Beaten by Salinger in a Spineless Moment

Dear reader, the frustration that swells within a proud man's breast when he suffers the humiliation of being fired at work is savage indeed. I imagine Van Gogh must have experienced a similar frustration. Sadly, my butter knife was not sharp enough to do similar surgical work on my head.

Where previously, my lack of motivation (in getting to my workplace) had meant that my employment agent had replaced me with a more reliable worker, this recent rejection was more sensational. Picture this awful scene if you will: I am squirming in a rickety little chair, while a buxom Spanish manageress criticizes my timekeeping, informs me I am inferior surplus stock that is no longer tolerated in the building, and asks me for the return of my uniform; I apologize wholeheartedly, try to retain some semblance of composure, while sobbing into my handkerchief, and then admit that I have sold my waistcoat to an Egyptian student for a bag of rice and a Kiwi fruit.

That compassionless beauty damns me to Hades and tells me she will deduct from my next paycheck the cost of the waistcoat. I urge her not to, begging for mercy, but she refuses to give me the pity I deserve. I become angry and demand justice, but she falls into a greater rage. In the end, I sink to my knees in a beseeching manner and, gripping her hands in mine, say, “I need that money for rent; I have beers I owe money for. Please don't bring up the kiwi and strip me of my weskit.”

The pleas of a desperate man, I think you will agree, and all for zilch. Unfortunately, my knee gave out as I whimpered and wailed, and I butted her legs before swaying to the left. Just as I was about to hit the ground headfirst, I grabbed at her for support, tearing at her suit pants with such momentum that I brought them down all the way to her ankles.

She screamed and kicked me and the moments that followed consisted of her chasing me around her office with a hardback copy of The Catcher in the Rye . Just as I was diving for the door, to exit the chaotic scene, she caught a hold of my shirtsleeve, reeling me in by my tie, buckled me over a seat and spanked me with the book.

I must have been huddled over that chair for ten minutes, while she thrashed me black and blue. The last thing I remember, pages were flying about the room and the rear cover of the book was passing before my eyes. It was then that I knew she had broken the spine of Salinger and he was no longer in saleable condition. Hereafter, The Catcher in the Rye would be referred to as damaged goods (and not before time).

It was then that I passed out from the pain.