AKA Analog Abraham
by Bryan May
I’m looking good, feeling
right, got my portfolio in hand, and it has stopped
raining. I’m gonna land this thing. So, is Brooklyn the
town that Manhattan forgot or what? I think it deserves a
bit more press. The shimmer factor isn’t there, the
atmosphere is less chaotic, and as a result, it can be
unsettling at first. It takes a while to calm down from the
frenetic nature of the city; it can’t be done all at once.
Perhaps, by the time you arrive home, take your shoes off,
perform the toe stretch that you learned last week in Yoga,
and raise your arms to the ceiling, you have begun to
unwind. Add a glass of wine, a little TV, and some
microwaved Chinese, and you really have a party. But
getting off the train in Brooklyn and emerging from the
subway is not as soothing as you’d like it to be. So much
quieter, less lights and less people, but not tranquil by
any means. Is the air cleaner or dirtier? The “Brooklyn
revamp” project is underway, or so I hear. There are big
plans for this spot. Construction and painting and removal
of the destitute, businesses moving in and shanties being
leveled, the themes for today and the days upcoming.
A job interview, my
theme for today. Hagger told me he had a schedule that
would “bite a snake,” therefore, “I’d better be on time.”
Was that supposed to mean that his schedule was busy? One
can only assume so. “Yo, son, you got 50 cent? And not the
rapper. I need 50 more cent for the bus. Players only let
you on with exact change.” The kid needed more than 50 cent
to fix those teeth, and I figured giving him a little love
for the bus would enhance my chances of landing the job. I
had been yearning for a writing gig for years, and this was
finally my opportunity. Hagger claimed to love my style,
but it still took a faith leap on my part to take a day off
work and fly from LA to New York, with a $400 plane bill
being questioned by my parents, especially considering this
job was to pay “upon performance.” “Upon performance,”
being synonymous with “not at first.” It can’t be
considered an internship, per se, because I already have a
job, and one article a week isn’t exactly an unbearable
load. Only problem is, the initial three “trial” articles
were distributed to the masses as such; listing all of my
personal contact information, the wrong author being
credited for my work, and accidentally omitted altogether by
the editor, in that order. This made my trip even more
suspect in the eyes of my mom and dad, who supported my
writing efforts, but not completely.
Then again, I had finally obtained a job where I
was going somewhere, utilizing my talents, and putting in
time to make myself and others money to live. It’s a good
kind of pressure knowing that your hard work and strict
attention to statistics, trends, and detail will yield your
clients profit, as well as yourself a greater share of the
corporate margin. “Son, it’s only 50 cent. If you ain’t
got that shit let me move with this.” Ahh, the money.
“Here you go.” I gave him a dollar. “Man, my punk ass is
poor, but what does this dollar do? The bus is about to
leave, man. I said 50 cent. This dollar is about as good
to me as a dagger to my dick.” Hagger! What time was it?
He said three at the latest, and since getting off the
subway, I have been watching the construction, taking notes
for my next piece, and conversing with the 50 cent man. “I
don’t have any change, but keep the dollar! Good luck, I
gotta run.” I turned and began walking briskly toward my
destination. I was only one block away, and I still had
five minutes, but “on time” means a few minutes early,
especially when you’ve flown thousands of miles. If you’re
meeting an associate at your workplace at 9am, then you get
there at 9am. He won’t be early, and neither will you. It
simply isn’t necessary. But across the country for a job
interview, hell, you could get there a half hour early.
You’re across the country; the guy can’t fault you for
showing up prematurely. Not that you should do that, and in
this case, 2:55 would be ideal. It shows that you are
prompt, serious, and considerate. But I won’t be there at
2:55, and that’s when my anxiety began to set in. Remember
the Yoga breathing tactics. Too bad I can’t remove my
Adidas and separate my toes, “pointing them to the sky,”
even though this was a feat currently unachievable in my
realm of Yoga-naiveté. Ok, it was only 2:56, and I was very
close. Here I was at the corner, and aha, no streetlights.
I darted across the street, something I could not have done
in my rigid, slick dress shoes that I left back at the
hotel. It took me hours this morning to decide whether or
not to wear the fancy Prada footwear, but ultimately, I
stuck with my Adidas. Are you rifling through my overnight
bag? Yeah, I thought not. How do you know I don’t have
Pradas in there? Ok, fine, I don’t. But they are dressy,
and my mom said they looked sophisticated on me. Perhaps
that counts for something, but I had concluded that it
wouldn’t count with Hagger.
On the phone he was the quick
and glib, the counter-culture variety. He liked to stir the
stew with a wooden spoon that might leave a few splinters
behind. Besides, this was an online newsletter, the capital
of casual within the industry, an industry already at the
lowest tier of conventional business structure. As I made
it across the street, I was at his building. 2:58. I’d
walk to the door, straighten my brow and ring the bell, just
as his clock was still one minute away from chiming 3:00
Eastern Standard. I knew his clock chimed, because I could
hear it when we spoke, which was a rare occurrence. We
usually emailed or exchanged instant messages. He was big
on
J, and I liked
that, because I was a smiley guy myself. Straightened brows
are important. It’s one of those things that remain
unmentioned just because, well, there are always so many
other things to discuss. A friend set me up on a blind date
one time, some years back, and the girl’s sole prerequisite
to going out with me was that I “had a strong, straight brow
line. Prominent but not too thick eyebrows is all I
care about,” she remarked to him. “You won’t be
disappointed,” he told her. And she wasn’t. Unsmoothed or
unkempt brows, even on a man, can be quite the turnoff. My
thumb and index finger started at the innermost corners of
my eye sockets, cradling the brim of my nose, and I slid
them across my horizontal hair patches until the two digits
were inches apart and my hand formed the shape of a gun.
Time to start blazing, put a “pistol to his penis,” so to
speak. I pressed the talk button on the intercom, but where
was the Company name? Eh, he wanted to keep a low profile,
I get it. This building looked like an apartment complex
anyway, he probably has a loft where he runs the whole
business, including the newsletter. Why do you look so
surprised? I thought I told you about the lax nature of
this industry. “Yeah, hi, I’m Bryan.” I had always been a
good intercom speaker. My voice carries, and is one of
confidence. “Hey, Bry. You here for the interview?” “Um,
yes.” Here for the interview? What was that employer
blasphemy? Was it his attempt to make me nervous, throw me
off as a test, or was he interviewing so many people that
he, despite our extended correspondence over the last three
weeks, forgot that today was my day? Ok, come on
now, recall the carbon dioxide of the Yogi. Exhale and
remember that he has a team working for him. That wasn’t
even Hagger’s voice. Ha. How worked up I got over
nothing. The man coming to the door put me back at unease.
“Bry, good to meet you, I’m Rezzy.” Everything on this guy
needed work, from his face to his hair to his preposterously
ragged clothes. Would I receive a referral fee if I got him
to star on an episode of “Extreme Makeover?” “Rezzy, great
to meet you.” His appearance was of no consequence. My
brows were straight and my portfolio strong. Not that I
needed a portfolio, as Hagger had read, enjoyed, and posted
three of my articles already, but those were short little
trial episodes. “Ok, Bry, you’re all set, right? You got
your lines down?” I dislike people who are too
comfortable. My family, my lady, even my lady’s family or
my brother’s lady can call me Bry ‘til Piglet comes back to
the farm, but a stranger? Who met me three minutes ago?
That doesn’t work for me. It’s even more of an assumption
than calling me “B.” At least “B” is a letter, free of
blame. I could have a negative association with “Bry” for
all he knows. Weak. Hold on! My lines? “My lines? How’s
that? I hope Hagger isn’t expecting me to recite
something. Oh, written lines. My fault. Sure, I have my
portfolio right here.” “Well, Bry, good thing you brought
your portfolio, but you need to know your lines if you want
an audition today.” Audition? Where the ffff-ifty cent was
I? “Uh, audition? This is ‘Analog Abraham,’ right?” “Kid,
this ain’t no ‘Analog Abraham.’ What the fuck kind of name
is that? At least name your Company, “Digital Mose,” or
something ill that flows nicely.” Who is ‘Mose?’ I
wondered. “Look, man. It’s 3:04, and I’m late for an
interview. Are you sure ‘Analog Abraham’ isn’t in this
building?” “Man, the only thing Biblical in this building
are a couple of whores that could use a good foot washing.”
The complex sat strangely on the corner, was there a smaller
building behind it that I had overlooked? It had to be.
522A. I knew that. This was 522, and I had falsely assumed
that “A” would be one of the suites, or apartments, or lofts
inside. “Ok, thanks.” I scurried out the door and down the
stairs. My watch screamed “you’re six minutes late!” as I
slammed into a man smoking a cigarette. My portfolio leaped
from my sweaty hand and landed itself conveniently in the
gutter. And no Los Angeles gutter, mind you. This gutter
was wet, and stank. So wet that it was stopping the flow of
the water and creating a dam. Damn. “Sir, I’m really
sorry. I’m trying to get to this, oh, man, are you all
right?” He appeared uninjured and quite subdued, but still,
I had to ask. I mean, I did run into him. The man removed
the cigarette from his mouth, and was looking like something
profound was about to be uttered. “Nice shoes, but you
should stop admiring them when running out of a building and
onto the sidewalk. It’s called a ‘sidewalk’ because people
walk on it. You always show up late to interviews?” I was
creeping up on the state line of being wholeheartedly
perplexed, but one of my feet was still in reality. “Hagger?
Um, I’m Bryan.” “Yeah, I know. I see you met Rezzy.”
Hagger pointed toward the gutter with his cigarette hand.
“Is there some quality stuff for me in that portfolio or
what?” He smiled a closed-mouth, full-faced, Instant
Message caliber grin.
