What is Project Paragone? Scroll below for the work itself. But, in short, we're coming after you. So many magazines are the arbiters of who writes, who writes well, and who should be published. This isn't a bad thing in itself. But we at Wheelhouse want to be a bit more collaborative. We want to bring our magazine to you, our readers, and for you to bring us what you have. Wheelhouse is a collaborative effort. A space where you can see your work published, and more importantly, connect to others out there in the world through art. We want writers to contribute to our magazine in ways that are at times uncomfortable, but in the end, hopefully, satisfying. That is, if you are a fiction writer, we want you to step outside your genre and give us something that isn't "your style." If you're an academic, a plumber, a radio talk-show host, or just gainfully unemployed and never written a word of creative expectoration, this is your chance to do so. Consider it an experiment.
More specifically: Project Paragone is a series of collaborative experiments that have to do with creating art and through art, crafting a kind collage of voices. Everything we receive will be published on-line. And random winners (pulled from a hat) will be published in hard-copy. We're as interested in what would be considered artistic "failure" as we are success. Each project will be different, but the theme is the same: emphasis on "process." The format is the same as well. If you are on Wheelhouse's mailing list, approximately every 2 months you will receive a "project" in your inbox. It's up to you whether you want to participate.
Our first "project" is a kind of mad lib, entitled "Project Infini Entendre." That is, it's the skeletal outline of a short, short story, to which you must add your touch, your perspective, your voice-by simply filling in the blanks. If you've already received our first project, we hope you'll participate and send us back your story. If you've received our e-mail and NEVER want to participate, let us know to take you off our mailing list by simply replying to the e-mail sent you. You will be removed promptly.
If you aren't on our mailing list and would like to participate in Project Paragone, click here to download the first project in Adobe PDF format. Email your contributions to wheelhouse@wheelhousemagazine.com. Now, get out there and contribute! Let's make something!
In Solidarity,
The Editors
PROJECT PARAGONE
Project 1: Infini-Entendre
by Charles Horres
In America nowadays, it’s like calling a woman on the phone and just breathing heavily. Why do we bother? I remember when I was a kid, back when I had hope for the future. Thing about it was that you could succeed whenever you liked. It didn’t take a magic monkey’s fist and the timing of John Wilkes Booth to get by.
But that’s all gone and bygone. Because, you know, I come from the ‘dirty’ South. What else was I supposed to think? My grandfather couldn’t even read. I got tired of it, the people who’d rather see Darlington raceway than the Eiffel tower, and I was full of myself. The way I perceived things it’s no wonder that I needed sleeping pills.
My best friend Bubba said to me once: “You know, I just can’t get that Kentucky Derby out of my mind.”
I said: “okay.” Because I’m not much for the smell of dirt, dung, perfumed hats, booze and the sweat of men who’ve lost their money. He knew that about me already, but Bubba went on—something about ‘you remember that favorite, who hadda drop out the race just ‘cause, even though the bookies were saying there wasn’t no point in even taking no bets on account of him?’ Good thing we ain’t horses then, was all I had to say, aside from a remark about ole’ Thunder Thighs McGee probably getting all the horse-tang he wanted, derby or no derby. Bubba didn’t say anything else, because he also knew that I wasn’t the sort of person you could just drag into a serious conversation about life or death or god-knows-what-else sort of thing that people always kept yammering on about without really saying much.
But as things went on you know, seasons, things changed. I began to look at the world as if it were a derby, and I’d dropped out.
I mean, at one point, I grabbed my gun and shoved it in my mouth. Might as well have been my toothbrush. That’s how I felt. We can’t just go on like this. Pascal’s wager is of no help here: if there’s an afterlife, you better believe. That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s here, here, here. The now that I’m talking about. Nowadays, in America, especially in a big city, you can’t walk down a street without getting photographed or blogged about. But poor Bubba and me, it was as if we just figured you can be noticed without anyone giving a crap.
“So are you going?” Bubba said from out the window of his dad’s big, old truck.
“Well, I just can’t seem to find any reason not to.” I said.
Truth is, I was through. I cared about things, sure. But, those days, you couldn’t just up ‘n accomplish something worth caring about, so why care in the first place?
I had a realization. Call it an epiphany. I was at work. I worked out at Fort Point. There’s a certain amount of majesty to it. Anyway, I was watching the bricks crumble. You know, just watching. And that’s when it hit me, as though I’d just been born, some jerk-off doctor slapping me awake, me seeing a universe, uneven, uncharted, for the first—and last—time. That’s how it was. I thought: you know, we’re all just a buncha bricks crumbling, so why do we gotta make it so got-dang hard on ourselves while we do it? Why worry about being something important, or even making much of a living? I mean, what tourist comes to the fort and can tell which bricks are left over from the Civil War and which ones just migrated from south of the border? Which one of them even cares, so long as the fort’s still standing for them to clamber over and take their sun-blind, squint-eyed family portraits in front of? And all this coming from the cynic who just finished complaining about people yammering and not saying anything. I know it’s a load of derby-grade horse puckey. I just never really believed that thinking something could lead to any sort of real, substantial change, but standing there, leaning against a musty, hundred-plus-year-old wall staring down a rust-bucket cannon that had probably never shot at a thing in its life, it was like the scales had fallen from my eyes. I realized, there wasn’t gonna be no playing alive when I was dead, so there was no point in playing dead while I was still alive. There was no point waiting for some hand in the sky to come down n’ tell me to pack my bags and buy an English-to-French dictionary because I was finally worth caring about.
I’m not joking. You think I’m joking. But that’s how it was. So I took my badge back to the ranger office, scribbled a note—“Epiphany! ~Later, y’all.”—and went out on the town. After that, I went to my apartment and started counting dollars and cents.
Took me the better part of half an hour. The sun was coming up by then. Orange, huge, like a wrong eye. I thought about Thunder Thighs, just laying back and enjoying all that horse-tang.
After that I went home. Everything was suddenly unfamiliar. There was a Costco where the local diner used to be. My house was there, and so were my parents and friends. I thought about how they fly that Confederate flag after every Veteran’s Day, and I thought about my past, a past encapsulated, incarcerated, by lust for ascendancy. This image, this image, living here back in Myrtle, without expectations, made me free.
Years later, after I’d gotten a job and place, I finally felt settled. After that there was only possibility. The possibility that I might drive to Darlington or just sit on my ass. Shall we dance?
by Michelle McMahon
In America nowadays, it’s like fishing for boots. Why do we bother? I remember when I was a kid, back when I had fireflies in jam jars. The thing about it was that you could dream whenever you liked. It didn’t take sleep to come up with a good idea.
But that’s all down the river. Because, you know, I come from New Jersey. What else was I supposed to think? My mom couldn’t even cook. I got tired of it, the constant fishing for dreams in a river full of boots. The way I perceive things it’s no wonder that I need a therapist.
My son Tommy said to me once: “You know, I just can’t get that rainbow out of my mind.”
I said: “Okay.”
Because I’m not much for conversation with babies.
But as things went on you know, seasons, things changed. I began to look at the world as if it were a river drowning with boots.
I mean, at one point, I grabbed my hope and shoved it in the paper shredder. Might as well have been my death. That’s how I feel. We can’t just go on like this. Pascal’s wager is of no help here: if there’s an afterlife, you better believe. That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s the here, here, here. The now that I’m talking about. Nowadays, in America, especially in a trailer park, you can’t find a river without boots floating in it. But poor Tommy, it was as if he just couldn’t forget that rainbow.
“So, are you going?” Tommy said from my husband’s open suitcase.
“Well, I just can’t seem to make Daddy stay,” I said.
Truth is, I’m suicidal. I care about things, sure. But these days, you can’t just care about things; you need something to dream about, like catching fireflies.
I had a realization. Call it an epiphany. I was at work. I work at home. There’s a certain amount of beautifully to it. Anyway, I was watching the microwave heat hot dogs. You know, just watching. And that’s when it hit me, as though I’d just been born, some jerk-off doctor slapping me awake, me seeing a universe, uneven, uncharted, for the first—and last—time. That’s how it was. I thought: fireflies exist in the rainbows of Tommy’s books. If I could believe like he did in the pictures of his story books, I could step out onto the burnt lawn in front of our trailer and see fireflies.
I’m not joking. You think I’m joking. But that’s how it was. So I take the hot dogs out of the microwave, cut them up into tiny pieces so Tommy won’t choke on them. After that, I went to the lawn and started counting fireflies.
Took me the better part of half an hour. The sun was coming up by then. Orange, huge, like a wrong eye. I thought about calling my husband and asking him to come home.
And after that I went home. Everything was suddenly unfamiliar. There was a large jar where the buzzing microwave used to be. My rainbow was there, and so were Tommy’s books. I thought about how they fly that cloud after every storm and I thought about my past, a past encapsulated, incarcerated, by lack of dreams. I thought about my future. This image, this image, living here in this trailer, without a husband, made me brave.
Years later, after I collected all the fireflies I could, my husband came home. After that there was only possibility. The possibility that I might love or die. Shall we dance?
by Eddie Jeffrey
In America nowadays, it’s like automated masturbation: politics, culture, etc., the new ubiquitous porn geared by a rabid media in every way to get you off. Why do we bother?
I remember when I was a kid, back when I had the comprehension of an armadillo. The thing about it was that you could switch-off whenever you liked. It didn’t take an Act of Congress or a Boot-Down procedure. But that’s all stale memory. Because, you know, I come from West Virginia. What else was I supposed to think? My lungs couldn’t even sing. I got tired of it, the hills, the hollers, the carpet baggers, how they predetermined the movements of my feet. The way I perceive things it’s no wonder that I need origami lessons.
God said to me once: “You know, I just can’t get that Lilith out of my mind.
I said: “okay.”
Because I’m not much for pining. I'm not much for bullshit affectations of self-loathing used to excuse amoral lifestyles. He can take those self-righteous fits of rage and sit on 'em; He could use a high-colonic, maybe even a good ass-fucking. Maybe then He'd see how Lilith really felt and that Adam and Eve never stood a chance. But whose gonna be the One to give it to Him?
Atheism's just a way to ignore the problem. I guess what I'm trying to say is I'm a carnivore and I'm not going to apologize to you, Him or anybody. Vegans beware: cannibalism is on the rise. Tofu is people...
But as things went on you know, seasons, things changed. I began to look at the world as if it were a cyborg. I mean, at one point, I grabbed my mouse and shoved it in my ass. Might as well have been my toaster. That’s how I feel. We can’t just go on like this. Pascal’s wager is of no help here: if there’s an afterlife, you better believe. That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s the here, here, here. The now that I’m talking about.
Nowadays, in America, especially in Kansas, you can’t eat a monkey without getting stoned for heresy. But poor Al, it was as if he just imploded after the stickup.
“So are you going?” Rudy said from George's costume parlor.
“Well, I just can’t seem to get this mask to fit,” I said.
Truth is, I’m stupefied. I care about things, sure. But, these days, you can’t just paint Charlie Wilson as a good guy and expect me to laugh it off.
I had a realization. Call it an epiphany. I was at work. I work at a water treatment plant. There’s a certain amount of polity to it. Anyway, I was watching the shit rolling in. You know, just watching. And that’s when it hit me, as though I’d just been born, some jerk-off doctor slapping me awake, me seeing a universe, uneven, uncharted, for the first—and last—time. That’s how it was.
I thought: what can anybody do to stop this? The sun won't quit burning. We won't quit stacking hidden guilt upon hidden shame to build our altars of Freedom. Because we filter the run-off and drink it all in. We are what we eat, and what's more appetizing than sneaking off to indulge our guilty pleasures?
I’m not joking. You think I’m joking. But that’s how it was. So I left - I wanted nothing more to do with wiping the ass of the social order. After that I went to D.C. and started counting homeless vets. Took me the better part of half an hour. The sun was coming up by then. Orange, huge, like a wrong eye. I thought about an ulcer the size of Los Angeles.
And after that I went home. Everything was suddenly unfamiliar. There was a large olive grove where the barbed-wire-enclosed basketball court used to be. My woolly mammoth collection was there, and so were a dozen mules. I thought about how they fly that flag-pin after every disaster and I thought about my past, a past encapsulated, incarcerated, by symbolic gestures. I thought about my future. This image, this image, living here in Sodom, without fire insurance, made me nervous.
Years later, after the last olive tree died, I weaved my hair around its withered branches. After that there was only possibility. The possibility that I might decay or transcend. Shall we dance?
by Hannah Gurman:
In America nowadays, it’s like you’re damned if you do and if you don’t. Why do we bother? I remember when I was a kid, back when I had nothing but God and ambition. The thing about it was that you could read whenever you liked. It didn’t take a bunch of hypocritical arrogant lawyers to tell you what was right.
But that’s all in the past. Because, you know, I come from Tyrone, Missouri. What else was I supposed to think? My black eye couldn’t even shine. I got tired of it, the tattered shoes, the church hand-me-down sweaters, the schoolyard jokes, the always wanting and never having. The way I perceive things it’s no wonder that I need renewal.
Jeff said to me once: “You know, I just can’t get that Porsche out of my mind.
I said: “okay.”
Because I’m not much for doing tomorrow what you can do today. And I believe that people should treat themselves the way God wants them to be treated. Surely, God wants everybody to have their needs met. So if you can buy yourself a Porsche, by all means, do. And if you don’t, well then maybe you don’t love yourself as much as God loves you. I mean that. As time went on you know, seasons, things changed. I began to look at the world as if it were a great ocean being emptied.
I mean, at one point, I grabbed my bible)and shoved it in the paper shredder. Might as well have been my soul. That’s how I feel. We can’t just go on like this. Pascal’s wager is of no help here: if there’s an afterlife, you better believe. That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s the here, here, here. The now that I’m talking about. Nowadays, in America, especially in America, you can’t keep taking without giving back. But poor Skilling. it was as if he just had all the energy sucked out of him, nothing left.
“So are you going?” Skilling said from max security.
“Well, I just can’t seem to shake this feeling)” I said.
Truth is, I’m wasted. I care about things, sure. But, these days, you can’t just spend your whole life in search of a buck.
I had a realization. Call it an epiphany. I was at work. I work at a farm cooperative in the Houston correctional facility. There’s a certain amount of calm to it. Anyway, I was watching the tractors plough the fields. You know, just watching. And that’s when it hit me, as though I’d just been born, some jerk-off doctor slapping me awake, me seeing a universe, uneven, uncharted, for the first—and last—time. That’s how it was. I thought: Watermelons! You could drive to work on watermelons, and you could drive home on watermelons! You could heat your house on watermelons, and you could cool your house on watermelons! And the folks in California wouldn’t squabble because everybody loves watermelon. I saw watermelon fuel stations. There’d be one line for seedless, which would be premium, and one with seeds for the economy consumer. And people lining up for miles to be part of it all. And the best part is, you can eat the leftovers. Clean-burning, great-tasting, renewable energy.
I’m not joking. You think I’m joking. But that’s how it was. So I started ploughing, thanking God for watching over me and taking care of business. After that I went to the men and started counting potential investors.
Took me the better part of half an hour. The sun was coming up by then. Orange, huge, like a wrong eye. I thought about God and all the people I was going to help.
And after that I went home. Everything was suddenly unfamiliar. There was a large future where the empty past used to be. My bed was there, and so were the cell’s steel bars. I thought about how they fly that dove after every war and I thought about my past, a past encapsulated, incarcerated, by my own limitations. I thought about my future. This image, this image, living here in prison, without freedom, made me free.
Years later, after prison, from the nursing home, I called the watermelon lobby. After that there was only possibility. The possibility that I might buy or sell. Shall we dance?
Hannah Gurman teaches English Literature at Columbia University. She writes on a variety of topics, including historicity and the novel, writing and dialectics, and contemporary culture.
by Samuel Handleman:
In America nowadays, it’s like you can’t even hear yourself think, over all the bullshit. Why do we bother? I remember when I was a kid, back when I had a game called “Dig Dug”. The thing about it was that you could be victorious whenever you liked. It didn’t take a lot skill to play, but it was colorful, that’s what public discourse is like now.
But that’s all irrelevant today, anyway. Because, you know, I come from California. What else was I supposed to think? My pants couldn’t even button. I got tired of it, the whole hippy thing, being nice to people, which is a waste of time. The way I perceive things it’s no wonder that I need a glass belly button.
My best friend Frank said to me once: “You know, I just can’t get that election out of my mind."
I said: “okay.”
Because I’m not much for dwelling on the past, whatever impression I’ve given so far. You just pick yourself up and keep going. I’m not gonna sugar coat it, though. Not only do bad things happen to good people for no reason, they don’t even build character. I don’t feel like you actually learn much from your mistakes : even if things seem similar, the odds of the same situation coming up again are so remote, it’s hardly worth thinking about. At least if you make the same mistakes again and again you can get used to it, in many ways I think it’s preferable to making different mistakes every time. They took a bunch of pigeons they’d been experimenting on, teaching them that they’d get pellets if they did little dances, and they started giving them pellets completely at random. Whenever a pigeon would get a pellet, it would start frantically repeating whatever dance or bob it did just before the pellet appeared, hoping for another one. In no time you get a whole room full of pigeons, each doing their own individual frantic dance with pellets arriving completely at random. That’s what 99% of human experience is like.
But as things went on you know, seasons, things changed. I began to look at the world as if it were a place that might mean something.
I mean, at one point, I grabbed my remote control and shoved it in Frank’s face. Might as well have been my dog shit. That’s how I feel. We can’t just go on like this. Pascal’s wager is of no help here: if there’s an afterlife, you better believe. That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s the here, here, here. The now that I’m talking about. Nowadays, in America, especially in New York City, you can’t pretend that there’s nothing you can do about what’s happening. But poor Frank, it was as if he just couldn’t stop listening to all the talking heads.
“So are you going?” Alex said from my afternoon section.
“Well, I just can’t seem to leave with the TV on,” I said.
Truth is, I’m concerned. I care about things, sure. But, these days, you can’t just tell someone that they have to stop watching the news, it just isn’t done.
I had a realization. Call it an epiphany. I was at work. I work at a research lab at Columbia University. There’s a certain amount of slack to it. Anyway, I was watching the computer, some wingnut webcast. You know, just watching. And that’s when it hit me, as though I’d just been born, some jerk-off doctor slapping me awake, me seeing a universe, uneven, uncharted, for the first—and last—time. That’s how it was. I thought: this is just like that little Zen book of random sentences. On the back of the book there’s an explanation, which is kind of a stupid thing for it to have, it isn’t very Zen but it’s useful here, it says “As you read the sentences this book produces, think: how can any string of words be said to mean anything?” The only reason I’ve been watching this is so I can get Stephen Colbert’s jokes, but this guy has said absolutely nothing in 15 minutes of talking, he’s belting out unfiltered cosmic truth and he doesn’t even know it. That’s irony. You talk about people who think the entire cosmos is one big joke, and we all have exactly one thing in common : we all think the joke is funny.
I’m not joking. You think I’m joking. But that’s how it was. So I closed the window with the webcast. After that I went to google and started counting search results.
Took me the better part of half an hour. The sun was coming up by then. Orange, huge, like a wrong eye. I thought about how many people had quoted this guy, saying nothing.
And after that I went home. Everything was suddenly unfamiliar. There was a large pig where the satelite TV used to be. My roomate was there, and so we just stared at that animal and thought about what to do. I thought about how they fly that balloon after every ballgame and I thought about my past, a past encapsulated, incarcerated, by reason and fun, material things, rational things. I thought about my future. This image, this image, living here in a land where you'd find a pig in place of the one thing that got you through the day, without sense, made me want to get down to business, to take care of her, wherever she came from.
Years later, after I’d started watching the news again, I recalled that day the pig arrived. After that there was only possibility. The possibility that I might someday figure out what the hell is going on. Shall we dance?
Samuel Handleman is a biologist, originally from California. He studies bacteria, some of which are dangerous. He is also an ardent activist, having spent years as a volunteer union organizer.
by James Hare:
In America nowadays, it’s like living in a nightmare. Why do we bother? I remember when I was a kid, back when I had hope for the future. The thing about it was that you could be optimistic whenever you liked. It didn’t take a degree, credential, or license.
But that’s all bullshit. Because, you know, I come from Atlanta. What else was I supposed to think? My classmates couldn’t even graduate. I got tired of it, the apathy and low expectations. The way I perceive things it’s no wonder that I need whiskey.
Kevin said to me once: “You know, I just can’t get that Britney Spears out of my mind."
I said: “okay.”
Because I’m not much for celebrity. I understand an obsession with interesting people, but our national worship of fame is absurd. I heard a radio program yesterday where kids were saying they wanted to play in the NBA or, if they couldn’t do that, become a doctor and save lives. How are these priorities sane or reasonable? Bob Dylan once sang, “Up on housing project hill, it’s either fortune or fame. You must choose one or the other, but neither is to be what it claims.” One of those kids is dead now, and the other is in jail. I can’t help but think that our obsession with celebrity has something to do with their situation.
But as things went on you know, seasons, things changed. I began to look at the world as if it were a game without consequences.
I mean, at one point, I grabbed my quarter and shoved it in the slot machine. Might as well have been my dreams. That’s how I feel. We can’t just go on like this. Pascal’s wager is of no help here: if there’s an afterlife, you better believe. That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s the here, here, here. The now that I’m talking about. Nowadays, in America, especially in New York City, you can’t stop thinking about where the next dollar will come from. But poor Dylan, it was as if he just decided to give up and retreat into private luxury.
“So are you going?” the professor said from his gilded irrelevance.
“Well, I just can’t seem to believe a word you say,” I said.
Truth is, I’m realistic. I care about things, sure. But, these days, you can’t just expect any change without violence.
I had a realization. Call it an epiphany. I was at work. I work at the University. There’s a certain amount of fronting to it. Anyway, I was watching the other grad students. You know, just watching. And that’s when it hit me, as though I’d just been born, some jerk-off doctor slapping me awake, me seeing a universe, uneven, uncharted, for the first—and last—time. That’s how it was. I thought: These people care about nothing more than their own status. They’ll keep whining but they’ll never, ever do anything to challenge the status quo. It’s like academics in Germany in the ‘30’s. The Jews and Communists were expelled, and the rest just stayed on and kept doing their research. We’re told that the liberal arts make us free. Truth is, they do nothing of the sort.
I’m not joking. You think I’m joking. But that’s how it was. So I go back to the library and read another pseudo-radical book about the past. After that I went to the bar and started counting my empty glasses.
Took me the better part of half an hour. The sun was coming up by then. Orange, huge, like a wrong eye. I thought about just dropping out.
And after that I went home. Everything was suddenly unfamiliar. There was a large hole where the tall buildings used to be. My friend was there, and so were all of us. I thought about how they fly that flag after every disaster and I thought about my past, a past encapsulated, incarcerated, by one September day. I thought about my future. This image, this image, living here in New York, without money, made me nostalgic.
Years later, after that day seemed like ancient history. After that there was only possibility. The possibility that I might live or die. Shall we dance?
James Hare is a graduate student in the Department of Religion at Columbia University. His work is in the field of Middle Eastern Studies, Post-Colonial Studies, and Identity. Hare is also a political activist, having spent time as a union organizer. Visit his blog at www.de_licio_us.com. He is currently in India on a research grant.
by Eden Schulz:
In America nowadays, it’s like a TGI Fridays. Why do we bother? I remember when I was a kid, back when I had my hair. The thing about it was that you could leave your house whenever you liked. It didn’t take a Presidential Medal of Freedom.
But that’s all in the past. Because, you know, I come from Truth or Consequences. What else was I supposed to think? My ears couldn’t even sense danger. I got tired of it, the constant blaring of CSPAN on the bigscreen TV. The way I perceive things it’s no wonder that I need a kneecapping.
My mother said to me once: “You know, I just can’t get that pretzel out of my mind."
I said: “okay.”
Because I’m not much for salty snacks. Seriously, my mother is absolutely obsessed with the pretzel that choked President Bush back in the 2000s. I don’t see what the big deal is. Even though it didn’t kill him, he still was assassinated during his second term by that crazy union organizer who strangled him with her bare hands.
But as things went on you know, seasons, things changed. I began to look at the world as if it were an empty, weed-grown parking lot.
I mean, at one point, I grabbed my tongue and shoved it in a jar of fluffernutter. Might as well have been my ear canal. That’s how I feel. We can’t just go on like this. Pascal’s wager is of no help here: if there’s an afterlife, you better believe. That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s the here, here, here. The now that I’m talking about. Nowadays, in America, especially in the sub-sub-suburbs, you can’t just wander the streets. But poor Ann Coulter, it was as if (she) just forgot that our every move is controlled by heavily armed robots.
“So are you going?” Ann said from her wicker basket
“Well, I just can’t seem to motivate myself to leave my pool chaise,” I said.
Truth is, I’m bewildered. I care about things, sure. But, these days, you can’t just act on your convictions.
I had a realization. Call it an epiphany. I was at work. I work at Halliburton There’s a certain amount of shame to it. Anyway, I was watching the power-point presentation about our latest underwater housing project. You know, just watching. And that’s when it hit me, as though I’d just been born, some jerk-off doctor slapping me awake, me seeing a universe, uneven, uncharted, for the first—and last—time. That’s how it was. I thought: What the hell am I doing here with all of these jackasses? With their suits and flipflops? With their wrap-around sunglasses? With their bolo ties?
I’m not joking. You think I’m joking. But that’s how it was. So I stood up very quietly and backed out of the room. After that I went to the roof and started counting excuses.
Took me the better part of half an hour. The sun was coming up by then. Orange, huge, like a wrong eye. I thought about what I would have for breakfast.
And after that I went home. Everything was suddenly unfamiliar. There was a large potted plant where the full-size replica of Michelangelo’s “David” used to be. My hamster was there, and so were my kids. I thought about how they fly that blimp after every Miss America pageant and I thought about my past, a past encapsulated, incarcerated, by a multinational conglomerate. I thought about my future. This image, this image, living here in Jersey without my full-size replica of Michelangelo’s “David” made me shaky.
Years later, after my successful electroshock therapy, I almost felt like my old self, or at least an empty shell of my old self. After that there was only possibility. The possibility that I might enjoy my job or not enjoy my job. Shall we dance?
Eden Schulz is an elected officer of UAW Local 2110 and the managing editor of Wheelhouse Magazine. She lives in New York City.