AKA Analog Abraham

I’m looking good, feeling right, got my portfolio in hand, and it has stopped raining. I’m gonna land this thing. So, is Brooklyn the town that Manhattan forgot or what? I think it deserves a bit more press. The shimmer factor isn’t there, the atmosphere is less chaotic, and as a result, it can be unsettling at first. It takes a while to calm down from the frenetic nature of the city; it can’t be done all at once. Perhaps, by the time you arrive home, take your shoes off, perform the toe stretch that you learned last week in Yoga, and raise your arms to the ceiling, you have begun to unwind. Add a glass of wine, a little TV, and some microwaved Chinese, and you really have a party. But getting off the train in Brooklyn and emerging from the subway is not as soothing as you’d like it to be. So much quieter, less lights and less people, but not tranquil by any means. Is the air cleaner or dirtier? The “Brooklyn revamp” project is underway, or so I hear. There are big plans for this spot. Construction and painting and removal of the destitute, businesses moving in and shanties being leveled, the themes for today and the days upcoming.

A job interview, my theme for today. Hagger told me he had a schedule that would “bite a snake,” therefore, “I’d better be on time.” Was that supposed to mean that his schedule was busy? One can only assume so. “Yo, son, you got 50 cent? And not the rapper. I need 50 more cent for the bus. Players only let you on with exact change.” The kid needed more than 50 cent to fix those teeth, and I figured giving him a little love for the bus would enhance my chances of landing the job. I had been yearning for a writing gig for years, and this was finally my opportunity. Hagger claimed to love my style, but it still took a faith leap on my part to take a day off work and fly from LA to New York, with a $400 plane bill being questioned by my parents, especially considering this job was to pay “upon performance.” “Upon performance,” being synonymous with “not at first.” It can’t be considered an internship, per se, because I already have a job, and one article a week isn’t exactly an unbearable load. Only problem is, the initial three “trial” articles were distributed to the masses as such; listing all of my personal contact information, the wrong author being credited for my work, and accidentally omitted altogether by the editor, in that order. This made my trip even more suspect in the eyes of my mom and dad, who supported my writing efforts, but not completely.

Then again, I had finally obtained a job where I was going somewhere, utilizing my talents, and putting in time to make myself and others money to live. It’s a good kind of pressure knowing that your hard work and strict attention to statistics, trends, and detail will yield your clients profit, as well as yourself a greater share of the corporate margin. “Son, it’s only 50 cent. If you ain’t got that shit let me move with this.” Ahh, the money. “Here you go.” I gave him a dollar. “Man, my punk ass is poor, but what does this dollar do? The bus is about to leave, man. I said 50 cent. This dollar is about as good to me as a dagger to my dick.” Hagger! What time was it? He said three at the latest, and since getting off the subway, I have been watching the construction, taking notes for my next piece, and conversing with the 50 cent man. “I don’t have any change, but keep the dollar! Good luck, I gotta run.” I turned and began walking briskly toward my destination. I was only one block away, and I still had five minutes, but “on time” means a few minutes early, especially when you’ve flown thousands of miles. If you’re meeting an associate at your workplace at 9am, then you get there at 9am. He won’t be early, and neither will you. It simply isn’t necessary. But across the country for a job interview, hell, you could get there a half hour early. You’re across the country; the guy can’t fault you for showing up prematurely. Not that you should do that, and in this case, 2:55 would be ideal. It shows that you are prompt, serious, and considerate. But I won’t be there at 2:55, and that’s when my anxiety began to set in. Remember the Yoga breathing tactics. Too bad I can’t remove my Adidas and separate my toes, “pointing them to the sky,” even though this was a feat currently unachievable in my realm of Yoga-naiveté. Ok, it was only 2:56, and I was very close. Here I was at the corner, and aha, no streetlights. I darted across the street, something I could not have done in my rigid, slick dress shoes that I left back at the hotel. It took me hours this morning to decide whether or not to wear the fancy Prada footwear, but ultimately, I stuck with my Adidas. Are you rifling through my overnight bag? Yeah, I thought not. How do you know I don’t have Pradas in there? Ok, fine, I don’t. But they are dressy, and my mom said they looked sophisticated on me. Perhaps that counts for something, but I had concluded that it wouldn’t count with Hagger.

On the phone he was the quick and glib, the counter-culture variety. He liked to stir the stew with a wooden spoon that might leave a few splinters behind. Besides, this was an online newsletter, the capital of casual within the industry, an industry already at the lowest tier of conventional business structure. As I made it across the street, I was at his building. 2:58. I’d walk to the door, straighten my brow and ring the bell, just as his clock was still one minute away from chiming 3:00 Eastern Standard. I knew his clock chimed, because I could hear it when we spoke, which was a rare occurrence. We usually emailed or exchanged instant messages. He was big on J, and I liked that, because I was a smiley guy myself. Straightened brows are important. It’s one of those things that remain unmentioned just because, well, there are always so many other things to discuss. A friend set me up on a blind date one time, some years back, and the girl’s sole prerequisite to going out with me was that I “had a strong, straight brow line. Prominent but not toothick eyebrows is all I care about,” she remarked to him. “You won’t be disappointed,” he told her. And she wasn’t. Unsmoothed or unkempt brows, even on a man, can be quite the turnoff. My thumb and index finger started at the innermost corners of my eye sockets, cradling the brim of my nose, and I slid them across my horizontal hair patches until the two digits were inches apart and my hand formed the shape of a gun. Time to start blazing, put a “pistol to his penis,” so to speak. I pressed the talk button on the intercom, but where was the Company name? Eh, he wanted to keep a low profile, I get it. This building looked like an apartment complex anyway, he probably has a loft where he runs the whole business, including the newsletter. Why do you look so surprised? I thought I told you about the lax nature of this industry. “Yeah, hi, I’m Bryan.” I had always been a good intercom speaker. My voice carries, and is one of confidence. “Hey, Bry. You here for the interview?” “Um, yes.” Here for the interview? What was that employer blasphemy? Was it his attempt to make me nervous, throw me off as a test, or was he interviewing so many people that he, despite our extended correspondence over the last three weeks, forgot that today was myday? Ok, come on now, recall the carbon dioxide of the Yogi. Exhale and remember that he has a team working for him. That wasn’t even Hagger’s voice. Ha. How worked up I got over nothing. The man coming to the door put me back at unease. “Bry, good to meet you, I’m Rezzy.” Everything on this guy needed work, from his face to his hair to his preposterously ragged clothes. Would I receive a referral fee if I got him to star on an episode of “Extreme Makeover?”  “Rezzy, great to meet you.” His appearance was of no consequence. My brows were straight and my portfolio strong. Not that I needed a portfolio, as Hagger had read, enjoyed, and posted three of my articles already, but those were short little trial episodes. “Ok, Bry, you’re all set, right? You got your lines down?” I dislike people who are too comfortable. My family, my lady, even my lady’s family or my brother’s lady can call me Bry ‘til Piglet comes back to the farm, but a stranger? Who met me three minutes ago? That doesn’t work for me. It’s even more of an assumption than calling me “B.” At least “B” is a letter, free of blame. I could have a negative association with “Bry” for all he knows. Weak. Hold on! My lines? “My lines? How’s that? I hope Hagger isn’t expecting me to recite something. Oh, written lines. My fault. Sure, I have my portfolio right here.” “Well, Bry, good thing you brought your portfolio, but you need to know your lines if you want an audition today.” Audition? Where the ffff-ifty cent was I? “Uh, audition? This is ‘Analog Abraham,’ right?” “Kid, this ain’t no ‘Analog Abraham.’ What the fuck kind of name is that? At least name your Company, “Digital Mose,” or something ill that flows nicely.” Who is ‘Mose?’ I wondered. “Look, man. It’s 3:04, and I’m late for an interview. Are you sure ‘Analog Abraham’ isn’t in this building?” “Man, the only thing Biblical in this building are a couple of whores that could use a good foot washing.” The complex sat strangely on the corner, was there a smaller building behind it that I had overlooked? It had to be. 522A. I knew that. This was 522, and I had falsely assumed that “A” would be one of the suites, or apartments, or lofts inside. “Ok, thanks.” I scurried out the door and down the stairs. My watch screamed “you’re six minutes late!” as I slammed into a man smoking a cigarette. My portfolio leaped from my sweaty hand and landed itself conveniently in the gutter. And no Los Angeles gutter, mind you. This gutter was wet, and stank. So wet that it was stopping the flow of the water and creating a dam. Damn. “Sir, I’m really sorry. I’m trying to get to this, oh, man, are you all right?” He appeared uninjured and quite subdued, but still, I had to ask. I mean, I did run into him. The man removed the cigarette from his mouth, and was looking like something profound was about to be uttered.  “Nice shoes, but you should stop admiring them when running out of a building and onto the sidewalk. It’s called a ‘sidewalk’ because people walk on it. You always show up late to interviews?” I was creeping up on the state line of being wholeheartedly perplexed, but one of my feet was still in reality. “Hagger? Um, I’m Bryan.” “Yeah, I know. I see you met Rezzy.” Hagger pointed toward the gutter with his cigarette hand. “Is there some quality stuff for me in that portfolio or what?” He smiled a closed-mouth, full-faced, Instant Message caliber grin.