The Spectacular Simon Burchwood Read online

"Good luck, Mr. Burchwood. I have another call."

  "But..."

  She hung up the phone. How rude! I couldn't fucking believe it. Here I was trying to be nice and all and she hung up on me. I stared at the phone in disbelief. I decided, right then and there, that I wasn't going to let this slip. In fact, I thought this was a good opportunity to really speak my mind. I decided that when I sent my resume attached in an email to [email protected] that I would inform whomever responded to this email that Carey was a rude, unprofessional, bore. I was really going to let her have it. It's true. I fired up my trusty laptop and began to furiously type my disgruntled email. I wrote:

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Your Rude Receptionist and My Resume

  Message: To whom it may concern, I called today about a tech support position and I just wanted to let you know that your receptionist, Carey, was rude. Just thought you should know. Also, I've attached my resume, as Carey requested I do. And thanks for the opportunity. Sincerely, Simon Burchwood.

  At exactly 1:00pm the next day, I arrived at 101 East 15th Street, dressed in suitable attire for an interview and with my resume in hand. I was ready as can be, having slept quite well and I was full from a nutritious breakfast. I was going to get this job, no matter what. It's true. I was determined to make it happen.

  Once inside the drab government building, I was greeted by a security guard of African descent. She seemed reluctant to do any kind of work and was quite annoyed that she had to deal with me. I thought it funny that she would be annoyed at all, especially since she wasn't really doing anything, just sitting there typing away on her cell phone, probably texting dirty suggestions to her boyfriend or baby daddy or whoever. Then I thought to myself that this place would do quite nicely, especially if I could sit around doing nothing, just like this lady. It made me smile a little. It's true.

  "Are you here for the meet-and-greet and job interviews?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Then sign in here. Driver's License?" she asked, extending her hand. Her fingernails were an inch long with jewels glued to them. I imagined it would be pretty goddamn hard to shoot a pistol with fingernails like that. In fact, it would be pretty hard to do pretty much anything with fingernails like that. How would she pick her nose without scooping out the inside of her cranium? I'm sure pushing buttons of any sort was a catastrophe with nails like that. Or typing? Can you imagine typing with those goddamn fingernails? It was just unbelievable. It's true.

  I gave her my driver's license. She glanced at it and scribbled her initials next to my name on the clipboard. "Go down to the basement. Room B-112."

  "Thanks."

  "That way," she said.

  I went downstairs.

  2.

  Room B-112 was a small room holding 12 cubicles and it was full of people. 11 technicians occupied 11 small cubes and a dozen or so applicants were applying for the lone seat. I imagined it would be a nerd-fight-to-the-finish. Now when I say nerd, I don't mean it in any kind of derogatory way. Nowadays, it's more like a classification than a term of derision. When I was a kid growing up in Montgomery, Alabama, nerd was a pretty nasty word. It meant that you were smart but (and this is a big BUT) it also meant you were awkward, probably filthy, unattractive to anyone of the female persuasion, and socially inept. It was almost as bad as the word nigger, a word I heard quite often in Montgomery, considering Montgomery is full of goddamn rednecks. The funny thing about rednecks is that they think they are smart but they are as dumb as a pile of used tampons. I'm not sure where they got their superiority complex from but it's rather misguided. It's true. Anyway, just as rappers and such appropriated the word nigger and turned it into a term of endearment, nerd has simply become a word of classification for someone who is smart and into the tech scene. It's weird how words can change their meaning over time, isn't it? It's true.

  Now, Room B-112 was pretty sparse and the walls were painted that government version of gooey tan that you see in practically every government building, and there wasn't one goddamn window in there to let in some sunlight. But it had a busy air to it and I felt I could work there for the time being while I wrote my next novel. Off to one side was a door to another room and the dozen or so nerds were in some kind of line, moving towards it. I figured that's where I must be going. I kept to myself while I waited.

  It didn't take too long before it was my turn to go in there for my interview. I sat in front of two men. One was a bald, older-looking fellow wearing a white, button-down shirt with a red tie, pocket-protector securely fastened in his shirt pocket. The other was a rather large, but kind-looking African-American man. They both had forced smiles, the kind of smiles brought on by long days of interviews with know-it-all nerds. I was ready for any questions they had.

  "My name is Mike," the bald guy said, extending his hand to me for a shake. He had a limp handshake.

  "And my name is Rod," said the African-American fellow. His handshake was like a fucking vise. He practically crushed my hand into dust with his massive goddamn hand. It's true.

  "I'm going to let Rod lead this interview since he's the lead support technician. If hired, you will be following his instructions. He is a very capable and knowledgeable technician. Take it away, Rod."

  Rod squared me up with his eyes, studying me, like he was a chess master or something. I could tell he was carefully choosing his line of questioning. But something told me he really knew his stuff. Sometimes, you can tell if someone knows their stuff by the way they carry themselves. It's true. Rod carried himself like a brick house.

  "Have you supported the Windows environment before?" he asked.

  "Yes," I responded.

  "What do you do if a customer says their document won't print?"

  "Check to see if the printer driver is installed and check their print queue for any messages."

  "What do you say to a customer who says they used their CD-ROM tray as a coffee cup holder and the cup spilled coffee everywhere when the tray automatically went back into the computer?"

  "I'd tell them they were fired."

  Rod burst into a hardy chuckle, a laugh so deep and thunderous that it startled me. He gave me a quick glance. I was ready for more questions but he gave Mike a wink and that was it.

  "Well, it seems Rod likes you. Tell me about yourself. Married? Have children? Any hobbies?"

  "I'm recently divorced. I have two kids named Jessica and Sammie. They are my pride and joy. And for a hobby... well, I wouldn't call it a hobby so much as a passion. But I like to write in my free time."

  "Really? What do you write?"

  "Novels."

  "Novels? How fantastic. I love to read, especially westerns. Louis L'Amour, Anthony Burgess, even Cormac McCarthy, although he doesn't write westerns much anymore. You know, I've always wanted to be a writer..."

  Oh shit, here it went. Once I mention to someone that I'm a writer, it never fails that they always say how much they want to be a goddamn writer and write the great American novel and shit like that. It's guaranteed like the sun rising in the east and setting in the fucking west. It's true. It's like a curse, listening to these goddamn idiots explain to me how their dreams of literary success is always thwarted by other things going on in their lives, what, with their bratty kids and their bitchy wives and their goddamn jobs and life in general getting in the way. Life has a way of messing things up for everyone. Like I said, life can be a goddamn mess. It's true. But I didn't want to let his bullshit get into my head. If you let someone's bullshit get into your head, then writer's block can set in. And the last thing a writer needs is to let writer's block set in. Writer's block is the devil. So I focused on a spot on the wall while he blabbed his goddamn head off. It took a while too, the blabbing. But he eventually moved on.

  "...but, you know, I have my career here. I'll write when I retire," Mike said. He was finished talking, thank God.

  "Yes, when you retire. Good time to write
."

  "When can you start?" Rod asked.

  "Aren't you going to ask me more questions?"

  "Do you want me to ask you more questions?"

  "Well..."

  "I usually get a good or bad sense about people pretty quick. I don't need to ask you anymore questions, unless you want me to. So, when can you start?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "Good, be here tomorrow at 7:50am, sharp."

  "OK."

  I stood up and extended my hand for a shake. I got another limp shake from Mike. I braced myself for Rod's vise grip and he didn't fail to deliver. His grip was just as firm as the first time, like a goddamn vise. I grit my teeth and took it like a man. I smiled and said thank you.

  Walking out, the other nerds gave me a concerned stare. They knew, deep down in their nerdy hearts, that they had the knowledge and skill set to get this nerdy job. But little did they know that the job was mine and I didn't have the heart to tell them, the poor bastards. They were smart enough to figure it out for themselves. It's true.

  3.

  When I was a kid, I loved comic books. I loved comic books more than anything, more than bikes, more than girls, more than just about everything. It's true. I especially loved Marvel Comics, Spider-man, X-Men, The Avengers, The Fantastic Four, but particularly Spider-Man. The Amazing Spider-Man. The Spectacular Spider-Man. I collected issues of Spider-Man. Everything Spider-Man. Not only did I relate to Peter Parker, Spider-Man's awkward alter-ego, I was enamored with the writing of Stan Lee and the artwork of Steve Ditko. There was real poetry in the narrative of the life of Peter Parker. He was a nerd, a reject, and a very three-dimensional teenager. And that, right there, made him unique in the comic book universe.

  Now, there were some very established characters in comic books. You had the tried and true characters from the DC Universe: your Supermen, your Batmen, your Flashes. But these characters had been around for decades before the Marvel Universe. And they were grown men, older fellows far removed from my pimply youth. But Peter Parker, he was a kid just like me. He was covered in pimples and was awkward and love struck with his girl and hormonal and unsure of himself. Even with his newfound powers, he doubted he could do anything worth anything. After kicking a super villain's ass, he still thought he was a piece of shit. I liked that. I could relate to that. I felt just like Peter Parker, except I didn't have shit for powers. Sometimes I struggled with Peter's doubt and self-deprecation. I would say to myself, as I pored over issue after issue, "Come on, man. You're fucking Spider-Man! You can climb walls for Christ's sake. You have motherfucking Spidey sense. What's your problem?!" But I knew his problem. He was a teenager. And so was I.

  Because of Spider-Man, I knew when I was a kid that I wanted to be a writer. I thought Stan Lee, the creator of the Marvel Universe, was a genius. And Steve Ditko's artwork was perfect. Their talents were a match made in heaven. And I decided, right then and there after studying their work, that that was what I wanted to do too when I grew up. I wanted to be a comic book writer. But I couldn't draw for shit. So what was I to do? I'll tell you what I did. I enlisted the only friend I had that was a willing accomplice: Jason. Now, Jason couldn't draw for shit either. In fact, he made stick figures look retarded without trying to make them look retarded. He had a God-given gift for drawing stick figure retards, which meant any kind of heroism or dramatic flair was completely out of the question. It's true. But I was driven. I felt, deep down in my misguided heart, that I could nudge Jason's talent for drawing retarded stick figures into something, anything, that resembled Steve Ditko's beautiful artwork. Boy, was I wrong. I tried. I really did. But Jason's artistic talents resembled more that of a kindergartner's autistic scribbles than a Marvel masterpiece. Our teamwork was short-lived and an abysmal failure. I soldiered on alone.

  Jason became more than a collaborator. He became my cheerleader. He encouraged me to follow my dream and I did. Without Jason's support, I wouldn't be where I'm at today. It's true. I love that goddamn bastard. He's the one who introduced me to Kurt Vonnegut. Once I read Vonnegut's work, I knew I didn't need to team-up with an artist and create comic books. I could simply be a writer. Vonnegut's characters spoke to me in the same way that Lee's did. They were all tragically flawed in an outlandish way. His work was profound, funny, and poetically absurd. Hi ho.

  When I arrived to my first day on the job at the Texas Commission of Employment and Benefits, I brought along a few personal items. 1) A framed photo of my kids, Jessica and Sammie 2) a copy of Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut 3) a copy of Amazing Spider-Man, Vol. 1 by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko 4) a copy of Mad Libs, in case I needed to work out some writer's block (you never know when you'll need a copy of Mad Libs to work out some writer's block. It's the goddamn Devil, you know?) 5) and finally, a shmapple. What's a shmapple, you may be asking? Well, it's an ordinary apple. But Sammie has this cute way of changing words by adding a "shm" to the front of the word. So he might say something like this to me, "Daddy, a shmapple a day keeps the shmoctor away." And then he would giggle his little head off. I love that kid.

  Rod came by my desk, crushing my goddamn hand with his handshake again, and gave me a quick run-through of the phone system and the call-logging application. It was pretty straightforward. Being a tech support guy was a pretty goddamn straightforward thing. Idiots call and you tell them what to do. Done. Log it in the system. The user's an idiot. Fixed it. Next.

  "I have faith that you know what you are doing so you really won't need any formal training, will you?" he asked, cocking his head in a wink-wink fashion, if you know what I mean?

  "Sure."

  "Good. I'll assign another tech to help you if you have any questions. He's a bright kid... uh, a little strange at times but he knows his stuff."

  "OK."

  "Let me know if you need anything."

  "Does my computer have a word processor on it?" I asked.

  "Yes, it has a full Office suite installed. And everything else you will need to perform your work. Just push the green button on the phone when you're ready. That will put you in the call queue."

  I quickly gathered my things together and put myself in the queue. And then, nothing. The phone didn't ring off the hook, like I expected. At my old job at TechForce, the phone rang off the goddamn hook. It was fucking ridiculous. I barely had time to breathe let alone go to the bathroom to take a leak or blow my nose or write my fiction. Well, I made time to write (a writer always makes time to write. Duh!). But going to the bathroom? That was another story. I hate to admit this but I once had to take a piss so bad while stuck in the call queue that I peed in my trash can under my desk. It's true. I couldn't get up from my goddamn desk because my managers wouldn't let me out of the queue. It was that busy. It was goddamn ridiculous if you ask me. But apparently at the Texas Commission of Employment and Benefits, the phone didn't ring off the goddamn hook. Apparently, it barely rang at all. So, after 15 to 20 minutes of staring at my phone, I decided it was time to write. I fired up the word processor, slipped my portable flash drive into my computer, and opened the file containing my new novel.

  Now, the key to writing a good novel is very simple. So simple, in fact, that I'm almost afraid to tell you. Great writers, like great magicians, don't give away their tricks and secrets. But I like you, I really do. So I'm going to drop some knowledge on your unsuspecting head. I know you'll appreciate the goddamn gesture. I'm sure of it. The key to being a good writer is "preparation." That's it. Preparation. What do I mean by preparation? It's simple. The best analogy I can give is that being a writer is a lot like being a really good cook. To prepare a good meal, you have to gather and measure your ingredients. You need to prep the oven, utensils, and cookware. You have to set your prep and cook times, so on and so forth, etc. If you follow the directions and take the appropriate steps, then you'll have a goddamn delicious meal or dessert or whatever when you're done. It's easy as pie. It's true. Although, I have to admit, making a pie really isn't that easy and neith
er is writing a good novel.

  I spent the last six months preparing this novel and I was ready to belt it out. What is it about, you ask? I had this brilliant idea to write a memoir that was completely fabricated. Now, if you watch even a smidgeon of TV, you probably know of a shithead named James Frey, a writer who duped Oprah Winfrey in front of her TV audience into thinking his memoir was a goddamn masterpiece. But he later admitted that it was only partially a masterpiece and also partially a goddamn lie. What a doofus! Telling lies on TV will get you in hot water. It's true. But I remember thinking, "Why partially fabricate a memoir? Why not completely fabricate a memoir?!" It's fucking genius!

  I didn't get halfway through a sentence before I was bothered by a jingly noise behind me. I turned around to discover a nerd in my cube, all snaggle-toothed and hunch-backed and awkward. He was the epitome of the nerd stereotype: greasy hair, cheap ill-fitting clothes, pens in the shirt pocket, and so on and so forth. He was a goddamn nerdy mess. It's true. As he stood there in my cube, gawking at me, his hand was tossing whatever was in his pants pocket (coins, lint, game tokens, paper clips, Dungeon and Dragons dice, car keys) along with his testicles. It was the most vigorous display of pocket pool I had seen in my entire life. And he was shameless about it, a goddamn nightmare.

  "My name is Ryan. What's your name?" he asked, smacking his nerd lips over his nerd gums with gingivitis so potent the air around us curdled.

  "Simon. My name is Simon. I'm the new guy," I said, shielding my nostrils from his bad breath or at least trying to.

  "You worked tech support before?"

  "Yes, at a company called TechForce."

  "Oh, TechForce!" His nerd eyes lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree. "I heard that place was cool."

  "Not really."

  "Oh," he wheezed. He looked genuinely disappointed, like the data he had about TechForce in his nerd brain was corrupt or something. His brain quickly shuffled around the bad data, putting it into archive mode, and switched back to awkward nerd mode. "You got any certifications?"