstrom feels that the time is right; blue, for you to take home and study in preparation for what Mr. Bjornstrom and Mr. Pearl call their “popped” quizzes on office fashion and mailing procedures; indigo, which, since the copied material will be wholly illegible, is to be destroyed, but not before a copy on mauve paper is sent to the twenty-third floor and the Rejection-Cliché-Files floor; and violet, which is, of course, a file copy. The black copy is to be passed through the paper shredders at precisely 8:45 A.M. each morning, at, ha ha, “your” convenience. Excuse my cruel chuckle. You must not sexually harass the file clerks to whom you deliver the violet copies, but I should point out to you that our Legal Division-Department-Section has approved a list of sexually charged words, gestures, and invitations that may be employed in your interactions with these young men and women. Should a file clerk accede to requests for certain sexual favors or acts, you must sign a “receipt,” so-called, prior to the clerk’s granting of said favors or performance of said acts. The “text” describing your activities with the clerk or clerks will be added to the “receipt” by the staff of the A
lpha Department when and how it sees fit to add this text. There is nothing in this procedure for you to concern yourself about, I assure you. Only a mere handful of employees—or “partners”—has been arrested and prosecuted on evidence contained in the “receipts,” and these prosecutions were well-deserved and were welcomed by the employees themselves! In any event, such aberrant and unrepresentative occurrences should not deter you from—if I may employ an earthy colloquialism—getting your ashes hauled. And you might keep in mind that the file clerks can use a few dollars, if you take my meaning?

  You will work from 8:30 A.M. to 5:30 P.M., Monday through Friday, although it should be pointed out that this is a bare minimum, and those of you who are, ah, wise, will choose to work more hours, many more hours, than this, although no one in Management or Middle Management will ever suggest to you just how many hours a day or week are considered adequate. There is a half-hour lunch break, but here in Correspondence we smile upon the bag of chips, the bagel, the soft-drink or mineral water taken right at the good old cluttered desk. Restroom breaks are not really monitored, not at all, and there is no truth to the rumor that you will doubtlessly hear about the cameras in these rooms. White shirts, starched white shirts, are required to be worn each day, with a tie, of course, for the men, as this is, indeed, a “white shirt company.” We’re pretty proud of that. This is the unwavering standard for our male employees. The women may wear blouses or dresses of any muted and somber color, but they may not wear slacks or jeans, and skirts must come to mid-knee, no higher. They may not wear ties or earrings nor may they “look like” men in any way. Undergarments that restrict the natural movements and shape of the body are highly recommended if not yet mandatory for both men and women. You will be expected to work on weekends, when you will be supervised by Stewart Park, Mr. Pearl’s assistant. You may be terminated at any time for any reason, but you may not leave the firm’s employ save upon Mr. Bjornstrom’s personal recommendation. This may be granted should you conduct yourself to his satisfaction on what he is pleased to call a “cocktail-friendly nocturnal,” held at a lounge of his choosing or at his home in the Borough of Queens, down whose leafy boulevards he will expect you to accompany him in the “paled moonlight,” as he puts it.

  Before you begin your first day tomorrow, I would like to point out to you that Management would be very pleased should you come in an hour or two—or three—early, so that you might busy yourselves with the small departmental chores of air-conditioner repair, sidewalk shoveling, pen-and-pencil filling, and the like. The cafeteria is still open if you wish to have a bite. Good afternoon.

  THE SEA, CAUGHT IN ROSES

  It was not possible to find gathered together rarer specimens than these young flowers. Of course, as the phrase so often has it, there are flowers, and then there are flowers. Some commentators, as always, have vulgarly intruded remarks concerning “figural language,” if one can countenance such opinion without displaying some small degree, at the very least, of levity. At this moment, before my eyes, they were breaking the line of the sea with their slender hedge. “The line of the sea,” I admit, may be taking things just a little too seriously; but events, one hopes, will bear out its ultimate propriety. It should also be noted, and the earlier the better, that the sand was almost uncomfortably hot because of the meridional blaze of the sun, savagely brilliant in the usual white, cloudless sky. They were like a bower of Pennsylvania roses adorning a cliffside garden. In gardens such as these, small domestic animals tend to cavort, on any pretext. The question of why larger animals neglect to “follow suit,” if such an idiom may still be employed, is, at present, moot. Between their blooms is contained the whole tract of ocean, crossed by some streamer. This is an ocean “as you like it,” which is the message presented by this crumpled note. The note also contains the formula for making roast leg of lamb mavourneen, sometimes called—the formula, that is—a “recipe.” The steamer is slowly gliding along the blue, horizontal line. With the aid of a pair of good, not to say excellent binoculars, one can just make out the name of the ship—the SS Albertine. On the other hand, it may well be the humble forest cabin which we have seen before, albeit in dreams. The line stretches from one stem to the next. As we know, the rose is beautiful, and is often called the queen of the green world because of its cruel thorns. This sobriquet doesn’t seem precisely right or just, if I may, for a moment, interrupt the gardening with a gently puzzled remark, as I have, or so it would seem, just done! An idle butterfly is dawdling in the cup of a flower, one long since passed by the ship’s hull. Some of the more sensitive guests are leaving, including a few of the young flowers. There are barely concealed grimaces of disapproval, and some of the older gentlemen, placidly elegant in black tie, appear to be trying to sink the steamer before it reaches the buffet. The butterfly can wait before flying off in plenty of time to arrive before the ship. But according to a telegram carried by a sweating courier, “Nobody else can wait.” And there, once again, is the old, familiar sound of breaking glass! He can wait until the tiniest chink of blue still separates the prow from the first petals of the flower. Two of the women have nervously rushed into the gazebo, despite posted warnings. And, as one might easily have imagined, the “chink of blue”—actually aquamarine—has grown no smaller. The ship, of course, is steering toward the flower. There are cries and imprecations against Pennsylvania and what some call “salts,” whatever they may be. The blue, horizontal line is quite striking in contrast to the blank glare of the sky.

  But only last week, the flowers that were flowers had vied with what certain celebrated authors term “the shining turn of the wave,” or “the turn of the shining wave,” or perhaps “the thundering wall of water.” Figural language often defeats one, especially at the seashore, where one’s head simply swirls! The line of the sea, however, seems, always, somehow to remedy just about any problem. There were vacationers, of course, who, daunted by the white, blazing sand and the cruelly hot sun, stayed in their well-ventilated gazebos, “happy,” the roustabouts said, “as cherrystones,” to some small degree. Clams are not usually thought of as domestic animals, particularly the large, blue-ribbon specimens often mistakenly associated with Pennsylvania, its farms, wells, knolls, buzzards, and plentiful copses. There is a wonderful photograph of one such prizewinner, “Old Moot,” who comes up to the ankles of his master, or, as it pleasurably turned out, mistress. I may as well state unequivocally that I prefer not to use the word “mistress” in such close relationship to the mention, such as it is, of an animal. More than one crumpled note has been delivered to me—post-haste!—from breezy oceanfront cabanas regarding such unfortunate contiguities. The threats therein are what a grizzled editor of my acquaintance wisely called “recipes for disaster.” But this time I escaped, and could gaze at the slowly steaming freighter on the horizon in much the same essentially idiotic manner as the other guests. Not, of course, that I was a guest; let us say that I was, simply, very like someone you may well have seen “before.” I was, indeed, once billed as “Queen of Flowers” and “Credenza of Cruel Thorns,” but that was long before certain curious proclivities led to disturbing psychological effects and an unswerving attention to minute details of dress. My gardening regimen, for instance, was almost completely subverted, if I may use a fashionable euphemism. A few of the young flowers, as I like, I suppose I’ve mentioned, to call the unmarried women, were leaving for a better view of Saint-Loup, the hotel’s pasta chef. He, rapt before his own sense of personal vanity, paid attention only to the buffet, and not even the steamer’s insane whistle could tear his gaze from the “plat complet” of vermicelli alla Sciaccatana. None of the lovely young flowers waited for him to notice them, and the message they blushingly but assertively conveyed to him occasioned one of the master’s rare, gap-toothed smiles. He and three of the young ladies swiftly made for the greenhouse, and subsequently were heard the sounds of flustered laughter, creaking wicker, and some more breaking glass. Influenced, perhaps, by the curre
nt bestseller, The Hothouse Bacchanal, certain of the older women charged the cliffside gazebo, despite posted warnings to be on the alert for myriad broken spirits. More than one “chink” of blue, as wags still snicker, was fondled that day, although the several dispatches from the administration’s puppets predictably said otherwise. As the sun began to lower itself into the glittering sea, one heard feminine voices everywhere pleading for “salts, my salts, please, my salts, if you love me!” The blue line of chauffeurs, servants, toadies, and hastily deputized police officers prevented angry crowds from approaching the scene of what had rather quickly become an exhausting debacle.