A 52-Hertz Whale by Bill Sommer Page B

at what they do. The showrunner on The Show That Shall Not Be Named (from here on out referred to as T-S-T-S-N-B-N or “Testy Snobbin”) is a dude named Rob who actually looks more like a Bob (bald spot, pot belly, and these loose, drooping–flower-petal lips), and he gets all sorts of—ahem, has much success with females. He’s not good-looking, and he definitely wasn’t the captain of varsity anything when he was in high school. But he’s top dog, and ladies like it. (Mind you, it’s a small, confused, disgruntled pack of dogs, but he’s still the dominant one.)
    He seems to have taken a bit of a liking to me lately because I always bring him his skinny vanilla latte from the Corporate Coffee Shop exactly as he asks for it. What he doesn’t know is that a while back I started tasting his drinks before I brought them to him and then checking out his reaction after his first sip. I would note whether he seemed to like it or not, so that after a while I learned how he liked them, and if they came out any different—too foamy, too sweet, whatever—I’d drink that one myself and order another one.
    Just realized I’m a little bit proud of this. Oh, how what constitutes success has been blunted! I’m just trying to remember that it’s only temporary. I will make the next Seven Up , but I’ve got to pay my dues, as they say. I’m sure the same will be true for you at wherever you end up landing a gig.
    Later,
    D-erring
    From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: October 10, 2012 at 9:45 PM
Subject: Job news
    Dear Darren:
    Thanks for your encouragement with regards to my career goals. It’s reassuring to hear that the showrunner on Testy Snobbin, who sounds like a “late bloomer” (Mom’s term for me), still has success with girls on some level. But even if that wasn’t the case and my fate would be to live out the rest of my days as a lonely man eating Cheetos in front of old Jacques Cousteau reruns, I’d still become a cetologist. Judging by your moratorium on talking about Corinne, it sounds like you wouldn’t be that opposed to joining me on the couch for a little Cousteau Odyssey marathon either. (Really, there’s something for everyone in that series, even a segment on indigenous plants and animals in fresh waters if rivers are more your thing.)
    As for my short-term job prospects, I have some news.
    I was offered a position at Star Arcade for $8.30 an hour, and I started last Saturday. When I showed up for training, I figured that, at best, I would work the prize case for kids cashing in their Skee-Ball ticket winnings. At worst, I thought I’d be scraping hardened gum off the bottom of the Fast Wheels race car seat or unclogging the coin deposits.
    Instead, I was led by this teenager with an earring in his chin (how is it even possible to pierce bone?) to a back room. Chin Piercing led me over toward jumbo stuffed animals hanging on hooks and pointed to what I thought was a white rug. “This is what you gotta wear, man,” he said. He threw me the heap of white fur. When I asked him what exactly it was, he wiped his hand across his mouth, but he couldn’t stop smiling.
    Well, come to find out that it is an Abominable Snowman costume. In case you are like me and have no idea what an Abominable Snowman is, here is a summary of my Web research: the Abominable Snowman (also known as the yeti) is basically a bear-like creature (mythical) that lives in the Himalayas and scares the shit out of people with its height and ferocity. Anyway, it turned out I needed to wear this Abominable Snowman costume and stand on the sidewalk on King, the street that, you’ll remember, every single person in our town passes on their way anywhere.
    The costume smelled like cigarettes and BO And it was so big that I couldn’t see out of the eye holes or breathe out of the little screened opening. I