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  Division C: False teeth

  Karl swallowed his coffee and said, ‘I estimate that the productionalized operational format will be updated by mid-March at the very earliest.’

  Harold smiled. ‘But that’s hardly a conservative estimate, is it, Karl?’ The smile became an orange balloon, orgulous and threatening. Karl stared at its teeth in disbelief.

  Modestly swirling his coffee and studying the rainbow in it, Harold said aloud that he had found two discrepancies today.

  Two! A low murmur of approval went around the group. Indian, or ‘ideal’ summer descended on the city, and a new movie came to the Apollo. Hurricane Patty Sue was breaking up. The eyes of Eddie Futch glistened with frank hero-worship, which Harold accepted graciously. Even Bob and Rod paused in their counting of the proceeds of a turkey raffle to make the well-known gesture of ‘nice going’.

  Karl alone refused to congratulate Harold. ‘I hope you itemized them both,’ he said testily, ‘before you followed a plan of procedure.’

  ‘Of course I itemized them. What did you think I’d do – standardize them?’ Harold quipped. The others laughed heartily, as much in glee at Karl’s discomfiture as in open admiration of the excellent bon mot, or good word, of his inquisitor.

  It was hard not to like Harold Kelmscott, for he was a true clerk, descended from a line of clerks that could trace its name back to the twelfth century, to a Benedictine monk who broke his vow of celibacy. Harold once lectured to an orientation class of incoming clerks at a business college. He said:

  Section VIII: A Priesthood

  My esteemed fellow-clerks:

  There have not been so many ways in this world in which a man might earn his daily bread, that the desiderata of clerkdom could invariably vie with more dramatic ways of ‘bringing home the bacon’ (slide shown of Francis Bacon’s Study for a Portrait, 1953, or Head IV, 1949, or Painting, 1946), such as police detection work, mass hypnotism, name any sport.

  What, then, is it about clerkdom, that draws so many millions of fine young persons of all levels to dedicate their lives, so to speak, to the world of paper and telephones; to join, if I may be permitted a small jest, the pen and pencil set? (Slide shown of comic figure climbing out of inkwell, copyright by Ub Iwerks. Boos and clatter of neolite soles on Armstrong cork floors. Guards take firmer grip on Smith & Wesson .38 calibre police special revolvers, glance inadvertently at tough Yale locks on all doors, but H.K. has it under control.)

  What it is, we may very well ask, for it is an unanswered and perhaps unanswerable question. Let us unask it, then, and move on to a history of paper. The first clerks, we know, lived in ancient cities where they wrote on stone, clay slabs, wax tablets. But very quickly, they moved into their true capacity as priests. (Mixed hissing, but a general feeling of well-being pervades the auditorium. Guards relax and even light up Camels and Luckies. Wearing a plain black business suit, Foreman and Clark with vest and extra pair of pants at home, Harold spreads his arms in benediction. He is plump and blond, but even so, serious as a nose. He is all-English, black round-rimmed glasses and an unruly lock of hair his trade mark.) Yes, priests, a shocking word but oh so true! You shall be priests in the tradition, handlers of the lamb, then the lambskin then paper. Your hands will caress no whiter flank than the margin of form 289-XB-1967M. Your rituals are many and important, and you will dedicate your life to preserving their routine, that endless cyclic round that drives the universe. Whether you work in the death, birth or marriage registration bureau, it is your work which moves civilisation in its great orbit. God bless you all! (From the front of the hall guards and firemen move in with firehoses, using Townely-Ward 1½” nozzles and Townely-Ward pumpers to empty the hall and flush it out for the next lecture.)

  Section IX: Jax TV Lounge

  Division A: Rod

  Henry stood at the bar and began a conversation with Rod or Bob. Around them, clerks murmured a kind of plainsong cadence of complaint, and Henry was pleasantly aware of being a clerk himself. He was one with the two clerks in the corner, arguing about the finalization of finalizations. He was one with the boisterous group of tic-tac-toe players in the corner. He was one with the three clerks at the other end of the bar, their arms about one another’s shoulders, who counted off by tens. Nearby another comrade was showing someone how to fold a dollar-bill ring. Henry’s hands itched for paper to feel. The bar, foreseeing this, had provided a tiny paper napkin with each drink, which his hands raped as he talked.

  Peering into his glass, Bob (or Rod) said, ‘Rob gives me a pain in the ass. Today he wanted to hand me a tally index, quadruplicate – and would you believe it? – the stupid bastard had the blue copy on top!’

  ‘No kidding?’

  ‘No, really. Even little Eddie Futch knows the white copy goes on top, for Christ’s sake.’

  Henry could not help but think of Masterson’s childhood:

  MEMO: My childhood. It has come to the attention of this office that the company personnel in general do not know the details of how I was born and raised. I intend to ameliorate this circumstance.

  I was conceived because the contraceptive device my mother was wearing at the moment was not properly fitted. It consisted of a small metal button, to which was attached a long wire coil spring. The end of the coil was to be introduced into the cervix and thence into the womb, and screwed up tight until the button sealed the opening of the cervix. Either due to a malfunction of the device itself or an unwillingness on the part of Mom to undergo the discomfort of a really tight seal, an accidental conception occurred.

  I learned of all this only on my twenty-first birthday, from a pretty cousin with whom I dallied, in an after-Sunday-dinner way, in a haymow. My mother I hardly remember, except as a ghostly figure standing silent by the electric kitchen range, almost an aura thrown off by the back burners. She liked to stir things. To my knowledge, she never spoke.

  I soon was able to go to college, where, thanks to the leadership of Athelstan Spilhaus, I was persuaded to make my goal the sanctification of mechanical engineering, the elevation of thermodynamics to a sacrament. My studies were interrupted by the birth of a younger sister, or half-sister, whom my impoverished parents could not support. The rest is history.

  – Masterson

  Bob (or Rod) went on, ‘Well, to make a long story short, I expedited them, though I had a damned good notion to let them go the way they were. Old Rob is beginning to make too many little discrepancies, if you ask me. Only last week, I caught him updating a form, just because it was in short supply!’

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ cried Henry. clapping his hands to his ears.

  ‘True, though. And he had the itemization slip attached to the bill, and I couldn’t find the authorization for that anywhere!’

  ‘Exactly.’ Henry sensed his meaning. Down the bar, the trio counted:

  ‘One hundred forty!’

  ‘One hundred fifty!’

  ‘One hundred sixty!’

  They laughed and pounded on the bar, then drew themselves up to count again.

  ‘Yes,’ Rod (or Bob) went on in thick accents, ‘if you ask me, old Rob is about to get the axe. Too many discrepancies, if you see what I mean. One of these days they’ll be calling him on the intercom …’

  ‘Do you mean it?’ Henry inadvertently genuflected.

  ‘Off the record, you understand, but the trouble with old Rob is – he drinks.’

  ‘No!’ said Henry, not disputing it. He bought a round, then Bob (or Rod) tried to interest him in tickets for a turkey raffle.

  ‘But it’s only March.’

  ‘We’ve already raffled off a ham for Easter. Clark won it, and gave it away to Karl. Then we sold everyone cards for Mother’s and Father’s Days, flags for Veterans’ Day, baby trees for Arbor Day, fireworks for the Fourth and St. Christopher medals for the Labor Day weekend. Thanksgiving is the only thing we had left,’ explained Bob (or Rod). ‘I mean, it’s a little early for Christmas trees.’

 
‘What about treats for Hallowe’en?’ suggested a stranger.

  ‘Sure, that’s it, teach kids to beg. That’s the American way, all right. If kids worked for their pennies the way I had to – Gee, it’s nearly seven! I’ve got to get to class. Sorry I can’t buy you a round, Henry.’ He drank up and lounged quickly towards the door.

  Rod (or Bob), less because of the ski-ing instructor with whom he had had a brief flirtation than because of his current interest in Arctic literature, had a well-shaped neck, tapering inward slightly under his small ears, and forming a niche in front, into which was set an Adam’s apple.

  ‘Wait! What is it you study?’ Henry cried, and the answer blew back in a block of November wind:

  ‘IBMs.’

  Division B: Bob

  Bob (or Rod) moved down the bar to talk to Henry as soon as Rod (or Bob) had left. Henry was able at once to confirm that he drank, as the IBM scholar alleged, for he now had a drink in his hand, and sipped at it.

  ‘Was that Dob I saw leaving?’ he said. ‘Intelligent kid, Dob is.’

  ‘Yes, he tells me he’s studying IBMs.’

  IBM, unknown to either of the speakers, represents not only International Business Machines, but Yebem, the seventieth angel quinary of the Zodiac. This angel over the seventieth quinary of the Zodiac. This angel is usually depicted plucking a quill from the wing of its neighbour, 69 or Raah (who hangs head downward like a bat), with which to make, this legend has it, the first ‘pen’.

  Like wax, the other’s face took a smile. ‘The real money isn’t in IBMs, it’s in ICBMs. I study ICBMs.’ After a moment he added, ‘Yes, I’m no intellectual like Dob, but I can tell you right now he’s getting too smart for his own good. For instance, he thinks the white copy of the tally index quadruplicate form goes on top, in the finalized format. Just for the record, I think old Dob’s going to be finalized himself one of these days.’

  ‘For the record?’

  ‘The confidential record, of course. Dob makes too many discrepancies, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I know what you mean, all right,’ said Henry, showing some of his teeth. ‘He drinks?’

  ‘Golly, yes. In fact, I saw him drinking here, just a few minutes ago.’

  There was nothing either of them could add to this, so they turned to watch the television. As the picture slowly brightened, it became even more painfully clear that the monkeys were not free-standing on the ponies’ backs, but strapped on. A hidden orchestra played ‘Perpetual Motion’. After trying to interest Henry in the first pick of a lot of Norway pines Bob (or Rod) went off to school.

  Section X: Ed and Eddie

  The unpleasant marsupiality of Ed Warner’s eyes was worsened when he smiled. Little sharp shrew-teeth glittered at the ends of big dead-pale gums, and one knew his tongue would also be black.

  ‘There isn’t any boss,’ he murmured to Eddie Futch. There was no need to say more. The panic ripples spread, leaving little Eddie bobbing on the surface of his own consciousness, a writer might presume. He who follows the conceit far enough might even glimpse something like slime boiling in the depths … ‘But I seen him. He hired me.’

  ‘You saw someone who said he was the boss. Or did he even say that?’

  Little Eddie looked around for help, his eyes full of tears. ‘But there just has to be a boss,’ his shrillness insisted. ‘If there’s no boss, how can there be a company?’

  The shrew-teeth bared in a grin.

  ‘Leave the lad alone, Ed,’ Harold bade. ‘You’ll have him making discrepancies.’

  ‘This whole company is a discrepancy, Harry. I’m trying to say something, now, listen. Unrectifiable –’

  ‘That’ll do!’ Harold leapt to his feet, a sword of ignorance glimmering in his fine eyes. Cackling, Big Ed moved behind his own desk to gulp heart pills.

  This was his defence. Everyone was terrified of Ed’s tender heart, as much as of his black breath. If he were pressed too hard in an argument, he would simply clutch his chest and slump to the floor, remaining there until the argument was forgotten.

  Henry envied him the trick. If only it were possible to imitate it without soiling his shirt.

  Section XI: Dirt

  Yes, Henry cried out to cleanliness. He bathed morning and evening, and wore clothes scientifically cleaned and packaged in polythene bags. His shirts were first disinfected and boiled at home, then scrubbed to new whiteness by Chinese slaves. He carried about with him toothpaste, carbolic soap, orange sticks, a safety razor, styptic pencil and Kleenex, while the drawer of his desk was crammed with bandaids, new shirts and underwear, depilatory and cotton swabs.

  No, cleanliness answered. His was the dirtiest shirt in the office, and the tartar caked up permanently on his teeth. Strange rashes came and went on his coarse-pored, grainy skin, while his fingernails remained in mourning. It was as if another person were determined to keep him foul.

  MEMO: The history of the Masterson Engineering Company.

  The Masterson Engineering Company was started in 1927 by my father. My mother. He began with one draughtsman and a broken T-square, and plenty of guts and sand. In 1931, the company went broke, but by 1950, he was back in business. I took over that year, under his directorship, and soon killed or replaced him. The original name was retained, though the company moved downtown. Wife and child. I am now Mr.

  – Masterson

  One day Henry tried a daring experiment. After spreading some newspapers on the floor, he clutched his chest and slumped down carefully on them.

  No one paid the least attention, even when he groaned and writhed a few times. After several minutes, Henry got up and went back to work, his neck hot against the grey collar of his shirt.

  Section XII: Clark

  Clark Markey, the non-lawyer, was unpopular because of his political beliefs, though no one was afraid of him.

  ‘I’m no lawyer,’ he would say, ‘but it seems to me that twenty-five minutes for lunch is below the legal minimum.’ He asked each of the others if they would back him in complaining to the Labor Board.

  Willard Bask: ‘Don’t want to rock the boat.’

  Eddie Futch: ‘Guess it would be all right.’

  Karl Henkersmahl: ‘Should think we have no right to complain about anything.’

  Henry C. Henry: No comment.

  Robert Kegel: ‘I think we need a bowling team.’

  Harold Kelmscott: ‘Let us give up lunch of the flesh.’

  Rodney Klumpf: ‘Let’s organize a bowling team.’

  Clark Markey: ‘Will go along with the others.’

  Ed Warner: ‘Abolish lunch. Abolish the company …’

  Section XIII: Clark and Karl and Eddie

  Clark was viscerally interested in everyone’s problems of justice. When Eddie Futch played loud music on his radio, Clark assured him he was well within his rights. But when Karl complained of the noise, Clark hastened to tell him that he, too, had a legitimate claim.

  ‘I’ve got a claim, all right. I’m going to smash that goddamned radio,’ Karl said quietly. ‘Then I’m going to smash its owner. Ha!’

  ‘Oh, no, you mustn’t do that; your right to smash ends where Eddie’s radio begins. But you do have a right to insist that he turn it down if it bothers you.’

  Karl began to shout, his head swelling up out of a thick, Michelin-man neck. ‘Turn that fucking radio off, before I come over there and smash it!’

  Blinking rapidly, little Eddie switched off the music. Clark’s eyes filled with tears of compassion. He rushed to comfort the boy. ‘Nevertheless, you have a right to listen.’

  ‘I don’t want to listen,’ Eddie lied. Red flooded the acne-scarred face: a Martian map. ‘If I did want to listen, I’d listen, all right, no matter what anyone said.’

  ‘That’s right! You selfish pig!’ Karl screamed. ‘You care nothing for the nerves of others. You aren’t doing precision work, as I am. All you do is shuffle papers around. But I’m a precision stapler. I have to get the stap
le in exactly the same place each time; I can’t bend it over or ruin it, because then I’d have to start all over again. But what do you care? What do any of you care?’

  MEMO: Automation

  There will be no automation at the Masterson Engineering Company.

  – Masterson

  Section XIV: Clark and Karl

  Clark rushed over to placate the hysterical Henkersmahl and offer him a halvah bar.

  ‘What is this supposed to be?’

  ‘Halvah. A kind of candy. Just try it.’

  Karl bit into it gingerly and chewed, watching Clark to one side. ‘It tastes good. Jewish product, is it?’ He finished the bar in two bearish gulps and began turning his fingers over, sucking crumbs from them. ‘It tastes damned good.’

  Clark began to smile, relieved that he had been able to help Karl so easily. Then the Henkersmahl’s red jewels of eyes closed with suspicion.

  ‘Damned clever, you Jews. Now I suppose you’re going to overcharge me for that candy bar, eh?’

  Clark became aware of a problem in communications research. ‘No, Karl, that was a gift,’ he said.

  ‘Ha ha, a gift. Very cute little tricks. A gift, eh? A gift? Very cute tricks indeed. A gift with Hebrew strings attached, eh? You’ve fooled me this time, but I’ll remember this. I never get fooled twice, and I always remember anyone who cheats me, Clark.’ Karl pulled a dollar from his billfold and threw it on Clark’s desk.

  ‘Yes, that’s the difference between your kind and mine. I may be fooled by your subtleties, but not for long. I pay my debts sportingly, yes, even gladly, when I’m caught in one of your snares. But your kind never pays up, do they? All right, I don’t mind being cheated out of mere money. Go on, take it.’

  As he said this last, Karl snatched back the dollar and put it away again. From that day on, he would never lose an opportunity to tell people of how Clark tried to charge him a whole dollar for a candy bar, which Karl always referred to as a ‘Bar Mitzvah, or one of those crazy names. It might even have been Jewish dope. I felt funny afterwards …’