tugs@utcsrgv.UUCP (Stephen Hull) (08/09/83)
Toronto has a number of street authors and poets - writers who publish their own material and sell it on the streets. My favourite is a guy named Crad Kilodney, and I got his okay to put some excerpts of his stuff on the net for the enjoyment of any underground or overground literature enthusiasts out there. ******************************************************************************* excerpts from "Office Worker's Dreams" Upward Mobility My throat dry, I knock on the Sales Manager's door. I hear him bark, "Come in!" I enter and close the door behind me. Mr. Allen is smoking one of his fifty-cent cigars although it is only 9:30 in the morning. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled back. There is a plain, white towel on his desk blotter. "Sit down." He beckons me to the chair beside his huge mahogany desk. The desk and shelves are cluttered with expensive accessories. Behind him are the large framed photos of his severe-looking father and his even severer-looking grandfather. "Move your chair around here. Don't be shy," he says with a wink. His shoes and socks are off, his trousers are rolled up. There is a basin of grey, soapy water on the floor. I am now sitting directly facing him behind the desk. My tie is choking me. He blows a stream of smoke vertically by curling his lower lip. "I hope you know I'm giving you the first shot at moving up to a better territory." "Thanks, Mr. Allen. It's more than I expected." "Your sales figures are good. More than I thought possible for the Yukon." He grins. "Feel lucky?" "I don't know." "Okay, have a go at it." I hesitate. "Go ahead. They're clean." I lean down and look at his two newly-washed feet. Each of his toes represents a different territory, but I have no way of knowing which. I am required to pick one of his toes and... and put it in my mouth. Steeling myself, I separate his left little toe slightly and put my lips around it. Then I look up and await the verdict. He laughs, tapping the ash of his cigar. "Hoo! Hoo! Oh, boy! Jesus, do I feel sorry for you, ha, ha! You picked the same lousy territory!" "NO!" "Jeez, I'm sorry, Phil." Then he leans forward confidentially and puts his hand on my shoulder. "Your shyness worked against you. You thought the smallest toe would be the least unpleasant." I nod. "My boy," he continues, giving me a pat of encouragement, "if you want to advance quickly in the world of business, you must not be afraid to take the boss's big toe in your mouth and suck on it." Tracking Down Bad Ideas "You sent for me, sir?" I stand before the boss with dirty clothes and hands. I have just unloaded a truck and emptied the garbage. "Indeed I did, Art." He leans back in his swivel chair. "Do you know what's wrong with this world?" "Uh..." "I'll tell you. It's bad ideas. Bad ideas hurt the world. Good ideas help the world. Right?" "Uh... Sure, I guess." "Bad ideas hurt this company, too, just like they hurt the world. But I can't spend my time looking for them because I'm busy thinking up good ideas, like how to save two percent on cardboard. You see what I'm getting at?" "Uh..." I'm thinking very hard. "Not exactly, sir." "Well, I'll tell you. You finished high school, didn't you?" "Almost. I almost finished the eleventh grade, actually." "That's good enough. I want *you*..." (He points to me like Uncle Sam) "... to go after bad ideas in this company." "You mean in the warehouse?" "All over. But the warehouse is okay for a start.." He opens a drawer and pulls out a large manilla envelope. "Find out everything you can about bad ideas and put your findings in this envelope. When it's full, bring it to me, and we'll talk." "You mean... you want me to, uh... that is, you mean while I'm working?" "Forget your usual work. Just do this. Just walk around and look for bad ideas." "Walk around?" "Yes, that's right. It's nothing difficult. I'm sure you can do this. Now, off you go." I leave the office, envelope in hand, and walk slowly through the warehouse. Not wanting to be seen standing around, I walk down to the last aisle, where the oldest remainders, damaged books, and out-of-print books are kept. Rarely does anyone come down here. I can think about my assignment for a while. As I am thinking about my recent conversation, trying to understand it, I notice the stack of books directly in front of me at eye level. I don't think I've ever actually looked at them before. The dust and cobwebs are evidence that they have not been touched in a long time. I pick up the top one and blow some of the dust off. It is a vanity press book titled "Whaddya Say, Egon? -- An Original Musical About the Wacky, Wonderful Life of Egon Schiele." I open the book at random and see a song lyric: Oh, Ee-gon, Ee-gon With egg on your face The pictures you been painting They are such a disgrace... ******************************************************************************* As you may have noticed by now, he has a rather offbeat sense of humour. What you may not notice is an ability to be quite poignant in the midst of it all - I don't have time to type in a whole book. Crad's interested in extending the bounds of his readership beyond downtown Toronto, and I thoght this might be a good way to do both him and those of you dying for new prose a favour. If you're interested in knowing more about him, you can either snail mail him: Charnel House, P.O. Box 281, Station S, Toronto, Ont. M5M 4L7 or mail me, and I'll forward your address. steve hull decvax!utzoo!utcsrgv!tugs