Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

I do not know what he means. But it is clear he is upset, because he is drinking so much alcohols in middle of the day.

“That sounds bad,” I say, trying my best to be polite.

“It’s real bad,” he says. “There’s no way I’m doing a whole fucking draft for them. It’s, like, you gotta draw the line somewhere, you know?”

He refills his alcohol glass.

“You ever deal with this kind of bullshit at the pickle factory?”

I think about it.

“There was one time my friend got caught in the gears,” I say. “And it ripped up his torso, through the chest. And there was blood coming out of his mouth and he was screaming. And I plead with them to stop the machine, because my friend is dying, but no one listens to me, and my friend keeps howling until he is dead. And for years I see his face inside my dreams, with the blood coming out of his eyes and his mouth, begging for me to please save him.”

Simon says nothing for a while.

“Maybe I’ll just do the draft,” he murmurs.

One night we have dinner with Claire, a goyish woman Simon mates with in defiance of our Lord.

“So,” she asks me, “where are you from originally?”

“Slupsk,” I tell her.

“It’s near the Poland — Lithuania border,” Simon explains with big smile on his face. He is wrong, but I do not contradict him. He seems very proud of knowing this one fact about me.

“That’s so cool you’re from there,” Claire says to me. “I’ve always wanted to visit Eastern Europe.”

I fold my arms and squint at her.

“Why would you visit there?”

“I don’t know,” she says, shrugging. “I hear it’s got a really cool art scene.”

I lean in close to her.

“The only scene in Slupsk is people eating horsemeat to live and killing each other for potatoes.”

I point my finger at her face.

“You must never go to Slupsk,” I warn her. “It is city of death.”

“Oh,” she says softly. “Okay.”

She stands up.

“I’m going to cut up the tofu.”

“Thanks, honey,” Simon says.

“You must never go to Slupsk!” I call out after her.

When girl is gone, I grip Simon’s shoulder and stare him in the eyes.

“That girl is too thin,” I say. “She has not long to live.”

Simon chuckles.

“That’s just how girls look these days,” he says. “Here, I’ll show you.”

He opens thick, smelly book with shiny pages. It is magazine, he explains, called the Vogue.

“This model’s famous,” he says, pointing to mostly naked woman. “She was married to Orlando Bloom.”

I squint at the picture. The girl is very pale, with vacant eyes.

“I have seen this disease in Slupsk,” I tell him. “First, they cough the blood. Then they begin to shake. They ask for the water, but when you bring them some to drink, it makes them vomit up the black. They die screaming, their eyes wide open, afraid.”

Claire returns.

“Who wants tofu?” she asks.

“Please,” I tell her, “eat my portion.”

One day, I wake up to the sound of yelling. It is Simon. He is kicking his foot against his desk, shouting profanities.

“Motherfucker!” he cries. “Fucking goddamned fuck!”

I jump up from couch and run down hall. It is clear Simon has experienced a tragedy — something monstrous, like the death of someone close. I get to his office and gently open door. Simon is sitting at his desk, shaking his head and massaging his temples. His skin is pale and he is out of breath from screaming.

“Goddamn Internet’s down,” he says. “Second time this morning.”

“What is Internets?” I ask.

“It’s a thing on computers.”

“What is computers?”

It takes him long time, but eventually Simon is able to explain. A computer is a magical box that provides endless pleasure for free. Simon is used to constant access to this box — a never-ending flow of pleasures. When the box stops working — or even just briefly slows down — he becomes so enraged that he curses our God, the one who gave us life and brought us forth from Egypt.

“It’s Time Warner,” he tells me. “They’re the fucking worst.”

He bangs his fist against his desk.

“How am I supposed to get work done without the Internet?”

I glance at his computer machine. I am still learning about modern technologies. But I am pretty sure from looking at it that Simon has not been doing “work.” There are three boxes open on screen. In first, there is sports scores. In second, there is pornographies. In third, there is Simon’s own name, typed into thing called Google.

Simon notices me looking at his computer and quickly steps in front of it.

“I was taking a break,” he says, his voice loud and defensive. “You must have taken breaks sometimes at the pickle factory.”

“Is true,” I say. “Whenever there was fire, we would get to leave factory until they finish clearing out the dead.”

His phone begins to play loud song.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I gotta take this, it’s my agent.”

He picks up phone and paces around office, a pained look in his eyes.

“I already said no to that!” he says. “No — I don’t want to punch up any more sequels. Because it’s completely unfulfilling. It’s someone else’s characters, someone else’s plot — I’m supposed to be working on my novella.”

He pauses midstride.

“They’re offering what? For just six weeks? Holy shit.”

He continues to pace, but slower, and with a strange look in his eyes. It reminds me of time I saw hurdy-gurdy man get hit by brick. He was very embarrassed, and also in pain (because the brick had been thrown into his genitals). But his desire for moneys was so great, he continued to play his song and try to dance his jig.

“You know what?” Simon says in as cheerful a voice as he can make. “That’s actually an excellent idea for a Zoo Crew movie. I mean, they already had Captain Cow go to outer space in the fifth one. But he’s never been to the moon. ”

His voice lowers.

“Do you think we can get them to go up even higher? No? Okay — just checking.”

He puts away phone and we make eye contact.

“What are you looking at?” he asks.

“I am just standing here,” I say.

That night Simon’s goy comes with giant bag of vegetables.

“I heard you’re into pickling,” she says. “So I went on Epicurious and planned a pickle-themed menu. We’re having broiled trout with pickle butter — and a pickle-vinaigrette salad on the side.”

In truth I despise eating pickles, because they remind me of the deaths of many friends. But I do not want to be rude.

“It is generous,” I say.

“It’s nothing,” she says. “I want us to become better friends, you know?”

She takes out an onion and begins to chop it, very slowly, in an incorrect way. When Sarah chopped vegetable, she used big, heavy knife. She would hold one end down and then swiftly lower blade like it was lever. Claire chops onion using tiny, skinny knife, making one little cut at a time. We will not eat for many hours.

“I’ve been meaning to cook more,” she says. “Simon likes to go out every night. Between you and me, I’m getting pretty sick of it.”

She is barely halfway through the onion when the knife slips and slashes her finger.

“Fuck!” she screams. “Ow, fuck!”

She starts to cry as her blood seeps onto counter. Suddenly, I hear the sound of another woman shriek. I spin around and am surprised to see that it is Simon, standing there with his hands over his eyes.

“Oh my God!” he shouts. “Your fucking finger!”

“What do I do?” Claire cries. “What do I do, what do I do?”