We do not know exactly what “negotiation” is.
We say, “What else?”
She says, “From here on, I will continue to work the whore’s machine but only if we work only three hours a day.”
This is not possible. If we work three hours a day, our days must necessarily shrink as well.
Or: Perhaps we can trick her.
We can elongate one hour to equal five. Then, surely, we can work only three hours a day.
But we have never used trickery before. Not even once. We are not sure it works.
She says, “We will work only three hours a day, but those three hours will be not be wasted doing menial things such as talking or reading unrelated materials. We will work three hours a day, but they will be three full hours, without distraction and irrelevance.”
This is not possible.
She says, “Three hours of focused work will be the equivalent of our current fifteen hours of tired, exhausted work.”
But: What will we do with all this additional time?
She says, “Those are my terms.”
We say, “It will not be happy with this. We cannot do what it deems improper.”
We possess a certain logic as well.
She who does not belong stands facing the water. There is a small strip of land separating her from the ocean. One hand sits atop the whore’s machine. It is old and very simple: a rusty handcrank, some engravings on the box, a slot for the output. We have never seen inside the whore’s machine. It is magic. The whore is a cunning witch magician.
Water licks the edges of land that is not ours.
the man & his treasure (from Justin Dobbs)
The man is never going to let loose of the treasure he possesses. It is a treasure unlike any treasure he has ever known. It is unlike any treasure anyone he’s ever known has ever known. It’s a special treasure, which the man knows, and knowing, he can let no one else know, or they will come and connive their way into this treasure that is rightfully his.
The man has many clever ways of hiding his treasure. He has constructed compartments in his garments, so that his treasure is always close to the body, although it should never touch the flesh.
There is no particular reason why his treasure should never touch flesh. It is the man’s rule. It is necessary.
He puts on gloves when he transfers his treasure from one hidden compartment to the other.
The man has built a compartment in all of his undershirts where it falls at the small of his back. He has built a compartment in the lining of his silk and his corduroy jackets. In all of his pants, there is a compartment at the base of inner-right ankle. When he is feeling particularly dandy, he has created one for his hat.
The man is not particularly smooth when he transfers the treasure.
The treasure creates a small bulge. The man is not adept at hiding treasure.
But the treasure remains safe nonetheless.
On the train ride to work, the man keeps his treasure in the jacket of his suit. The man yawns. He checks his watch by lifting the cuff of his sleeve. He does a crossword puzzle. There is always a little girl at the same spot outside the train, always playing in a mound of dirt and dust. After he sees the girl, the man lets his eyes drift into sleep. He keeps his hand over the spot where his treasure is hidden beneath layers of cloth.
The man could be a clock. He is that predictable.
Most men on this train are.
He is nothing special, except for his treasure. His treasure makes him more precious than one in a million.
Knowing this, the man tries to seem as normal as possible.
Before the treasure, the man was any other man. Now, this is no longer the case.
The man often thinks that his life has become more tedious with the treasure, not that he minds.
Because he doesn’t want to be noticed, the man routinizes his life. Everything he does, he does as casually as possible.
A yawn is exaggerated in its normalcy.
As a consequence, although he hates his wife and his children, he stays with them. He comes home to them every night and eats the creamed chicken his wife prepares for him. He sits at the table looking at his ugly children and his ugly wife and shoves creamed chicken into his mouth. A daughter attempts to say something clever, to which he smiles condescendingly. She is not very smart.
After dinner, the man sits in front of the television while his wife uses her fat hands to wash the dishes. She brings him a frosty beer. She never buys him the right brand, but he drinks it anyway.
He takes out the trash.
He gets up on time every morning.
He takes a quick, cold shower.
He shaves.
He takes his cold, runny eggs with his coffee and juice. His wife doesn’t know how he likes his coffee. She always gets it wrong, but he doesn’t complain. There is no small talk. Then, of course, the man gets into his car that takes him to the bus that takes him to the train that takes him to work.
Every day — except Saturdays and Sundays — the man arrives at work before the others. He walks by the coffee maker but does not make coffee. Instead, he goes straight into his office and closes the door. There, he puts on a latex glove — he keeps at least three unopened boxes in a locked filing cabinet — and transfers his treasure from his coat to his undershirt. Then, he throws the dirtied glove into the trash bin, tucks back in his shirt, loops his belt in place, buckles it, and sets his left hand on his chair to steady himself.
The man looks at the desk in front of him.
Behind him is a window that overlooks a canal and a courtyard that is surrounded by apartment buildings. If he squints, the man can see a woman undressing. The man looks at his desk. There’s a thick report on his desk, written in Courier font, which he dislikes on principle. Beside it, there is a note printed on purple paper, which he looks over without intentionally reading, a bottle of aspirin, and a telephone.
The man sits down. He pushes his spine against the back of the chair, so he can feel his treasure. There’s a slight pain to it, the treasure having some sharp edges and all. The man finds it pleasurable.
Then, right on time, his secretary bursts in without knocking — she never knocks and the man wants to remedy this, except it would seem aberrant now that she has been acting this way for years — and asks if he would like a cup of coffee, which she has just brewed.
She says: No, I’m not joking. Would you like a cup of coffee?
The man does not know why she would think he thinks she is joking. There has been no laughter, not even a smile or a hint of friendliness in their interaction this morning.
The man says: Yes, of course, and maybe a doughnut, if there’s any left.
The man always says this, fully knowing the doughnuts have not yet arrived.
His secretary says: Oh well, of course. I’ll get right on it.
His secretary mockingly salutes him. Again, the man doesn’t laugh or smile or show any hint of friendliness, but she has done this every day for years. He doesn’t know why she would continue.
On Saturdays and Sundays, the man still goes to the office, although he must make the coffee himself.
Barring, of course, the possibility that she too has a treasure hidden somewhere that she wishes no one else would know about. The man considers the possibility that she too does not want her actions to seem abnormal. The man looks her over for bulges in inappropriate places but sees only tits and ass.
His secretary winks at him.
He does not respond.
Sometimes, the man reaches back there and pretends to scratch an itch.
Right on time, the secretary bursts right in and hands him his coffee and doughnut.