Everyday Corporate America
By
JACKSON BLISS
I ask myself the same question everyday. Why are you doing this?
Why spend your day in a little corporate cubicle like a cancer-study
rat, writing your one line emails to co-workers and ordering CD’s
from amazon.com? Why pretend you’re civilized? Why follow
corporate protocol when you know it’s one step away from
cult status?
I don’t have a great answers to those questions. That’s
why I keep asking them. They’re like canker sores I can’t
stop touching. But for some reason, I’m not totally unhappy
with my life. I’m surviving. Sometimes I even forget I’m
a cancer-study rat.
It has something to do with my 25-step ritual:
1. Wake up early
2. Drink some coffee
3. Take a shower
4. Shave
5. Iron one of three white oxfords given to me as a gift from
Christmas from my dad. His attempt at preparing me for the starchy-shirt
world.
6. If I’m lucky, eat a muffin (if not, I drink some “juice”)
7. Walk to the #1 local subway station
8. Fight with Chinese Grandmas who expect to sit down when I steal
their seats
9. Fight with Chinese Grandmas who expect to sit down when I exit
10. Walk to 1200 4th avenue
11. Wait for the “35-55” elevator
12. Hum uncomfortably inside the elevator, pretend I’m not
thinking of Robert Coover for fifty-five floors
13. Say good morning to all the stupid fuckers I work with as
I enter my office (i.e. my cubicle with benefits)
14. Shuffle, bend, fold and randomly mark paperwork without actually
reading any of it
15. Look up baseball stats, Russian Transvestite porn, dirtygurlz.com,
laundrymat addresses and google the word “lint” before
checking my account for Louis Farrakhan emails
16. Take a cigarette break (I don’t smoke, but it’s
ten minutes and I’ll take it)
17. Send business faxes to my home, or to non-existent fax numbers,
sometimes, for the hell of it, to my Dad’s office, who gets
really confused
18. Doodle on a notepad, masquerading my grocery list as a supply
list
19. Eat vending machine snacks (the Fritolays are the best deal
but have the least taste—a classic junkfood conundrum)
20. Go to the bathroom and beat off
21. Go back to the rubic’s cube (aka my personal corporate
office cubicle).
22. Shuffle more papers, fax my grocery list to my home fax, and
then to my Dad
23. Make some phone calls, preferably to psychic hotlines without
time limits
24. Email some coworkers about the stack of papers I haven’t
read yet
25. Voilà, it’s time for lunch already
Sure this lifestyle gets old pretty quickly. And sure, I have
my ambitions like every other college-educated entry-level corporate
sellout here. But I have secret hobbies. And they keep sane.
For one thing, I love watching female mud wrestling. There’s
nothing more beautiful than angry white trash babes in bikinis
slopping around in a big pit of mud to the sound of “The
William Tell Overture.” Makes you feel like you’re
in a Benny Hill clip.
Another thing, I wear a garter belt and panties underneath my
wool trousers. I don’t know why, something about it just
feels right. It must be the lace rubbing against my stomach and
dimpled buttocks. Maybe it’s the delicious feeling I get
that I’m a lady in a suit, a white collar worker making
covert, illegal and important business transactions in a hot boysenberry
thong. Everyone here thinks I’m Marty the Baseball fanatic,
Marty the lonely alcoholic, Marty the ex Marine, the meathead,
the man’s man. If they only knew.
Still another hobby hidden in my sleeve is my love of urine.
I drink it. Willingly. I know that might sound gross at first.
But it’s not what you’d think. Urine is simply what
happens to water when it’s lived a little. We’re so
used to pristine water that we forget that purity is not a color,
it’s a concept. And as far as urine is concerned, it’s
far wiser than a glass of Evian. Its color reflects its experiences
the way wrinkles display our age. It’s kinda tangy too,
if you eat enough processed sugar, that is. It’s also heavily
fortified. Metabolic waste? Oh, that’s just a technical
title.
The only problem with slogging down the piss is that it’s
tricky trying to slip a new glass past my colleagues. I love apple
juice, I tell my colleauges, but no one seems convinced. I fear
it has something to do with the fact that I always bring my own
piss in this big Crate and Barrel glass, Saran Wrap covering the
top with a rubber band. Another problem is that the glass is always
a little warm too. I like my A.J. heated, I’d tell them
before, but now they don’t listen to me when I ramble on
about that. For all I know, everyone thinks A.J.’s the guy
who pissed in my large Crate and Barrel glass. We all get along
well enough, just the piss-in-a-glass thing that dampens the mood.
Someone will be telling a funny story, and the instant I bring
out the good ole’ jug’o’pee, everyone stops
talking. They just stare at me, right when I’m about to
get my first taste. To say the least, it’s a little frustrating.
Occasionally, I even have to play along, and pretend it’s
apple juice. I’ll pretend to spill my drink (remember this
trick, it will come in handy later). Damn, I’ll say, I guess
I have to buy another apple juice from one of the park vendors,
I shout out loud so they can hear me. The hard part isn’t
the acting though. The hard part is that I have to drink apple
juice afterwards. And it tastes terrible.
But every one of these little secrets pale in comparison to my
greatest extracurricular activity. Without a doubt, the most important
“secret” hobby of mine also happens to be the one
I’m most passionate about. You see, I am a lint artist.
Sure, most people just throw away their dryer lint. But I actually
do something artistic out of it. I create multicolor landscapes
out of your Jockey’s. I’ve recreated the Sistine chapel,
made several world atlases and constructed 1,000’s of impressionistic
landscapes from my girlfriends’ Underoos. I even sent Minister
Farrakhan a portrait of Malcolm X I did from black and white tube
socks. Needless to say I never got a response from him. I guess
he hasn’t forgiven Malcolm yet.
If you’re wondering why I date women and not costume designers
(which I have by the way, and they wear nothing but black half
the time), I’ll tell you. Women have the most colorful laundry.
Hence, they make the best colors for my master works of art. That’s
why I always pick the ones in bright pastels—it means they’re
in touch with their inner bitch, they might consider mud wrestling
with me and I can’t wait to do their laundry either.
They don’t have to know that my lust for them has more
to do with their Laura Ashley pink grapefruit dress than what’s
underneath it, but I make up for that with the enormous size of
my penis (inflated with collagen for enormous woodies that rival
hummers in size and mobility). As we lie there on the bed afterwards,
holding each other, secretly I’m planning a way to spill
something on my shirt so I’ll be forced to do laundry. And
while I’m at it, why not throw some of your stuff in too,
honey? I’ll suggest matter-of-factly. Ah yes, that trick
again.
But in the end, my little secret genius doesn’t hurt my
girlfriends. Actually it’s the topic of wine parties and
chat rooms. “Did you see Marty’s lint mural of the
five senses above the fireplace?” Women love men who understand
art. They love men who understand women. And all their laundry
is always clean too. As for me, with each new girlfriend I get
the thing I want more than anything: the right colors, the right
medium, to express a talent only God, in his munificence, hands
down to his worthiest and most hopeless martyrs. I am called to
duty by a higher source. Yes, I have a weakness for mud, urinalysis
cups and cross-dressing. But only dryers and belly-buttons can
give me what I really need, only they understand my affliction
for experimental art in this age of corporate censorship and instant
pay-offs.
Bio:
Jackson Bliss calls Chicago and Southern Cali home, though he’s
spent a great deal of time traveling through Europe and Africa,
getting a global education, so to speak. Now he’s at the
University of Notre Dame, working on his MFA thesis—a novel
that explores double lives, the parameters of public art, flash
mobs and multi-ethnic identities. Jackson has published work in
The Bend, The Oberlin Review, The Voice, Right Hand Pointing and
3am Magazine. In his rare moments of free time, Jackson likes
to volunteer, play the piano in the dark, speak French, dance
to good hip-hop, ride the El for hours listening to his iPod,
people watching and loitering at his favorite Thai restaurant
in Chicago with his crew. Sometimes, he likes to sit and just
let everything pass by.