The Moon In Its Flight by Gilbert Sorrentino Page B

the door. Where is your eraser. Nice cross. Where is your pencil. Where’s my pen. Where are yesterday’s orders. Ship all the inventory. Forget the paperwork. Come in early tomorrow. Ignore the heat. It’s too sunny. Put up the blinds by the cigar. Close the drapes. Bend over. It’s too noisy. It’s too quiet. I’ve got nothing against those people. Get my white shirts out of the Chink laundry. Don’t hang around the salesmen. Don’t hang around the stockroom. Don’t come near my office. Deliver the mail to every single goddamned desk. Pick up all the mail all the time. Who told you to pick up the machines. Shovel the snow off the sidewalk. Stack the doors next to the heat. Move the cigars. Put your bra back on. Don’t think you’ll drink the cocktails. Keep your nose clean. Open the salesmen. Ignore the secretaries. Don’t talk to the ups man. Don’t talk to the mailman. Don’t hang out with those goddamned truckers. Don’t worry about every little thing in the inventory. Why doesn’t my pen work. Send back the heat. What do you mean back ordered. Close your blouse. Close your skirt. Pull up your panties. Let sleeping dogs lie. Fix the office. Fix this. Fix that. Fix the salesmen. Who told you to wear a tie. Scrub the floor. Unclog the sink. Unclog the drain. Unclog the clog. Stock your skirt. Red the cabinet. Open the keys. Buy some pencils and Danish. Make the blue. Make the coffee. You’ll drink water. No sugar on the orders now or ever. Put your slip on the shelf right here, no here, no there, no here, put it back on. Shut your mouth. Get my wife on the phone. Get that mockie bastard Mr. Pearl on the phone. Get the phone fixed. Cross the green out, no, the red out, no, the air conditioner. Put the files in your socks. It’s too damn comfortable in here. No white shirts, no white shirts, goddamnit, no white shirts in the fucking stockroom. Don’t eat lunch in here. Don’t eat lunch in there. Don’t eat lunch over there. Who said you could eat lunch now. No radios in the stockroom. Don’t ever wear that old OD shirt in here again. Who hired that guinea whore. Get Sven Bjornstrom on the phone, the crazy Swede bastard. Touch me there, yes, there, and now here. It’s too warm in here, sultry, close, no, it’s too hot. Fix the vent or whatever you call it. And also the air conditioner goddamn door machine right fucking now immediately. And tell your troubles to Jesus you little faggot prick.
    Cocktails
    Hello, I’m Sven Bjornstrom. Often, various people have called me a crazy Swedish person, and I admit that I am of pale skin and have somewhat yellowed teeth. I am fairly skilled though unfluent in three languages, including, as you may surmise instantly, in English. I’m not in liberty to divulge at the present the identity, or name, of the other, or third language, for many reasons which will soon be made as clear as the limping waters. Well, and you wonder why it may be that I admit to being called a crazy Swedish person? That is quite easy! I look forward, to filling you in as my story unfolds. You will see that my life has not been wholly lacking in contented moments and my fair share of a bevy of hearty laughter, along with the rather occasional attention of some partially attractive, running all the way down the scale, to varied homely if not worse-looking ladies. Not all of which I actually knew very well.
    I have always tried to act honorably and even with a pinch of stern honesty toward my fellow humans, some sort of trait that is to be continuously knocked into the head of Swedish babies, no matter who they may be. Day after day and year after year, honorableness and honest. Those are what you call the Swedish tickets! Many of these traits of habits are based right on the many teachings of Jesus Christ, or as we Swedish people jokingly daub him now and then, “the first Lutheran.” A person or two will sometimes hint that this is very close to blasphemy, and yet Jesus himself often enjoyed