Tosh Berman's Blog, page 240

February 5, 2014

February 5, 2014

I never told anybody this, but I was related to Daisy and Violet Hilton, the Siamese twins who were born joined by their hips and buttocks.   My great aunt gave them birth but eventually sold them to her boss, who right away saw them as showbiz potential for big bucks.  The girls were taught at a young age to be musicians.  Violet played saxophone, and Daisy played the violin.



They pretty much toured non-stop in various vaudeville houses throughout the United States.  One of the places they played in, the United Artists building located on 937 South Broadway, was a very important venue for them.  It was at this point they discovered sex, which I might add must have been very awkward.  They were 15 at the time, and Daisy had her first sexual experience with a stage-hand.  Violet would close her eyes, and basically this is how they would operate when the other needs privacy.   Of course they are always there, including bathroom duties, sex, and other private moments, but they worked out a system, even though it is not real, but to them they could project privacy by one of them by just closing her eyes.

As much as possible they tried to stay away from the pervs who were just totally turned-on by the fact that these identical twins were physically joined together.   What people have commented on about them is their, of course, closeness.   One would believe that there would be arguments, but they learned from an early age that they must compromise, and not think as an individual but them as being really one being.  They weren’t of course, but like many in life, one doesn’t always have a choice.

Not surprisingly the girls were exploited by their owner, who was a queen bitch, and I don’t like to use that term, but I can’t think of another word for her.  She pretty much kept all their money they earned and just gave them the basics with respect to food and comfort.  But luckily nature won out as being teenagers they were obviously rebellious against their slave owner.  Since they were in the public, they knew that she couldn’t really hurt them physically, because in reality the twins belonged to the paying public, and the public if they knew or seen evidence of abuse, they may not pay for this type of entertainment.



Violet fell in love with the general manager of the United Artist theater by the name of Joris-Karl Huysmans, a French man who is now better known as a novelist.  His famous book “À rebours” set literary standards, but alas, didn’t sell.  He relocated to America, after a successful career as a stage manager at various Parisian music halls.   Although much older he fell in love with Violet.  With a certain amount of time, he eventually arranged for the twins to leave their ‘owner’ and pretty much took care of them for the rest of his life.

Joris-Karl introduced the twins to the sounds of Louis Armstrong and New Orleans jazz. Violet and Daisy eventually focused on this new music and became obsessed in proceeding with an American version of French Hot Jazz music.  They toured heavily throughout the years and became well-known in Europe.  It was during this time that people forgot about them being conjoined twins, and started to admire their musical skills, and eventually they became jazz composers as well.



Things went downhill when a friend of their's. Peg Entwistle, jumped to her death from the Hollywood sign, located in the Hollywood hills.  Peg, a stage actress, friended them while they were on the road as adolescent girls.  She was the only nice person at that time, often smuggling food to them right under that bitch’s nose.   Through Peg, the twins learned the importance of discipline, and that only hard work will somehow get them out of this horror show of a life.   When some years later, Peg gave in to her depression about her life and world, leaving only a brief note saying “"I am afraid, I am a coward. I am sorry for everything. If I had done this a long time ago, it would have saved a lot of pain. P.E.” The disappointment that was always in these two girls, who till then, kept it under wraps, finally feel the tug of the depression within their souls.

Joris-Karl, died, leaving the girls without a moral support.  Eventually they lost interest in making music, and eventually became hermits. Living in the home they paid for, but made comfortable with Joris-Karl’s taste and natural elegance, the twins lead a life with the world outside totally closed to them.

In 1969, both twins were found dead in their home.  Death it seems was caused by the Hong Kong flu, and Daisy died first, and it seemed that Violet died two or four days later.

I always regretted the fact that I never met the twins.  A family can be blood, but also a significant distance from each other.

February 4, 2014

February 4, 2014
I got a message from Mark Zuckerberg of Facebook fame, that I should come up north to meet him to discuss the possibility of using me as a writer for a new Facebook concept called “Paper.” I immediately arranged a flight, and went to his campus like office.  What surprised me the most is that his office is small, and it seems he didn’t have a table to work on.  


When I walked in he was watching Ferand Léger’s film “Ballet Méchanique, ” on a giant screen TV which I found odd and slightly off-putting.   He got up to shake my hand, and told me that he has a hard time following straight narratives, so he prefers experimental or artistic films.   We took a place on his couch and we both watched the silent film together.   While the images were in front of me, he told me that he really admired my series of journals that I have been posting on Facebook.  He wanted to know if I would be interested in working with him on his new project “Paper.” Since I was basically unemployed, and going slowly broke, I said sure.   It was at that point he turned around to face me directly.  He told me that Facebook is basically a landscape where things can happen, but now with “Paper” he wants programming and written out narratives for the site. 
For instance, he was fascinated how people on Facebook were reacting to the Woody Allen case.  Most probably consider this to be an old case and who cares at this point and time.  Alas, this is wrong, because a typical citizen of Facebook is very much concerned with the world around them, but they need that ‘world’ to be defined, or package in a way for people to address that specific narrative.  Or if it doesn’t have a narrative, then it must have one attached to the piece.   Another example is the unfortunate death of Philip Seymour Hoffman.  Here’s a tragic incident where a very talented actor dies before his time, but alas, there is a narrative in the works here as well.  People are under a strong opinion that he should have done something besides being a junkie.   Even though the story is not finalized, individuals are already putting their own narrative to his death.  So many issues involved here.  The never-ending process to sobriety, which is odd enough, because the very word ‘sober’ has a meaning of being serious, sensible, and solemn.  Which is nothing wrong with that, but shouldn’t there be a much better term to express fun, adventure, and enlightenment without getting smashed?
Mark and I looked back at the screen.  It’s funny thinking back that both of us while talking we were mostly looking at the movie instead of each other.   In a nutshell, Mark asked me to go through the stories of the day, and re-write them in a more entertaining style or a narrative where there is a beginning, a middle, and the end.  Mark told me “Shit happens, but not on Facebook Tosh.”  
I told him I’ll take the job.  He said cool and then called his secretary in.  She entered the office and introduced herself to me, without waiting for Mark to make the actual introductions.  “My name is Joan Vollmer, and I will be assisting you while you work on this project.” I said goodbye to Mark, and then Joan led me to my office, which like Mark’s office didn’t have a work table.  What I did have was a giant screen TV, with a DVD package near it.  It was Marcel L’Herbier’s “I’Inhumaine, ” another silent film.  



Joan said that she has been with Facebook for 10 years, and before that she was married to a writer in Mexico.  When she left the office, I put on the L’Herbier film and wondered what my life is going to be like now. 

February 3, 2014

February 3, 2014

I was at home listening to Felix Mendelssohn’s “Midsummer Night’s Dream.” when I got a phone call from Violet Shenton, who owns the building that Joe’s studio is in. It seems she was upset, and if she’s upset about anything, then it is pretty serious. I got here as soon as possible, and one can feel the mood of the place just by walking in. Violet met me at the door, and asked me to have a few words with Joe who seemed to be in one of his moods again.


Joe is probably the most intelligent man I know. He was the first guy to really introduce me to the writings of Gertrude Stein and had a crazy love for Carl Theodor Dreyer films. For a guy who looked just like he walked off the canvas of a Norman Rockwell painting, he had a lot of deep inner demons.

I went upstairs to his apartment, I knocked, and found myself facing a rifle barrow. I saw him and said “Joe, I presume!” He laughed and faced the rifle down, and invited me into the apartment. He said to take a seat on the couch, which was covered with empty reel-to-reel tape boxes. I removed a pile of the boxes to sit down, meanwhile he took his seat which was a rocking chair. He placed the rifle on his lap, and asked me what I was reading. I told him that I have been obsessing over Paul Auster’s work in general. Both of us were early fans, but lately we been having trouble getting into his new work. The drag for us, was that there were no major changes and one gets the impression that they are reading the same book over and over again. “Ain’t that the truth” he said to me. I just nodded my head yes, while thinking about that rifle on his lap.

“Joe when we get into our arguments about writers and painters, it would be great if you can place the rifle somewhere else besides your lap.” He stared at me for like 30 seconds and his face broke into a smile. “Well it can finalize our disagreements Tosh.” 




I didn’t like how this conversation was turning into an alley with no exit. “Joe, have you heard the rumors of Kenneth Anger working with Melanie Safka? Many evenings ago, I remembered Joe setting up a really funky old 16mm projector to screen Anger’s “Scorpio Rising.” He was obsessing about the soundtrack and he felt at the time that Anger was using music in a new way to tell a narrative or bringing out a mood. It always struck me odd that Joe and Anger never got together to work on a project. They both had an interest in the Magik world, and I can’t speak for Anger, but Joe had an obsession with the after-life. Often he would force me to take part in a seance and have a discussion with Buddy Holly. I rather talk to Arthur Kane, but never brought up that subject with him because of his utter devotion to Buddy. I brought up Anger’s name due to the rumors that he was about do do a film-bio on the gangster Pretty Boy Floyd, and he either wanted Melanie to do the soundtrack or star in it.

As we were chatting back and forth, he suddenly put the rifle down, got up from his chair, and asked me if I wanted some tea. “Actually Joe, I have to split.” 




He said “are you sure? I can ask Violet to put the kettle on.”

“Nah, but thanks Joe. ”

I got up and walked over to him, and gave him a hug, and as I was hugging him I whispered in his ear “A rose is a rose is a rose.” He laughed and kissed me on both cheeks. That was the last time I saw him.

February 2, 2014

February 2, 2014

When I was a book buyer for Book Soup, my favorite buying session was to purchase remainders for the store.   A remainder is a book that is either going out-of-print, or has been returned to the publisher due that it got damaged or weak sales.  These books became a source of passion for me, because I saw them as objects that were mistreated, ignored, and unloved, when clearly it deserved a certain amount of attention from customers as well as the sales force in a bookstore.  So I feel that I’m the last man standing with respect to these books.  If I turned down a title it would be sudden death for that book, and every meeting I have with a salesperson from a remainder company, I bear that in mind.   If I say “yes” to a title, then it can live a little bit longer.

Through out my buyer occupation I came upon the greatest people in the book business, which for me was the reps or salesperson for a publishing house or distributor.  I first met Hella Haasse, when she called my office out of the blue to see if she can get an appointment with me.  The other interesting thing about remainder reps that they are consistently traveling, and most travel from the West to East coast and from the North to the South.  Consistently moving with the largest suitcase possibly made to hold the book samples.   My first impression of reps is that they were another version of Mr. Haney from “Green Acres, ” owing to their encyclopedic knowledge and the amount of books they have to carry with them.

Hella impressed me, because she was tiny, and had to load and unload this huge package of books by herself, but one can see she treat it as a second part of her skin. I felt I came up in the presence of someone who was selling something extremely personal.  Bookselling in general is an act of intimacy between buyer and seller, and eventually bookseller to customer.  It has a unique bond, a relationship that is based on one’s personality or character.  You really can’t learn the trade, you need to be yourself, which naturally takes you into the world of books.

 A remainder rep has to take a book apart before their journey due that it is impossible to move so many titles across the continent.   The horrible thing is that my office is upstairs, so she has to lift the luggage of books as she walks up.  I volunteered to help, but it seems she takes great pride in doing the work herself.

Hella had a series of folders, mostly book covers and its few pages.  They are divided by subject matter.   Right away I avoid the cooking and children books.  I called upon to see fiction.   The first book she showed me was a British edition of “Ulysses” by James Joyce.  For our bookstore, 20th century classics seem to sell the best.  So the wholesale price for this title will be $2.98, but we can sell it for $4.98.   Other then that, Hella is beautiful.  When she hands me the folder to look at the covers, she never takes her eyes off me.  I find myself as a cocktail, where the literature soothes me, but her eyes stings.  After we finished our buying session, I ask her if she wants to get coffee before she jets out to her next sales meeting.  She said yes.



I took her to Dialog Cafe on the corner of Holloway Drive and Palm Avenue off Sunset Blvd.   I do a lot of my buying meetings here due that it's quiet and the owners here are wonderful people.  Remainder reps are an interesting occupation, because they have to be knowledgeable about many subjects, and physically strong to carry the load of books.  I can’t imagine a person doing this for a long time, because it must cause havoc on their social or family life, but alas, all of them like the life on the road.  To consistently travel, it is like they are chasing the sun around the country.  Hella’s work clothes strike me as simple but feminine.  It had an odd combination to think of, because on one level bookselling is a performance, and a salesperson has to think of her or his appearance in front of a buyer or customer.  Which makes me feel a tad ashamed because I find myself attracted to her, but I try not to make it obvious.  But I have a hunch that people in her position know right away.



She bought me the coffee, and we sat down to talk about Joyce, who weird enough I have never read.  She, it seems, is an enormous fan of his writings, but finds “Ulysses” a minor work compared to “Finnegans Wake.” It wasn’t till after she left, that I realized that the only personal information she gave out about herself was her devotion to Joyce, for whom she thinks a lot about.  What does that tell me about Hella?

Talking about a writer or books is very intimate. Yet it can disguise or mask our feelings.  Perhaps it was a sales technique on her part, but I doubt that.  Booksellers, on both sides of the fence, are pretty much devoted to the printed page.
After our coffee I had the greatest urge to kiss her on the lips, but we hugged instead.  I offered to help her with the luggage of books, but she said she can manage it.   I walked her to her car, and we hugged again, and then she left.

February 1, 2014

Photo by Relah Eckstein from her film "The Room"
February 1, 2014
Checking my bank accounts, I can see clearly that I am going broke.  Not working for the past year and a half has been a fantastic time spent writing and thinking, but now it is high time to think about going back to the work force.  Checking my skills, the most logical occupation for me would be an actor in films.   Never mind the fact that the last film I was in “French Toast” hasn’t been finished yet.  Nevertheless my filmography is very impressive, being a child actor in Andy Warhol’s “Tarzan and Jane Regained... Sort Of” and turning down a role in Dennis Hopper’s “Easy Rider.” Plus being the star in Relah Eckstein’s films. I felt I had a better chance to get maybe a role in a situational TV show or even probably a commercial.  
I chose to avoid the middle-man, and I approached a movie studio, The Black Maria, to see if they were doing any hiring for film work.  I was realistic in knowing my chances to be a star in a film was pretty glum, but for sure I could get a second or third billing role in some film.  The only photograph of myself in a film was in Relah’s “The Room” which was made in the 80s, but I sent it with a resume.  Within a week, I received a letter from a producer at the studio by the name of William Taylor.  He asked if I could fly out to New Jersey (where the studio was located) for screen tests.  I said sure, and I was on my way.
When I showed up two days later at Mr. Taylor’s office, bright and early in the morning, he looked over the one image he has of me from “The Room.” he told me that I didn’t look anything like the photograph.   Which I replied “Well I’m an actor sir, and I really don’t have an identity.  I can melt into any character or role. That is my speciality.”  
He then commented that as far as he could tell, I have only worked on four Relah Eckstein films, plus an early Warhol, and a cameo in Anna Biller’s “Viva.” I told him that I was very choosey.
He looked at me and then laugh, and he said “you got the spirit man, and I like that in a male.” He asked me to take off my shirt.  I thought that was odd, since I was 59 years old, but on the other hand I have been known to make women swoon to this very day.   He did a series of photographs of me without the shirt on his I-Phone, which I thought to myself. “Wow technology is so fantastic. ”
After he finished taking the photos, he came to me, and put his hand on my knee and said “I think you got something.” He went back to his desk and threw me a script.  I was trying to catch it, but it landed in a gold fish bowl.    He just glanced at me with his eyes and made a movement with his hands that I should get it out of the fish bowl.  It was just a little script. In fact it was only five pages long.  I asked him “Is this the entire script?” He shook his head up and down.  

“It was written by the great S.J. Perelman for a Marx Brothers film, but Groucho didn’t want to play it.” He told me that the script was in his drawer for numerous years, till Takashi Murakami came to visit the studio and told him he just wanted to make his first American film.  By chance, Taylor showed Murakami the script, which he also threw at him, and he missed catching it, and again, it landed in the fish bowl.  Murakami loved the idea that the script was only five pages long, and basically silent, except for some sound effects.  



As an actor I was turned on to the fact that this was a silent film, and in reality I specialized in silent movie work.  Relah refused me to speak in her films because of my squeaky voice.  I told Taylor that I loved Murakami’s paintings, and was ready to work in this film.   Taylor just starred at me for a minute or so without saying a word then he said “we got a deal! ”

January 31, 2014

January 31, 2014

Today is January 31, and the way I see this date, it’s 31 days of failure. Since January 1, I have worked on a novel that is based on the life of actor James Franciscus who starred in the 1950’s TV show “Naked City.” I know nothing of his private life, but his face over the years stayed with me, as if it was glued into by brain. It is his face that I first think of when awake in the mornings. Mind you it is no longer a nightmare, but something about his features gives me comfort.

I’ve been formatting the narrative every day since the first. At first, I based a narration from one of the many “Naked City” episodes. Which by the way is a fantastic show. Mostly filmed on location, one sees New York City as if it was shot by Weegee. There is one episode where he shoots a criminal, but feels really bad about it. It was the first time that in his career as a cop, where he had to shoot someone. Even though it was a life and death situation, if he didn’t shoot the guy, he would have got shot. But still, he couldn’t erase the feeling of dread due to the actions of the thug as well as his response to the creep. I thought of this narrative on a regular basis and I was trying to write my own version of the story, but it always came out bland and pointless. It was at this time I wondered if I had the talents to become a writer, and actually if I had the talent to write a novel. 


The insecurity that swelled up inside me was almost too much. Once I get that nagging feeling I immediately try to make of something else. Usually I put on the vinyl copy of “Diamond Head” by Phil Manzanera who is also the guitarist for Roxy Music. From 1972 to maybe 1976, this was a band that couldn’t do wrong -either as a group or as solo artists. I always looked up to Bryan Ferry and company as a platform of excellence. But for my taste, Manzanera never let me down. He and Johnny Rotten are probably the two music figures that I admire the most. When I tried to be a visual artist, I did an oil portrait of Manzanera and Rotten sitting on a park bench in Echo Park by the man-made lake. The painting struck me as pretentious so I never finished it, which of course caused anxiety and depression. I then thought of making a statue, in sort of Robert Graham style, of both of them, standing tall and shaking hands. It would have become a commentary on the nature or relationship between prog/glam and punk rock. But this as well, failed, due that I don’t have any talent in making sculptures.

My novel I’m writing is slowly killing me. It looks as though I am so focused on Franciscus for no real reason. Now I have the fear that readers will think i 'm putting this character in for no reason, and perhaps they’re right. Writers make terrible decisions, and readers are always right. They can smell a phony writer or artist a mile away.

What makes this current ‘failure’ the worst, is that I left my job of 25 years to write this novel. I reckoned that if I did something so drastic as to cut my line to economic security, it will somehow make me a better writer, or in a sense to put out or shut up. Now I feel that the public will expect me to shut up.

I pretty much stay in the house, just to focus on the writing, but at times I feel I need to go out and sort of see the world in a fresh light. I took the 92 bus to Spring Street, and hung out at The Last Bookstore. I wanted to buy some records there, but regardless of the fact that the prices were inexpensive, I felt I shouldn’t spend any money right now. I left the store and headed towards Broadway, where I come upon a bar/restaurant called Les Noces du Figaro. It was happy hour, and I thought. Wow I need a glass of wine. I went in, and there were not that many people there, which is the way I like a bar. I ordered a glass of wine, which came to $4. For whatever reason, I thought that this was the best $4 investment I made since the first of this month.

Fascinating Article/Essay on Boris Vian's "I Spit On Your Graves"

Jacob Mikanowski wrote a fascinating essay/article on Boris Vian's (Vernon Sullivan) "I Spit On Your Graves and literature that deals with the duality of identity.   Read it here:

http://www.theawl.com/2013/08/tlon-invade-reality

A Great Review of Boris Vian's "Red Grass"

http://readingintranslation.com/2014/01/30/rhapsody-in-red-boris-vians-red-grass-translated-by-paul-knobloch/
A great review of Boris Vian's magnificent "Red Grass" published by TamTam Books. Translated by Paul Knobloch and designed by Mark HolleyBoris Vian's "Red Grass"

January 30, 2014

January 30, 2014
There is at the very least a 40 years difference between us in our age. Yet Justin Bieber and I are tight pals.  We met because I heard through various circles that he was looking for a lyricist, and I’ve been working on songs for the last 30 years or so.  People think it’s an odd partnership, but history proves this wrong, specifically when you think of the French pop songwriter Jacques Dutronc and his much older lyricist Jacques Lanzmann.  It’s a good combination to have youth, but with the words coming from an older guy.  

Time-to-time, Justin and I hang out, just for inspiration, and also to share our common love for the good life.  What the both of us share, besides making art, is having a good time.  Whenever I go to his pad in “The Oaks” which is a gated community in Calabasas, we like to chill by the swimming pool, and then invite some of his friends over the house to party a bit.  The evening starts by watching films.  Justin is a bit of a film buff and he has a great admiration for films made by Robert Bresson. 


 “Pickpocket” seems to be his favorite Bresson film, and we often had gone to shopping centers such as the Beverly Center, ,  approximately around dusk, and we love to attract a crowd around him, where we, to our best ability, try to pickpocket the fans that surround him.  Justin actually has excellent hand coordination and while he talks to a fan, and here, the important part of the technique, starring directly in her eyes, while at the same time his fingers go over her purse and lifts stuff out of the bag.  I would usually be directly behind him, and just pick up the goods by making my coat pocket accessible to him for dropping off her goods. 
Doing this was a complete turn-on for us, and I think got our juices going for songwriting sessions.   For a while now, I have worked on a song with Justin called “Stealing Your Love Away.” Due to our various backgrounds, it is a tough song to write.  I’ve been in and out of love so many times in my life, and Justin only had one real love that didn’t turn out terrific.  I believe her name was Selena, and man was she a looker and a half!  
Justin used to show me some footage off his I-Phone, but just a quick glance.  Man what a tease!   Usually she was posing either naked or half-naked, and I have to admit it was a turn-on of sorts.  That in the nutshell is the beauty of our relationship.  We can share intimate items that are only between us.  Justin is really a gorgeous guy.  

We often are out driving, without a purpose or plan.  For instance, all of a sudden he wants to get in a car and go.  Go where?  Who gives a shit, just go man!  We usually drive to a remote area, mostly in the countryside, which is the beauty of living in Southern California.  One never is a long way from the ocean or the forest.   I get in the passenger side (I don’t drive) and with Justin behind the wheel it is a dance in motion.  There is something so beautiful with Justin’s face when it is matched with his yellow Lamborghini.  I often was of the view that I was watching myself and him in a movie.  I’m screaming for dear life, and he is laughing like an insane person.  He held his foot on the gas petal, going faster.  Eventually he turns off the headlights and all in front of us is pure darkness.  We speed towards the scenic space of nothing. 

January 29, 2014

January 29, 2014
I try to look at the everyday as a positive day, but at night I have dreams that pretty much expose my anxiety.  Claudine, who used to be my manager and eventually boss, was in the habit of being a sign of comfort and support, but that was till she arranged for me to leave my occupation that I had for the last twenty-five years or so.  
Claudine first came to the store ten years ago looking for a job, and when I saw her I prayed that she would get it.  Not due to her working habits, which at that time, I didn’t know hay from the horse if she was skilled in any fashion, but owning that she was a great beauty.  Attractive people always make the work place a more enjoyable experience, for the customer as well as for the co-worker as well.  
Right off the bat she was hired as a manager, and it seemed that she had this special knack to get along with everyone.  She was one of those who would always invite you into her back office if you have a problem or a concern.  Everyone at work loved her.  It was during this time that I started to have dreams about her.  For whatever reasons my dreams at night were anxiety driven, but if there was one person that consistently showed up, it was her, and that made everything OK.  


When you work together with someone, especially in retail you have to watch everyone’s back.  It’s very important that all on the sales floor are on the same page, which is total devotion to the customer, but also moral support to your fellow employee and boss.  Claudine was the type of person to be sensitive to her employees’ concerns.  I remember on my birthday, which to be honest, is a day of embarrassment, she got me a biography of W.C. Fields, my favorite comic actor.  I was a little bit of a film nerd, and occasionally when work was slow, I would argue the merits of Fields comedy skills against Charlie Chaplin.   A total time-waster of course, but it was one of those conversations that made the day go faster.  
By the policy of the store, each employee must have a review, where they are judged by their work, getting a raise issue, health insurance issues, and so forth.  On one level, it was sort of a joke, because the store couldn’t afford to give raises, due that the store was always in-between total disaster and just getting by.  Nevertheless, it was nice to spend time with Claudine regarding my job.  Often one feels nervous, but she had that knack to make one comfortable in such meetings.  Every meeting we had, she told me that I was doing a fantastic job, that the staff has nothing but praise for me, and I was a solid credit for the store.  Like her, I had the talent to walk into the sales floor and make everyone happy.  I was good with fellow employees and regular customers loved me.   It was super nice that she recognized my talents in this very specific field of work. 


Not the final meeting, but the one before that, I noticed an ugly doll was placed on one of her office chairs.  I asked her what it was, and she mentioned she just got it in the mail and addressed to her, and she doesn’t know what to do with it.  At a closer inspection, it seemed to be a voodoo doll.  I told her to throw it away, but she said she can’t. It was obvious that this was bothering her, and finally I said to her, “I’m going to take it with me, and I’ll take care of it.” At this point she was concerned that I will throw it in the trash.  I said I wouldn’t do that.   So as my shift ended I took the doll with me. 
On the Metro bus line 2, I was on Sunset.  The bus itself wasn’t crowded, and when no one was looking I took the doll out of my tote bag and placed it on my seat, right before I got off on Sunset and Parkman.  As I watched the bus pull away, I thought to myself that was that. 
Our relationship remained on track, but about a month before our next scheduled review, she started to send me memos concerned about my work.  They struck me as odd, because nothing has changed, with respect to how I do my job, and I was not getting any complaints from either staff or customers.  One day she called me to the back office and told me that my manager and some of the staff were upset in how I was doing some of the work.  I was shocked to hear this because normally I get along perfectly well with them, and sometimes we go out to have a drink after the store closes.  I told her this, but she said to me that they didn’t want to tell this to me because it was too awkward for them to get involved.  I felt bad about all of this, and I actually approached some of the staff as well as the shift manager in question.  When I mentioned this, she told me “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I can tell how she stated this that she wasn’t lying, she was totally clueless when I approached her. 

A few weeks later, when I had my official review with Claudine she mentioned this to me again. I told her that i talked to various staff people, and they had no problems with me at all.  She said that is not the situation, and they didn’t want to tell me face-to-face.  I didn’t believe her.  She then went on to say maybe I am not suitable for this type of work, which was unbelievable because I have been employed here for twenty-five years, and my previous review was fantastic.   When I checked out of the meeting, I knew my days were pretty much over at work.   The meeting was on a Friday, and by next Monday I resigned from the job.   It was that evening when my dreams of her became more hostile and disturbing.  Yet, I like to think changes are always for the best, so perhaps it was time for me to move on.