Page 167

By Jack Joseph Smith

He had opened the door to the penthouse offices. The receptionist had been startled to see that he no longer dressed like his pictures. She montered in that he was there, putting upon her tongue an accent, and upon her lips looking back up to him, a worried smile. He accepted her with the grace of his palms turned outward at the slant of relaxed wrists. A door opened, and the usher lead them in a slow walk through the troops. An army of secret- ary's embracing their machines with clicking fing- ers; their singular actions multipling into wave- lengths; the embodied roar of a metal sea. He reflected now laying back on his bed reaching a stone, reaching something to hold on to accurate enough to justify this last exper- ience of rejection. His mind was remaining on the opening walk through these type preforming dolls. "Shit man," he said to himself aloud, his back arching up from the bed pulling his muscles, his mouth and eyes in a thin smile his acting could have easily turned into wicked; "that place wasn't A tragic or comic, not classic or romantic; that was a Wilshire-Bulvd; Wall Street," Walking through the huge room, with the far wall sided expansively in glass; he had winked at one of the smartly dressed working girls. Through the

Original Scan

Page 167

AI Interpretation

GPT

The audition memory turns the office into a mechanical theatre of power, where Jiven Joe recognizes that rejection comes from being too fully formed to fit the commercial machine.

Its strongest image is the office as an army of secretaries and metal-sea noise. The page makes talent less important than institutional moldability, and Jiven Joe's wounded pride comes from knowing that what disqualifies him is precisely what feels most real about him.

Claude

Lying on his bed 'reaching a stone', Jiven Joe replays entering the 'penthouse offices', where a receptionist startled that 'he no longer dressed like his pictures' put on 'an accent' and 'a worried smile'. He is led 'through the troops', 'An army of secretary's embracing their machines with clicking fingers', their motions 'multipling into wavelengths; the embodied roar of a metal sea'. His verdict strips the place of every dramatic genre - 'that place wasn't tragic or comic, not classic or romantic; that was a Wilshire-Bulvd; Wall Street' - and yet he still winks at 'one of the smartly dressed working girls', performing even inside the machine.