Insert Chassis Albuquerque: Chapter 3 - "Nominal Proportionate Salary Compensation"

Chapter 3 - "Nominal Proportionate Salary Compensation"
I found some letterheaded paper emblazoned with the SUN CORP INTERNATIONAL company logo and set to work writing a treatise titled: Nominal Proportionate Salary Compensation, a deep exploration of working conditions espousing the principle that Employee/Employer relationships always tilt invariably naturally towards the employer. It was a completely natural prejudice the employee suffered. Much like Ivan Pavlov had conditioned his dogs to salivate by association, employees had been conditioned to overlook this reflex reaction to remuneration, when the balance should morally favor the employee.
It was pretty subversive literature and meant, owing to poor salary remuneration, effectively an employyes daily work load should decrease until the pay discrepancy resolved itself and was  more adequately aligned to the actual amount of work performed. I’m not saying I’m a socialist or a communist. I mean I enjoy sex and fucking – that’s why people worked, because of sex and fucking. Shimansky himself lambasted the subject in a memo to all staff: “We can’t have customers just wandering around spending large amounts money on low-margin items! It’s our job to ensure the customer, if they’re going to spend, we correct them and adjust their attitude so that they spend their hard-earned money on items they most times can’t afford but most suit us…!”
I buzzed August Burgman on Shimansky’s office intercom again.
“I'm busy out here, too, you know…!” she complained; it was like listening to a child whining.
Burgman was alright.
But just last week she’d got her damn head caught in the fax machine and Shimansky had had to call the fire brigade to extract her using hydraulic Jaws of Life.
“Jesus! I’m expecting an important fax, how much longer you people gonna be…?” Shimansky had yelled at Burgman (who was crying) and the firemen. Stupidity was a default with her and I'd have been surprised if she ever superseded that setting. Shimansky set a certain minimum requirement for how much tolerable stupidity he could withstand and I’m pretty sure Burgman surpassed that requirement umpteen times every minute of every day, but Shimansky just kept setting the bar lower and lower. I could see why. She’d a beautifully shaped head and a body to match.
And she could actually type, accurate and fast.
Sometimes in life that's all you needed to be: Pretty and an exceptional typist.
Let me tell you, for a guy like Shimansky - who was all about detail- a fast, accurate typist was probably like a blowjob.
I gave the memo to Burgman.
“I need this typed up and printed out. And make sure that asshole reads it,” I told her.
“Which asshole…?” she asked and I looked at her. “I’m not a moron, you know, you’re all assholes to me…!”
I sneaked a look at Burgman's little 17 year old ass as she stormed from Shimansky’s office. Even if she was only just 17, sometimes a woman can be so busy they forget to have a sense of humor and can't remember even how beautiful they used to feel and all that remains is the marching band smile of several serious but invisible injuries.
Yeah, times were changing.
Women - evolving in the time frame of a 100 years what man had failed to achieve in millions - weren't as stupid as they’d used to be anymore. But women were willing to do anything to survive, if it means they’ll survive. Of course, Shimansky didn’t have to find a new home because of his financial situation. Money, more was essential, and my life was already in massive debt.
Shimansky had allowed me to get into even a lot more debt because he’d refused me a goddamn increase.
Well, let me tell you, debt, debt keeps a man sane and reminds him he's fallible. Any goal-orientated, ambitious person knows the importance of debt, it keeps a balance nothing else can achieve and helps prevent a man sliding into a complete apathy for the world. A very dangerous position for a man to be in. A man who doesn’t care believes he’s nothing to fear, to lose, to gain.
I guess my “economic” outlook must not seem too good. 
I’d spent all my money on booze, drugs and some immigrant Eastern European prostitutes called Olga and Yana.
Why? Well, for one thing, Eastern European prostitutes were a lot better educated than the local prostitutes. Let me give you an example. You say to a girl, one of them, either Olga or Yana: "Hey, hey does this smell like chloroform…?"
The local girls, they’re not even sure what chloroform is.
European girls, well, they know chloroform. They’ll even tell you it’s molecular structure. They'll tell you things, they'll say: "Well, you don’t really wanna use the chloroform. It’s kinda lame – what are you, in 1950? What you wanna do is use drug like Flunitrazepam, that’s what you really wanna use. Flunitrazepam will knock you the fuck out for two days recreationally!”
And these European girls, they’d been places and seen things.
They didn’t have that smell of being from the same city.
There was something cosmopolitan about them (and I don’t mean in the same way the local pimps defended their girls by claiming them to be “cosmopolitan” - they thought they were cosmopolitan, but so does a rodeo clown occasionally, when it crosses the state line from Texas into New York and into Manhattan). Plus, with those svelte, Eastern European Slavic features, Olga and Yana had claimed to be sisters.
"You got enough money to pay us, you can believe anything!" Olga and Yana were always saying.
Don’t get me wrong. I had ambition, even the prostitutes Olga and Yana had commented on this. It was just proving a long process. Besides, generally people often proved to be wildly inaccurate about “ambitions”.
Whereas it's been my sole experience: Life's a balance between one's expectations and the budget available.
And I’m on a tight budget both financially and emotionally.
It had to do with “appearances”, I appeared to go one way in life when, in fact, I went another way: Dirt poor and working the street like an unemployed dustbin man looking through the refuse of someone else’s discards trying to survive another night on the street.
Under a bridge.
Okay, this wasn’t strictly the situation.
I’m not suggesting the entire world’s against me, don’t be foolish. While I despise Shimansky, I wouldn't say I hate my job and my life. But if I had to choose, we'll, it would be a pretty fine line and so indiscernible I easily wander over the border between the two and back again without ever being fully aware of the transgression. If you ever met my parents you'd realize with little effort this was very probably the result of some genetic shortfall on their part. But I’m too acutely aware I could never meet even Olga and Yana’s very base expectations.

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