Tripmaster Monkey: His Fake Book (Vintage International)

by Maxine Hong Kingston

  “Anyway, back at our Frankenstein lab, this techie friend of mine says, ‘Do you want to see where they store this stuff?’ I helped him carry a vat of R.N.A.-D.N.A., followed him walking on this dirt path in the woods above Strawberry Canyon. We came to a mound with a grass groundcover. The trees were in a circle. The mother tree had died, and its outmost ring had shot up a grove. On top of the mound, under a flat of sod, there’s a metal manhole cover with a ring in it. My friend grabbed a-hold of the ring, and turned it in a combination, which I memorized. He lifted the cover off. There was a metal stopper that pulled up like a piston. A mist floated out hovering close to the ground—dry ice. Yeah, I myself have looked inside the vault that stores the essence of life. There’s a pool, a well of raw life. We poured in the new stuff. It ran in a rainbow stream. Ribbons and streamers of pure R.N.A.-D.N.A. We stirred it with a glass wand that flashed with the running snot of pure germ. You should be glad to know, in case the bombs go off, the quiddity of pure life is hidden away to start us up again, unless a bomb lands smack dab on that vault on the mound in the circle of trees.

  “That was one job that I knew it had a purpose. Boring nevertheless. Hour after hour. Me and the German ladies. Pinch. Squirt. Pinch. Squirt. Pinch. Squirt. Until my techie friend invented a machine that laid all of us off. What if we darkened the room and put the light at the end of the table? You should have seen those greedy little pinkies. Like actors, ‘Get outta my light.’ They stretch out, important end craning. And this juggernaut-guillotine roll-chops it off. Pop squirt pop squirt pop squirt. We saved us a lot of dainty time. I didn’t put that job on my résumé because of being phased out so soon. My friend who invented the worm light and pinch-squeezer lost his job too, and is now an oenologist in Sonoma County.

  “No, no, what’s so unlikely? I’ll tell you the unlikely part, which I left out. The Tibetan Buddhists predict that there will come a time when human beings will be only fourteen inches high. Some say eighteen inches. What year this evolution is supposed to happen is hard to translate from Tibetan time into our time. But I think it will be after the bomb, like in The Time Machine. We’re going to be mutants like Yvette Mimieux, Weena of the Eloi, but smaller and not everybody a blonde. Because of a contribution I made, which I’ll tell you about. What we were doing in our lab was working out the science of how we’ll come to be fourteen inches high.

  “I went one more time to the stash of R.N.A.-D.N.A. I remember the way to the mound, and went there by myself. I held the ring, and turned it so many clicks this way and so many clicks that way. What the hell, I’ll give you the combination. Mr. Sanchez, you could be the survivor who uses it to save mankind. I’ll bet anything that there are vaults hidden throughout the Berkeley hills, and the Marin hills, and in the Altamont all around the Lawrence Rad Lab. The combination to that vault—ready?—easy to remember—is: clockwise to fifty-four, counterclockwise passing fifty-four three times to thirty-two, clockwise two times to ten. Nothing to it. Fifty-four right thrice—thirty-two left twice—right to ten. A countdown, get it? As crackable as a bicycle lock. There I was, all by myself at the well of life. I wet my hands in it. I let it run from hand to hand in the sunlight. I’ve touched and played with the clear mucous gist of life. When the bomb goes off, the radiation will cook the stuff, see? And these fourteen-inch guys will be animated. They will incubate in the pregnant earth. One of us has to let them out. Out from their bomb shelter will come hopping the prettiest little men and women avid for daylight. The next Big Bang will destroy and create, just like the last Big Bang. Well, there I was alone in the forest, and the sun smiling down on me, alive. I didn’t want to die. So I added my two cents to the stuff in the vat. I mean I donated some sperm. There’ll be some of me jumping out of the earth. Yvette Mimieux as Weena of the Eloi has Chinese eyes. She’ll get them from me. Mr. Sanchez, after the wipe-out, we need to start the earth up with new life. Help me out, man. You have to put me down for a job in science.”

  “I can’t send you to interviews talking like this. Scientists won’t buy it. Physics for Non-Majors was just for the fun of it, and to make us well rounded. It doesn’t qualify you to work for NASA. Like you aren’t fit to be a beekeeper either, or a soap-bubble physicist. All right, all right, I’ll put you down for a playwright job. We have never had a call for a playwright, I’m telling you. You better put something else in addition, a fallback position that you can realistically get, such as retail clerk.”

  “Is there a law that says I have to try for retail clerk and/or retail management?”

  “No, I’m suggesting it to you. You want to be humanitarian, you could clerk in a charitable organization, or a political organization.”

  “Yeah, I could do that. If one of those organizations calls me up, I don’t have to take the job, do I?”

  “No. This isn’t an agency for slaves or human sacrifices. You have to try for the job, though. You ought to go see the movie too.” Mr. Sanchez pointed to an arrow that said To Movie Room. “Yes, you better go see the movie.” He was writing “Playwright” on the form. Wittman was being humored. Then he wrote “Clerk.”

  “Okay. I’ll go see your movie. Hey, thanks a lot, huh, hombre? I appreciate the counseling. You gave me some good ideas. Adiós, huh?”

  “Adiós,” said Mr. Sanchez. When Wittman looked back at him, he was shaking his head muttering, let’s hope, “Fifty-four right thrice—thirty-two left twice—right to ten.”

  Wittman followed the arrow, and joined about a dozen of the pre-employed sitting in front of a roll-down screen. They were evenly spaced away from one another, nobody wanting to sit with a deadbeat. A civil servant finished re-winding the film, and said, “Lights out, please.” Wittman, who sat nearest the door for a quick getaway, flipped the switch. Deadbeats and freeloaders in the dark.

  It was a cartoon about going for a job interview—how to dress and cut your hair—your personal appearance. Good grooming for that all-important interview. Come to think of it, what everybody in that room had in common was that they were bad dressers. Bad hair. Bad clothes. Bad skin. Nobody in here but us bandanna heads and fishnet torsos and flipflop feet. And ethnicks who carry lunch greasing through a brown paper bag. Wittman had been sized up and found sartorially incorrect. (Where had he lost his chewed-up tie?) “Good grooming hints,” said the sound track. “Mind these etiquette tips.” “Hints.” “Tips.” Like this was no major deal. Watch, they’re going to use his other unfavorite words, “peeve,” “hue.” Personnel’s pet peeve—necktie and socks of the wrong hue. “You mean business. Dress for it.” An X crisscrossed a brunette with a low-cut blouse and tight skirt and a cigarette hanging from her lips. She had a beauty spot on her cheek. Rita Moreno. Light rays shone around a woman with a Peter Pan collar and a blonde flip; she was smiling into a hand mirror and patting her hair. Trashy Rita Moreno versus employable Sandra Dee. Who would you hire? An X through the man in a greasy d.a., t-shirt and jeans. Light rays for the man in three-piece suit and barbered hair. X the tennis shoes; gleam all over black shoes with black socks. We the underdressed had to sit there taking one insult after another against our every style and taste. Checkmark: Take a bath or shower, Trim nails and cuticles, Shake hands firmly. X out red pointy fingernails, chewed nails, claw-dirt nails. Another word he didn’t like, “cuticles.” Do other people really push that bit of nailskin down and cut it off? This is a Watch Bird watching a Nail Biter; this is a Watch Bird watching YOU.

  “DO wear a friendly facial expression. DO ask informed questions. DO NOT ask about perquisites and salary right away.” The voice read the words on the screen for you. This was not your Cinema Guild and Studio audience. Nobody snickered or made a wisecrack. Oh, shame. Gone are the audiences who laughed at suits and white sidewalls over the ears. But, you know, the average person is not bright. Somebody here may now be reformed to use mouthwash and deodorant. There’s a Basic Training hands-on class on how to use your G.I. toothbrush, which some Americans cannot afford. They join the Army, and g
et their first toothbrush and first pair of new shoes. The Army civilizes. Kill and die with clean teeth. “CHECK the heels of your shoes. DO wear clean linen.” Linen? “BRUSH your teeth. COMB your hair.” And you’ll be all right. “DO sit up straight. DO NOT slouch. DO NOT chew gum. BE on time.” He vowed never to polish his shoes or cut his hair again. “PRESENT yourself at your best.” Like female monkeys in heat present lipstick-red asses. “A positive attitude,” said the voice. At-tee-tood, thought Wittman. “Well turned out. That out-of-the-bandbox look.” What the fuck’s a bandbox?

  “COME ALONE to the interview. DO NOT take friends or relatives with you.” An X through my people. Adios, mis amigos. There it is, up on the screen, and in the handbook too: “DO NOT take friends or relatives with you.” An American stands alone. Alienated, tribeless, individual. To be a successful American, leave your tribe, your caravan, your gang, your partner, your village cousins, your refugee family that you’re making the money for, leave them behind. Do not bring back-up. You’re doing it wrong, letting your friends drop you off in a ratty car full of people who look like they live in the car. Out you come wearing the suit and the shoes, carrying the lunch your mamacita made. The girls sitting on the floor outside offices are waiting for commadres taking typing tests and mopping tests. Personnel walks those corridors and lobbies to see who brought a horde. No job for them. Wittman got lonely for that tribesman that said to the Peace Corps volunteer, “We don’t need a reading class; we’ve already got a guy who can read.” That’s the tribe where he wants to belong, and the job he wants, to be the reader of the tribe. O right livelihood.

  Wittman had wanted a tribe since he was a kid at the theater late one night when the cleaning man came, an immigrant from a South Sea island. It was he that had the job but his wife helped, and an elderly grandfather and four kids. They brought a t.v., which they plugged in down in the green room. They enjoyed the use of the rug as a kang, everybody and Wittman sticking their legs under the one blanket, the baby for warming laps. The daddy had people to have his breaks with, eating home-popped popcorn and drinking sodas. He wasn’t at all lonely working. Jobs ought to be like that.

  “DO write neatly on your application. STRESS your qualifications for the job. AVOID gum chewing, fiddling with a purse, or jingling coins in your pocket. DO NOT SMOKE unless invited to do so.” Wittman lit up; it’s a free country. “DO NOT apply during the lunch hour or after working hours. AVOID talking about your personal, domestic, or financial problems. RELAX. SPEAK clearly and answer questions honestly. BE business-like and brief.” Don’t let them smell your fear that you won’t make the rent, and you’re hungry, and your child is going to die the death of a ragbaby. No flop-sweat. If you’re desperate for a job, and why else would you want one, it shows, and they won’t give it to you. Act like you don’t need money. The End, they don’t even say Good luck or any blessing.

  At the slapping, snapping tail end of the film, the projectionist said, “Lights. Lights, please.” Wittman was so offended that he refused to be light monitor, went right out the door. Where did my monkey powers go? He should have pulled the film out of its sprockets, festooned it around the room, and torn his papers and other people’s papers into confetti.

  The film that we’re going to make after the revolution will give practical information, such as Down with dress codes. Come as you are. The F.O.B.s ought to be told: After the tryout period, nobody wears interview clothes. Bring your greasy lunch in a briefcase, or bring money to eat out. The revolutionary monkey will give lessons on how to tell jokes that crack up employers. He’ll teach an etiquette good enough to talk to anybody.

  Walking back to his pad, Wittman planned his twenty-six weeks of subsidized living. Forty-four dollars per week to fund subsistence and theater. Jobless, no more pilfering of office supplies and trick-or-treat candy, but no more dry-cleaning of the suit. Stop buying newspapers. Pall Malls are long enough to cut in half for two smokes. Eat one meal a day; fast one day a week. Start shoplifting food from chains. He never did look beyond the year at the furthest. The Bomb could very well fall before Unemployment runs out. He had always taken maximum exemptions—fourteen—and gotten his money in case of bombing before the spring refunds.

  Back in his demesne, he found in the mailbox the last paycheck from the store, and the dimmest carbon of the Notification of Changes enclosed. Where’s the thank you for your services? Enough bread, though, until Unemployment comes through.

  He sat himself right down at his desk and got a head start on the next Claim card. No. None. Yes. No. Yes. No. No. No. No. No. On the flip side were blanks for the names, addresses, and phone numbers of three places where one has inquired for work. As his first contact, he listed Lance Gentaro Kamiyama, President of the Young Millionaires. If Unemployment phoned Lance, being fast on the uptake, he would answer Yes, Wittman had indeed come in for an interview, a good prospective employee, yes. No need to call Lance up requesting and explaining. He was a true friend. On the sheet for keeping an ongoing record, he again wrote Lance’s name, and an “I” next to it for “Interview.” Interviews would be most troublesome as compared to contact by letter (“L”) and contact by telephone (“T”). Surely, U.I.D., the Unemployment Insurance Division, doesn’t check every contact, but if they do, may they randomly pick Lance. Whoever needs to cover an Unemployed ass can always write in Wittman Ah Sing as a prospective employer; he would never fail to lie to the Government for the sake of a friend eluding a job, either civilian or military. There. One down. Two to go. Wait a few weeks, put Lance’s name again, (“DO make repeat contacts with employers.”)

  In six months, a Claim every two weeks, twelve cards times three contacts per, that’s thirty-six employers. Everyone should form a hui of thirty-six friends. According to friendship scientists, it takes a pool of one million people in order to make twenty friends. But how many of those can you count on to let you use their name on a U.I.D. Claim card? The befriending is hard work in itself.

  For the second entry, he wrote, “Chinchillo Fruit Co., a Tillie Lewis Co.” That sounded like two employers in a space for one; how hard he’s trying. Those canneries pick up busloads of los braceros y los hobos at the hiring halls and on street corners, and drive them to the fields. The U.I.D. won’t waste the taxpayers’ bucks for a long-distance check-up call. There’s no list of those who tried but didn’t get a seat on the company bus. Hanging around a hiring hall would count as an interview—“I.”

  For his third contact, he put the John Simon Guggenheim Foundation. That would be an “L,” contact by mail. Next card, the Rockefeller Foundation, then the Ford Foundation, the Woodrow Wilson National Fellowships, the Rhodes. He’ll cull Grants and Fellowships at the library—enough names and addresses for years of Unemployment.

  There. Done. Ass covered for next week. Free to go about his true life. Looking for a job could’ve become a full-time job; and he’d covered two weeks’ worth of interviews in fifteen minutes. And it’s only Monday. Number Five, “Did you try to find work for yourself that week?” “Yes.” And Number Six, “Was any work offered you that week?” “No.” Log in first thing every other Monday, and the rest of the fortnight will be his.

  Too bad no more spaces already. He was getting hot. What the hell. Fill out some more. Put the F.B.I., and on a later card, the C.I.A. The F.B.I. and the C.I.A. will deny that Wittman Ah Sing was a candidate, then he’ll say to Unemployment, “Well, of course, the F.B.I. doesn’t tell anybody the everyday-identity name of a G-man trainee-to-be. They can’t blow my cover. They offered me a spy job, as a matter of fact, but I don’t sign loyalty oaths.” NASA, the Pentagon, Scotland Yard. “T,” phone calls, hard to trace.