Arthur Nersesian - The Fuck-Up

“Well.” He grinned. “Let me first ease your tension. You’ve got the job. Now, I’d like you to feel unencumbered. Go ahead and shake out your arms and legs.”

He started shaking his arms and legs demonstrating how it was done. I followed him. “Now, tell me how you feel and what you’re aware of.”

This was all very weird. “I feel very happy.”

“Is that precisely how you feel, pleased as opposed to satisfied?”

I thought about it a moment and replied, “Well, I am exceptionally pleased, but as I adjust to the news of being hired—security, authority, responsibility—as this sets in, I taper off into satisfaction.”

“Good, very good. Okay, now I want you to close your eyes and think about this: I was only lying to you. I’m sorry, but you simply don’t have the qualifications. I simply can’t give you the job.” He then paused. I thought about this a moment: punch this guy in the fucking face and get out of here. But then I realized that to him this was one big controlled setting.

“I am unhappy.” This guy wanted me to do some kind of Isadora Duncan dance, symbolizing and acting out feelings. “I am shrouded in constant shade, waiting for liberation. I am a barnacle forever stuck to the bow of a ship.”

“Good, good.” He nodded approvingly. “Now you’ve got the job again and you know that you have it. But you’ve experienced the knowledge of not having it.”

I paused and didn’t know what to do next. “So?”

“So what does this knowledge offer you? How do you see yourself here?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I want to see not anticipation, but action. I want to see you working here tomorrow, right now.”

“You mean you want me to envision myself working here?” I looked over at him and he just watched me. “All right, I can do that.” I closed my eyes and tried to see myself walking through my theater. “Yep, there I am.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m handling the many chores and duties that occur in the course of a given day.” Then opening my eyes, I asked him, “What kind of chores and duties occur in the course of a given day?”

“We’ll go into that later, right now I want you to explore your anxieties.”

“Huh?”

“Look, you don’t realize this, but you are on those dimensions simultaneously. Recollection is just calling forth those moments. Think about it. With any given situation there’s usually a predisposed action.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So when I ask you these questions you don’t have to think. Simply look and tell me what you see.”

“What was the question again?”

“We were talking about your sensations on this matter.”

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes and went under: “I feel an impediment, I’m not as well trained on this as you…. I feel a certain anxiety over what might happen.” I was running dangerously low on bullshit.

“Have you ever participated in EST?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do you chant?”

“No.”

“Crystals?”

“No.”

“All right, we’ll go into more of that later. You’re lucky we met, I see a lot of headway I could help you with.”

“I’m looking forward to that.” Closing my eyes I suddenly started groaning. “Oh, I’m registering something within.”

“Good, good, what is it?”

“It’s stifling…I see…money….” I was answering like someone hearing voices at a seance. “It’s the stifling question of wage.”

“Yes.” He leaned forward energetically. “Good, go with it.”

“I’m speculating about the whole power structure.”

“Okay, that’s Pentagon; you’re referring to Pentagon,” he explained. Who the hell had mentioned the Pentagon? But I got the picture. This was a West Coast hippie with short hair whose destiny as a Haight Ashbury health food cashier had somehow been derailed and instead he had wound up in this bizarre and forsaken spot. Wherever he is nowadays, a transchanneler and a crystal would certainly be nearby. I was getting sick of his shit: “To hell with the Pentagon!”

“Good, excellent, get rid of all that hostility, but then let’s get back to the issue. Specifically, I’d like to hear what you thought when you saw me for the first time.”

This was going to be easy. He wanted to be flattered. “Well, I felt…an energy, you know, like a compass needle pointing north.” I then paused a moment and looked enlightened and blurted, “Of course, it all makes sense now.”

“What does?”

“Well, for the past few days, all these auspicious and portentous things kept happening.”

“Really?” he replied eagerly. “Like what?”

“Well, I felt this kind of Buddhistic suspension, as if nothing and everything mattered.”

“Really?”

“I broke up with my old lover.”

“What a sacrifice.”

“And moved out of my old house.”

“Holy Tao!”

“And I was drawn here randomly by an overheard conversation on a subway.”

“What karma!” he hollered, leaping out of his chair and giving me a hug. I softly pushed him back into his chair.

“Well,” I resumed calmness. “When would you like me to begin?”

Taking a deep sigh, he wiped the sweat off his brow. “How would you feel about starting your training tonight, right up until closing?”

I didn’t want to spend the night in this sleazy theater. “Well, I’m feeling a fear, a panic, my heart is palpitating, panting deeply, quickly. But I’m willing…” I faltered as I put my hand over my heart. “I’m willing to give it…a stab.”

“Maybe tonight is a bad idea. In fact, you better get some rest. You know, what you need is some miso and rest.”

He walked me to the door and concluded, “Give me a call tomorrow and we’ll arrange a time.”

“Thank you,” I said, breathing more easily. When he closed the door, the significance hit me. The replaced esteem, especially considering the long decline into hopelessness that had been averted by this eleventh-hour reprieve, the full impact hit me as I dashed excitedly through the dim, nefarious halls head on into some small guy, knocking him flat to the ground.

“I’m so sorry,” I said as I reached down, unintentionally grabbing him around the chest to help him back to homo erectus.

“Hey!” I heard a high-pitched squawk. “Get off, sleazebag!”

I realized that through the shirt I was juggling a set of boobs. Quickly I let go and she fell back to the ground.

“You’re a girl!”

“I’m a woman, manboy!”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m the projectionist,” she replied. “What’s your problem?”

“Oh, sorry,” I replied, flustered. Not knowing what else to say, I nervously said, “How do you do? I’m straight.” And then I bolted out.

I retreatedback across Twelfth and down Broadway intending to return to Helmsley’s with the heartening news. But as I passed by the NYU dormitories, specifically the one that housed Eunice, I thought about that olive man in the white suit. Instant anger and hurt eclipsed the jubilation of the new job. I realized that this was something that had to be resolved. I wondered if they’d be together now.

It was still the lighter side of twilight, so I decided to try to find her. A guard insisted on announcing me, so she was on guard when I got to her door. When the elevator stopped on her floor and the doors slid open, she was standing there, leaning against her door holding a can of Tab, which she was sucking through a straw. We entered the room.

How could she do that to me? I stood still and stared at that milky, silky soft skin, her shadowless face. At first, I tried to remember and then I tried to forget his filthy hands fumbling over her and then I tried not to imagine what might’ve followed.