Nude Men

helplessness, of having tried everything and failed. I get tears of rage. I am exasperated, desperate, bitter. I am a bitter lemon. A mushy bitter lemon. Half-rotten. I want to go to extremes. I want to say things that have never been surpassed in cruelty or offensiveness. I want to revel in the viciousness of it. But I have no viciousness to revel in.
    I go to the file cabinets, the monsters. There is a mountain of clipped articles on top. Some articles are only a sentence long, one inch by one inch, so you can imagine how many separate articles can be contained in one small mountain.
    The file cabinets consist of thirteen huge drawers, nine of which are filled with celebrity files, two with film and TV show files, one with gossip columns, and one with miscellaneous. In the nine celebrity drawers you get Marilyn Monroe, Sylvester Stallone, Princess Di and children... In other words, all actors, all musical groups, and all royalty, some boxers, some directors, and some models, one or two best-selling writers, and Bush and family and Clinton and family.
    In the miscellaneous drawer you get tons and tons of unalphabetized miscellaneous, such as celebrity fragrances, celebrities in the slammer (or at least arrested), births, deaths, marriages, divorces, couples, celebrity causes, deaths while filming, Aspen, Oscars, music awards, Emmys, etc. The files are mostly labeled with my handwriting, because, of course, I am mostly the one who files around here.
    I feel strong this afternoon. I feel ready for a few hours of mountain climbing. Even though the mountain of clippings ends way over my head, I feel taller than it. After all, in my pants pocket I have my stainless-steel spoon, which will serve as my stainless-steel mountain-climbing spike and later will become my stainless-steel Dumbo feather, to help me fly off the stinking mountain and into the arms of my painter of nude men.
    I take the first small clipping from the top of the mountain. The name of the celebrity is highlighted in yellow for my convenience, so that I don’t have to spend one or two extra seconds figuring out who the article is about. Thank you, Annie, or whoever was responsible this time, for the thoughtful gesture. The highlighted name here is Madonna. The M drawer is one of the more pleasant ones, at a comfortable height that requires n o bending. The Madonna file is large, packed full, messy, overflowing with clippings. It’s hard to squeeze the tiny newcomer in. I manage.
    I am happy, happy, happy. Go lucky, go go lucky. Why shouldn’t I be? Two hours have passed, and I got fewer paper cuts than usual. Only one per hour. I am now holding an article on Brooke Shields. I read it, as I always do when I come across an article on her. She used to be the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. That’s before she gained weight. But I haven’t gained weight. I’m not fat.
    I’m annoyed at myself. It annoys me that everyone, including me, assumes that no one wants to be fat. People take this for granted, which I find offensive and unfair. What counts in life is to have enough energy to work and file. The rest doesn’t really matter. Fat, not fat, bald, not bald, old, young, man, woman, fact checker, writer, filer, what does it all matter? In the long run, the differences make no difference. I must remember that. The differences make no difference. That’s what I believe, no matter what proof to the contrary you may ever find.
    I keep filing, looking at my watch every five minutes. The time passes so slowly. I force myself to stop looking at my watch for what seems like a considerable length of time, hoping I’ll get a nice surprise. Forty minutes must have passed. I look, and only fifteen have gone by.
    The skin around my nails is raw, bleeding, from my always having to squeeze my fingers into overstuffed files. Good. Good punishment. Punishment for what? I’m not sure. Perhaps just for being myself. Bleed more. Here, squeeze your fingers into Michelle Pfeiffer. She’s a tight one. Rip a little more skin off. Good.
    At ten minutes to six, I go to the men’s room. My hands are black from the newspaper ink. I need to wash them many times to get all the ink off. The head researcher walks in and enters a stall. When he comes out, I’m still standing there, washing my hands.
    He stands at the sink next to mine, washes his hands, and says, “It’s all that newsprint, isn’t it, Jeremy? It’s hard to get off.”
     

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