The Book of Jobs
-- Roger Paz
Once in the City of Motors there dwelt a lad who was born free. Behold, this condition did not last long. For in that land where all was the Fruit of the Motor, not one soul did enter its gates without in some way becoming a Cog, a Piston, a Gear. And look how the lad, glad to be, became a Cog. And look how the boy, glad to serve, became a Piston. And look how the Gear that he became served him eternal. Though on two wheels and not four, he did deliver to each household the Paper that the Motor did provide. In the Paper was the News of the Lives, Catastrophes, Linen Sales, and Entertainment that the Motor did provide. He delivered to the Worker who, with his own hands, brought the Motor into the World. He delivered to the Insurance Man, who insured the Worker who brought the Motor into the World. He delivered to the Doctor, who took care of the Insurance Man and the Worker, who, with his own hands, brought the Motor into the World. He delivered to the Lawyer who sued the Doctor for his failure to correct the injury the Worker sustained in bringing the Motor into the World. He delivered to the Teacher who taught the Children of the Doctor and Lawyer and the Insurance Man and the Worker, and taught them the History of the Motor, the Language of the Motor, the Algebra of the Motor and the Business of the Motor. He delivered to the Boss, but the Boss already knew all the news.
Having been born free, and brought in swaddling bands to the City of Motors, the lad, now a man, having learned all the lessons and read all the news that the City of Motors had to give, left the home of his Father, left the comfort of his friends, left the matrix of the Motor, to see how free men lived freely elsewhere.
Verily was it to the New City, where he did dwell years one hundred and twenty, that he did come to wilfully submit to bondage. Warily did he scan, Son of Man, the Ads of Want, and thus his employment secure and his idyllic idle youth banish forever. Thus did he enter into the Agreement by performing the bidding and mission of AdWaffe, a trade journal that did lay a heavy hand on the hearts and minds of the consuming class, that he now sought to beguile and bewitch through the composition of jingles, the formulating of slogans, the crafting of catchphrases, the juxtapositioning of leggy sirens with the graven images of sleek products and the stretching of stats until they broke from the length and the load of the Lie. This he did, not for the inherent glee to be gained from dainty deception, but for the gold that presumably lay behind the green bills, each bearing the image of a leader of the Democratically Institutionalised Capitalist Republic, that were his and his alone, minus some taxation, that did accumulate in his pockets like leaves in a rake. Seven of his children did he mactate. Time, Talent, Effort, Presence, Attention, Will, and Soul; all of them lost, burned in the hecatomb of Chelm, for that was the name given to the New City by the fools who knew they were fools. And the children of the Son of Man did make like rashers of bacon, what with the curling and sizzling, the whorls of whoresome incense that rose like dybbuks after dinner, hapless treats for the Pantheon of Gods. The gods Upward Mobility, Landlord Appeasement, Portable Alimentation and Odour Suppression were fed cruse after cruse of their young blood. The gods Mass Transit, Prophylactics, Cowgummy, Random Recreation and New Shoes feasted on their crispy flesh.
From AdWaffe to Bleak Street, in the village of Green Witches, did he fall, wherein new missions supplanted old, but the same Sin ran through his fingers and greened his eye. For the river of roads that leads in and out of Rome and Rotterdam, through Detroit and Dusseldorf, athwart Barcelona and Buenos Aires is paved with good intentions and even better pubs. There on Bleak Street -- and no street could be bleaker -- was he found on the other side of the bar; the same bar 'pon which he had rested his post-work head many an evening, filling his emptiness by emptying glasses of imperial measure. Behold, how Satan and G-d did regard the weary factotum and put him to work for their Vanity. Through the expatiation of His theme of "Redemption through Suffering," G-d revealed his desire for Yob, for such was the Son of Man called by the Parents of the Son of Man and most of their friends, to tend to the lost people of Chelm and pour them a draft of kindness and a shot at salvation. Satan, quick to seize on a good business opportunity, asseverated his belief that given the nocturnal hours of his labours, the company with which he was to consort, the effects a plurality of spirits have on the average New City co-ed, the temptation of filthy lucre in hand, the inexhaustible wine of youth, the indefatigability of pleasure-providing emporiums, and the ceaseless stream of taxis, that Yob would do well to double up on such work, even attending to those who wished to sit at a remove from the brazenly bibulous, in the murk of the burnished corners, where they could also sup. For in so doing, he argued, would he soon turn his back on the Good and go for the Easy, partake in Catholick mysteries and Jewish polemics, but only for the sake of a more generous gratuity. It was here that Yob withstood the greatest of tests. His was now the world of the Man-Giant, the Spigot-Pulling Mountain, the Hero of the Buy Back. He was, at the very least, the pourer of drams, the analyser of dreams, the tapper of kegs, the appraiser of legs, the counselor of the confused, the jocund jester of the barely-amused, the enabler of ruin, the private investigator, the public arbitrator, the bearer of good news, the mendacious go-between that palliated the folly of the besotted husband to the fed-up wife, the sponger of suds, the ignorer of sponges, the rinser of glasses, the kisser of asses, the mopper of floors, the confidant of whores, the willing employee, the delegator of grunt work, the collector of shards, the repository of contemporary humour, the sports partisan, the sharer of pertinent anecdotes, the best friend, the stern father, the saucy son, the dispenser of bonhommie, the displayer of scars, the transparent flirt, the eager beaver, the sulking sultan, the indifferent feline, the cavorting canine, the blender of juices, the concocter of philtres, the builder of stout pints, the decocter of potions, the specimen of local colour, the welcomer of foreigners, the boon of regulars, the decipherer of dipso-dialects, the sovereign of dipsomaniacs, the shadchen for nymphomaniacs, the babysitter of the inconsolable, the dispatcher of homeward bound vehicles, the Grand Inquisitor of the loud and insolent, the fucker of waitresses, the lead vocal, the cerebral companion, the keeper of secrets, the fucker of lady bartenders, the traffic cop of gossip, the emendator of half-truths, the fucker of certain regulars, the spiller of drinks, the reluctant cigarette machine, the obliging lighter of cigarettes, the fucker of obnoxious girls from Texas, the considerate interpreter, the inconsiderate interloper, the drawer of the line, the swobber of vomit, the son the owner never had, the keeper of the darts, the replacer of the toilet paper, the preacher of his own self worth, the humble accepter of tips, the unclogger of toilets, the vice squad, the bane of underage boys, the toy of underage girls, the poet, the politician, "the Man" and the dick.
After a season in this Celtic abyss of stale fags and piss, Yob sought the Life Elsewhere promised to him by the Founding Fathers, the Mothers of Invention and the True Sounds of Liberty. Vowelless G-d and bolus Satan lost interest in his vicissitudes as he wasn't bad enough to be Evil and not good enough to be Good. Thus was his story now played out not against the background of a seraphic soundtrack but rather the din of quotidian drudgery. Angels, ever so close to their pensions, rallied to rouse Yob from Indifference.
And then came free agency.
He became an Agent of Travel and cracked bottles of good-wishes on the receding hulls of vacationing pederasts, rehabilitating couples, swansong incompatibles and sunworshipping sportsmen as they left their banks, hospitals, magazines, sound studios, schools, offices, radio stations, cubicles, salons, newstands, restaurants, gyms, bars, delis, shoe stores, warehouses, docks and desks behind.
He became an Agent of Biographical Books, providing paperback solace to actors who dreamt of being Cary Grant, to writers who dreamt of being Ernest Hemingway, to businessman who dreamt of being Donald Trump, to couchpotatoes who dreamt of being Wilt Chamberlain, to tin-eared stammerers who dreamt of being Cole Porter, to doctors who dreamt of being Winston Churchill, to grannies who dreamt of being Hitler, to humourless geeks who dreamt of being Woody Allen, to paralegals who dreamt of being Geronimo, to directors who dreamt of being Orson Welles, to men who dreamt of being Judy Garland, to women who dreamt of being Rudy Valentino, to messengers who dreamt of being Robert DeNiro, to record collectors who dreamt of being Cab Calloway, and to computer programmers who dreamt of being Jackie Chan.
He became an Agent of English, putting the eucharist of syntax into the mouths of immigrants, all of whom had come to the New City in search of free men who lived freely. He taught them the tongue of the Empire. He taught them how to ask for things, how to demand things, how to declare and question. He taught them subjunctive language for their subjunctive lives. He taught lawyers, doctors, architects, violinists, physical trainers, engineers, electricians, military, nurses, accountants, painters, horse-trainers, opera-singers; taught them how to be security guards and asbestos removers, taxi-drivers and waiters. He taught people with Ph.D.s and told them to learn how to mop floors or take care of babies. He welcomed them to New City, to Chelm, where G-d and Satan forgot their wager, where he, the Son of Man, had come, a long time ago, to see how Free Men live freely.