My morning client had asked for a copy of the zine, so he’ll be the first to see the March issue, but it’ll be defective. I walked to Kinko’s and ran just four copies — one for the client, one for Factsheet Five ‘cuz their deadline is near, one for me to do corrections of the typos (so these are galley proofs, essentially), and one for just in case.

Kinko’s screwed up, though, ran the copies one-sided, and more annoying, the punk chick at the register somehow managed to smear her lipstick onto several pages on my master copy. When I complained it was all comped for their mistake, but it still sucks. I’ll have to re-print the pages she — what did she do to them, anyway?

♦ ♦ ♦ 

I walked to the address the client had given me, which was only a few blocks from my apartment, and it’s a big, busy house full of people. I asked for Bill, and someone showed me to his room, but he shouted through the door that he wasn’t dressed yet. I got to know one of the cats while my maybe-boss put his britches on, and several guys I assume are his flatmates walked down the hall.

He’s not an ordinary fellow. First thing he said to me was, “Hi, I’m Bill, and my hobby is sex.” I laughed, and he said, “No, I’m serious,” and I laughed again. It wasn’t an ordinary job interview.

The job was not what I’d expected, either. In his voice-mail message, he’d said he runs Black Books, which I assumed was a bookstore, but it’s not. It’s a tiny-scale publishing concern. They print books, and a sex-oriented zine called Black Sheets. I traded my zine for Bill’s, and it hardened me an hour later at home.

And how did Bill know that I publish a zine? A friend of his had read my zine and seen my flyers in the neighborhood, and when Bill said, “I could use some help in the office,” that friend had suggested calling me.

Bill told me a lot about himself, and wanted to know lots about me. Asking me about me tends to seal me up, but I decided I liked him and answered all his questions. Usually it takes 6-8 weeks before I feel comfortable around anyone, but after just a few minutes I heard myself rambling on irrelevantly, like I do here in the zine.

I was saying something about how facial tattoos make me queasy, when it occurred to me that I’d forgotten my glasses and he was across the room, so hell, he might have a triple-pierced nose and my eyes wouldn’t have been focused enough to tell. Up closer, his nose seemed virginal so no offense was taken, and I’ll start working for him on Monday.

A few days a week, I’ll be doing data entry mostly, to input a backlog of paperwork, and also helping with mailings and such.

Bill and I shook hands on the deal, and as I was about to get out of my chair and leave, a naked, gray-haired man came dancing down the stairs wearing a shirt and tie but no pants, with his dick bouncing at right about my eye-height. Another flatmate, I presume.

I’ve done office work for Macy’s, a pharmacy, a car dealership, and several other boring businesses, but this gig might be more interesting.

I didn’t ask, but maybe the guy with the free-range dick is the friend who saw my flyers and suggested Bill hire me. If so, reckon I owe him an ice cold generic cola.

Pathetic Life
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