There were many ads for salesmen willing to work on commission, but those insisted on long track records with proof of incredible incomes. No ads mentioned anything like experience in the subtleties of Quikpix operation as the foundation for a career. A degree in Liberal Arts from any college or university was entirely ignored as a virtue.
There was one ad for a “fastidious Oriental houseboy” on a yacht, asking for a list of references and stressing the importance of “people skills and loyalty.” Applicants were asked to forward their résumés to the address of a company in the garment center. Simon thought about trying his luck with the yacht owner who might have a shaky knowledge of houseboys and could be convinced to drop the Asian stipulation if it was stressed that on some moonless night off a foreign coast, when the yachtsman wandered his polished teakwood deck with a troubled mind plagued by business or family problems, he might prefer the company of a circumcised, baptized Midwestern college graduate for the comfort of conversation instead of the obsequious presence of an elusive Buddhist, however fastidious; but even if Simon could get that complex idea across there was still the insurmountable obstacle of references.
Filling Dr. Trobe’s Solacitrex prescriptions, Simon aka Sinbad felt the drain on his finances was well worth the result—the drug kept his bowels as quiet as a Rolex.
56
One morning, while sitting in the raunchy lobby of the Flatiron, Simon read the latest batch of Want Ads, moving from frustration to despair. Like an echo of his misery, he heard the sound of violent sobbing from a battered armchair hidden behind a snake plant.
Residents of the Flatiron seldom communicated beyond a mandatory nod of acknowledgment, usually on the elevator, but this time Simon’s curiosity got the better of him. He folded his newspaper and walked toward the hotel desk, ostensibly to ask the manager if he had any mail but actually to get a look at the source of audible misery.
The weeper turned out to be a guest Simon had seen many times before: a time warp of a man, slender, gray, meticulously dressed, with the bearing of an aristocrat. He was certainly not the usual Flatiron citizen—slouching, depressed, often disoriented, wearing clothes passed reluctantly between generations of some dysfunctional family.
Simon’s curiosity and compassion were aroused. He was tempted by the chance to talk to someone, anyone, and grateful to feel a benevolent emotion stir his heart. The only times he’d used his voice in many weeks was to grunt in reply to a comment on the weather by some street vendor, and fend off a carnivorous panhandler or missionary with some petition to sign. Grunting was the staple of Manhattan’s asphalt language; to actually string words into a complete sentence seemed a luxurious prospect. As for benevolent feelings, Simon couldn’t remember his last one.
“Are you all right? Is there anything I can do to help?” Simon said.
“Not really,” the dapper man said between sobs. “I’m fine. It’s funny, I’ve been mugged three times in five years and shrugged that off as another of the indignities one suffers in exchange for living here, like rent. Today I was crossing Fifth Avenue and coming directly at me was one of those dog walkers with no less than ten dogs strung on a communal leash. Are you a dog person?”
“I once had a cat. It ran away.”
“Then this may be difficult for you to understand, son, but one of those dogs was my dog, Excalibur, a King Charles Spaniel, my dog for twelve years. In the divorce settlement, my wife got custody of Excalibur. She never liked him but the bitch knew what losing his companionship would mean to me. I could have predicted that she’d hire a dog walker instead of moving her own fat ass down the street. Do you know what those walkers charge? Why would she care? It’s my money. But it wasn’t the money that set me off. Excalibur was no farther from me than you are now and he didn’t recognize me. For twelve years he could smell me from a block away. When I came home he began barking jumping and panting, his tail going a mile a minute while I was still parking the car. Whenever I left he slobbered and howled, practically begging me to stay. And today Excalibur didn’t show the slightest sign of recognition. Nothing. What did that harpy do to make him forget? How could he forget? My own dog and he didn’t know who I was. Can you imagine?”
“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “Maybe he went blind, deaf, or lost his sense of smell. That might explain it.”
“I never thought of that. I doubt the cunt would bother to take him to a vet even if he began foaming and fainting. The poor thing. A victim of infirmity. That never occurred to me. And here I am feeling sorry for myself. What’s your name, lad?”
“Sinbad Green.”
“I am Wallace Waldo. If the name sounds familiar, you’re right. I was the host of The Wallace Waldo Amateur Hour, a staple on the Blue Network. That might have been before your time. When radio was king of the airwaves.”
“I think my father mentioned The Wallace Waldo Amateur Hour,” Simon said. “So you’re Wallace Waldo! It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
“I am what’s left of Wallace Waldo. How fast they forget. Why don’t I die?”
“From what I see, there’s plenty left of Wallace Waldo,” Simon said. “You’re not dead yet. Where there’s life there’s hope.”
“Thank you for spreading rumors, young man. Without being intrusive, what is it you do, Sinbad? Are you an aspiring actor? I hope not, for your sake.”
“Not an actor,” Simon said. “I’ve been taking it easy. I just graduated from Celadon College, Summa Cum Laude, feeling my way around. Now I’m job hunting. But I’m not sure what job I’m hunting for. I was never very inner-directed.”
“I sense that you’re ambitious to make your way.”
“You could say that.”
“Sinbad, you volunteered your services to help this fossil. Maybe I can be of help to you.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Waldo.”
“It’s no trouble. Actually, I was looking for a bright young chap to fill a vacancy in my company, Wallace Waldo Enterprises. It’s a modest position but a foot in the door. With ample opportunity for rapid advancement.”
“If there’s a Wang involved or dictation, I can’t handle it,” Simon said.
“Not a problem. Here’s my card. Spruce up a bit and be at my office at three o’clock sharp. Ask for Benny Valaris. I’ll tell him to expect you. You might just fit in.”
“That’s fantastic,” Simon said.
“A bit of luck,” Wallace Waldo said. “New York just tossed you a bone. Speaking of bones, do you know I had a special arrangement with the Madison Avenue Meat Market to deliver a fresh bone for Excalibur to gnaw on every other day? I hope he remembers those delicious treats even if he’s forgotten who sent them.”
“I’m sure he does. Gestures like that make a lasting impression.”
“He must know I would never have abandoned him if it wasn’t for the court order.”
“He knows,” Simon said.
57
Since he’d been confined to Death Row, Simon had received many cards and letters from strangers. Some were mea culpas, asking him to forgive the writer for any connection, however remote, to legalized murder, i.e. the death penalty. Others relished his impending execution, reminding Simon that even if his sentence seemed excessive, it wasn’t and good riddance.
Many letters asked for souvenirs: an autograph, a lock of hair, a pair of unwashed underwear. There were hundreds of marriage proposals often containing photographs of would-be brides usually taken in a modest kitchen or bedroom not unlike the photos in Robert J.’s album. There were Hallmark cards with messages ranging from get well soon to jesus loves you and so do i.
There were anonymous polemics on a variety of subjects expressing opinions about war, environmental issues, the existence of God, the decline of morals, the high cost of living. There were confessions of crimes big and small, incest to shoplifting. There were requests for money from individuals, faith-based charities, assorted political candidates, the National Rifle Association, the Natur
e Conservancy, the Public Broadcasting System, ad infinitum.
In the first months, Simon made an attempt to answer the most interesting mail but thoughtful replies took too much time and energy so he gave up the correspondence. There was a large pile of unopened envelopes stacked floor to ceiling in a corner of his cell. Simon thought it might be a nice gesture to select one of those letters in his last hours, answer it, and ask one of the nicer guards to post his reply after his demise. That some stranger would receive a posthumous note from Simon Apple’s still-warm ghost was an amusing prospect; such a missive, however brief, would certainly have sentimental and very possibly financial value to the lucky recipient. It would be like winning the lottery. There was no shortage of ghouls who’d covet a genuine Apple as a collector’s item, something to show the grandchildren.
In the interest of fairness, Simon closed his eyes and selected an envelope from the stack. It was hand-addressed in meticulous script, marked personal and confidential, stamped with pictures of Queen Elizabeth II, canceled in London, but missing a return address. Simon’s mail was routinely X-rayed by prison security. Anything remotely suspicious was opened, examined, then Scotch Taped shut and delivered if it passed muster. This letter from an unidentified source, usually reason enough to trigger closer inspection, had managed to slip through the system intact. When he opened the letter, Simon found a page of text in the same pristine penmanship as the envelope’s address.
The Simpson Wax Works
23 Portobello Road
London W112 ED
England
23 September 2005
My Dear Mr. Simon Apple,
I hope you will pardon the informal nature of this note but you will understand that, since we are a new enterprise, our official letterheads are still in preparation and any delay seemed counterproductive considering this late date.
Let me begin by offering my personal congratulations! You have been unanimously selected as worthy of display in our Pantheon of Privates.
But I am getting ahead of myself. I write with the authority of my position as Director and Curator of the Simpson Alternative Wax Works, a beautiful facility centrally located in prestigious Portobello Road. We have acquired Moorcock Mansion, a landmark structure dating back to the early 19th Century, to house our growing collection.
Make no mistake, this enterprise is in no way associated with Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum with which you are surely familiar. The world has changed significantly since Tussaud’s first threw open its doors. Yet that venerable establishment remains mired in what we consider to be an obsolete tradition, i.e. offering the public a predictable selection of figures in an atmosphere reflective of what can be described as “tasteful.”
Even rooms reserved for outstanding murderers like yourself, featuring a variety of perpetrators within grotesque dioramas that convey a sense of their diabolical acts, are well-meaning but ultimately tame.
Since World War II and especially The Holocaust, the nature of both celebrity and horror has altered and so has the expectation level of our patrons. By way of example, in this impatient age of the abbreviated attention span, when fractals can communicate powerfully and directly to a modern audience, Tussaud’s visitors are unfairly expected to invest excessive amounts of valuable time examining entire scenes of mayhem, whole torsos (or, when decapitation is a major factor, complete body parts, limbs to organs) when artful editing would be a blessing.
Our emphasis at the Simpson is to offer minimalist, sometimes conceptual, post-modern incitement through what we call abridged unification.
We believe that less is more.
Our conviction is that maximum truth is captured by a subject’s genitalia—that all else is excessive, unnecessary and euphemistic. A medley of penis, testicle, vagina, clitoris, breast and anus is the door to dimensional epiphany! Thus genitals are what we proudly and exclusively display.
Whereas, like Tussaud’s, we work with paraffin, at Simpson’s we “wax eloquent” in a manner that allows that respected medium the widest range of expression.
Mr. Apple, we are privileged to offer you the opportunity to have your reproductive organs immortalized in exalted company, on permanent display in one of London’s most prestigious neighborhoods.
Our exhibits are eclectic. We juxtapose the genitalia of poets, philosophers, scientists, statesmen, artists of every discipline, industrial giants, saints and serial killers without judgment or distinction beyond the single qualification of celebrity.
Yes, celebrity genitals, beautifully rendered, are the ultimate recognition of fame in our brave new wax world. Be assured that your inclusion in our Pantheon of Privates is well deserved. You have earned the honor. But along with honor comes responsibility.
You must realize that a host of departed greats should be represented in our galleries. Replicating lifelike models dating back to the ancients is hugely expensive. Alas, a daunting problem is that the Simpson is, fiscally speaking, not yet well-endowed. Admission fees (which we will try to keep modest) and grants will defray a portion of our considerable costs. Still, we are forced to ask that you help subsidize our effort to educate and inspire whole generations, especially children who carry the torch of the future.
If you will send us a Polaroid snapshot of your private dimensions (please see exact directions for accurate duplication on the reverse side of this page; note that fractional measurements will be rounded out to the next highest whole number) along with your certified check, money order or credit card authorization in the amount of just $2,500 (US) to cover the cost of molding and materials, plus any additional contribution you might wish to make toward the success of our endeavor, we will promptly return an official Certificate of Inclusion along with two tickets to our Gala Opening at a future date to be determined.
Most Sincerely Yours,
Espeth Litmus-Plagett, MBE
Executive Director and Curator
Simon made out a check for ten dollars payable to Ms. Plagett with a note sympathetic to her financial needs and praising her original vision but declining further participation “since I have already negotiated a satisfactory arrangement with the Erectile Project at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C., and, after all, first and foremost, I am an American.”
58
Wallace Waldo Enterprises was located in a three-room suite in an office building on West Fifty-Seventh Street. The ground floor of the building was occupied by the Steinway Piano Company. Before Simon went for his interview, he stared through a large window where the Steinways seemed to graze on a thick carpet like a herd of elephants. That showroom was an oasis of tranquility, a refuge of polished wood and elegance where salesmen and clients appeared to communicate in clefs and quarter notes.
Simon watched for as long as it took to smoke a cigarette, then he entered the lobby and rode an elevator to the eleventh floor while his gut tightened into a Gordian knot. Wallace Waldo Enterprises was, in Mr. Waldo’s own words, “a cyst of stress where a smart young man could learn the survival techniques necessary for success in any business, from swabbing floors in a cathouse to the upscale piano biz downstairs.”
During the interview, when Simon mentioned the Steinway biosphere and said in passing that it looked like a nice place to work, Benny Valaris, who screened all job applicants, jumped out of his chair and pointed a finger at Simon’s nose. “If that’s what you want, if you see yourself hustling music boxes to prima donnas for the next twenty years, you’re in the wrong place. If you’re looking to shovel shit in a den of obsolete dragons leave now. You think those guys are happy? Well, excuse me. Don’t be surprised if you read about a piano salesman stuffing the mangled body of an impresario inside one of those finely tuned caskets. Or blowing up an opera house. Because those are the exactly the kind of guys who make the front page of the Daily News. You think life down there is any different than what we got here? Well, you’re dead wrong. It’s all part of the same jungle. But here at least we’re not boxed in by p
aneled walls and window glass. Wallace Waldo Enterprises is boot camp, a launch pad for the ones with the balls and blast to go the distance.” Valaris snapped a quick military salute. “Sinbad, I’m ready to give you an opportunity to prove yourself. For some reason, Mr. Waldo is impressed with you. I’m offering you shit for a salary, no benefits, no perks, no union, no overtime but the good news is you’ll be paid off the books. Strictly cash. Just don’t expect to head out of here at the stroke of five. This place is bondage pure and simple. You’ll work like one of those poor slobs who pulled oars on Roman rowboats. But we’re equal opportunity fuckers and I promise you on my mother’s grave, she should live and be well, that if you do a job for us you’ll climb the ladder fast and if you decide to move on after a few years, you’ll get respect in the industry. They’ll fight over you because you had Benny Valaris for a teacher.”
Simon’s prospective professor slugged Diet Pepsi from a frosty can. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of a Lilly Pulitzer jacket, a coat of many colors that vibrated like a Disney sunset. Under the jacket, Valaris wore a purple shirt and black string tie. His pants were beet red, held up by a thick leather belt with a western buckle fashioned into a steer’s horny head. His shoes were mushroom brown mini-boots, high-heeled, metal-trimmed, made of fuzzy faux suede.
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