ABSTRACT AND NOTHING BUT by Brian H. Seidman Steven Matthews’ family encouraged him to pursue acting, until rejection turns him away. Betrayed by those he trusted—their love keeping them from telling the truth—Matthews closes himself off from the world. Later, as a programmer, co-workers take advantage of Matthews, ruining his career. Disillusioned, unable to accept the help he needs, Matthews hires the company’s doorman as the most unlikely confidant. His request to the wizened James is as initially inexplicable as James’ acceptance, to take a stipend to tell Matthews the truth about himself. What follows is a picaresque San Francisco journey, from the Haight to the Golden Gate Bridge to the Tenderloin, from the minimum wage grind to the jetsetting lives of movie stars. Throughout, praise, criticism, lies, and the truth test their artificial friendship, examining truth in personal relationships and questioning the responsibilities we have to others as employees, as friends, and as human beings. AND NOTHING BUT A Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of Miami University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts Department of English by Brian H. Seidman Miami University Oxford, Ohio 2003 Advisor _____________________________________ Kay Sloan Reader ______________________________________ Constance Pierce Reader ______________________________________ Keith Banner © Brian H. Seidman 2003 Table of Contents PART I Chapter One How Much Does a Doorman Make? 2 Chapter Two Majordomo 12 Chapter Three The Thorn Field 21 Chapter Four The Way to a Man’s Heart 30 Chapter Five Houseguests 35 PART II Chapter Six A Change of Shoes 43 Chapter Seven How Low is Low 49 Chapter Eight Working Days 56 Chapter Nine Favors 65 Chapter Ten Cars and Trucks 72 Chapter Eleven Doors and Windows 79 PART III Chapter Twelve It Had To Be You 87 Chapter Thirteen Breaking and Entering 96 Chapter Fourteen Four Glasses 104 Chapter Fifteen Care and Care Alike (aka The Big Lie) 109 Chapter Sixteen An Unexpected Message 115 Chapter Seventeen Memories 119 Chapter Eighteen The Man on the Top Floor 120 iii “You don’t want your friends to care or your co-workers or the women that love you, because anyone who cares is just another obstacle between you and shutting out the world. You had a fine system of being left alone until Mr. Ryan went and fouled things up, and I was happy to be a part of your solution but I don’t think I want to be part of your problem, fixing things so you can hide away from the world and don’t even have to leave the house any more.” “And you’re telling me you’re any different?” “What do you mean?” “At least in my job I’ve got a little bit of autonomy. At least I make my own decisions! You don’t interact with the outside world any more than I do, and all you do every day is what I ask you to. You don’t even have to think for yourself and you’re going to accuse me of taking myself out of society? Please.” “Maybe you’re right. I could have avoided all of this and I didn’t, and maybe you’re right. Maybe I did the same thing. And maybe there’s only one thing to do about it. 1 Chapter One – How Much Does a Doorman Make? I first met James about three years ago, standing at the front door of WalsTec. The first day I visited, dressed in a suit and tie with a briefcase at my side, the doorman barred the glass front door bodily. “Can I help you?” he asked nicely, though his thin body tensed. I wasn’t sure exactly how he though he’d stop me if I tried to get past; he looked to be in his mid- seventies, maybe older, with bushy gray eyebrows. His faux gold nametag read “James,” and he wore more the Halloween costume of a doorman than a uniform itself—a long maroon jacket with yellow horizontal buckles, red pants, and a visored hat. His outfit was clean and starched, but his brown, gnarled teeth betrayed signs of poverty. “I'm supposed to ask for Peterson on the sixth floor.” “Name?” “Steven Matthews.” James visibly relaxed. To the side of the doorway, he flipped open the cover of a panel and typed a series of numbers, then held the front door open for me. “Go on in. The elevator’s programmed to take you right up.” WalsTec resided in the entirety of a tall, thin building, covered in one-way windows to let in the light but keep out prying eyes. Little hints disclosed the quiet wealth behind the building: the glass elevator on the left side, also with one-way windows, and the doorman at the front entrance. Out in San Jose or Santa Clara, rival software companies might have looked the building over and wondered what the owners were trying to hide; perhaps it was for that reason the owners had set the company up miles away from Silicon Valley, in San Francisco. In WalsTec—Webster, Alexander and Sons Technology, or “Webster” as it was affectionately called—I saw a company that wasn’t interested in either the corporate politics of wondering what its competitors were up to, or being wondered about. What attracted me to WalsTec were the similarities that I felt between the company and myself: it didn’t want fame, just the comfort of its own success. As I watched on that first day though the clear elevator doors, I saw that floors one to six were identical in layout. After I worked for the company a while, I would learn that this was true for the entire building. The elevators opened to long conference rooms, sunlight shining in through vertical blinds, reflecting off glistening brown tables. Decorative plants manned the four corners of the rooms. Some conference rooms were empty; others held meetings or luncheons. Double-doors on the far wall led to a large area of employee cubicles and private offices. WalsTec hired me freelance, first as a pinch-hit troubleshooter, and later as an associate programmer—independently contracted and ultimately beholden to no one but myself. While the floor managers assigned the day-to-day work to the WalsTec employees, I would receive the special long-term projects, catching bugs in one certain corner of a program or, later, developing a program’s additional special features. The company specialized in behind-the-scenes programming—“modules” to be used by other companies to write the code for their own products, or databases for our clients to use to record information about customers buying their databases. Working mainly at home, I only went to the office once or twice a month, but after our first meeting, James never failed to recognize me. 2 “How are you?” I would ask if my day was going well. “Just fine, sir, just fine,” he’d answer. Once, finishing a project, I remained at the office for twelve hours straight, working with an associate. I hadn't been surprised to see James when I arrived; I was surprised to see him when I left, long after the sun retreated. “Don't you take a break, James?” “I don't need much sleep, sir,” he replied. Before joining WalsTec, I worked at the Hugo movie theater. After receiving their degrees in computer science, most of my graduating class at Bay Area State settled for entry-level jobs at software companies, with little responsibility and little creativity, while to everyone’s surprise, I rejected it all for a job at a theater off Ashbury. Working alongside pimply high school students, I would sell tickets for R-rated shows to wistful pre-teens when I was in a good mood and turned away the sweaty-palmed seventeen-in- a-weekers out on a hot date when I felt a little cruel. I didn’t think any of it was important. I worked a forty-hour week, making just enough money to share a one-room apartment with a shaggy hippie-wannabe who sold homemade beads over in the Haight, found by answering a “Roommate Wanted” ad. In the evenings, I wrote code. In the eyes of a computer programmer, a fine piece of code is like a fine piece of music. To the uninitiated, music may be beautiful when it’s played, but only someone trained in the composition’s language can look at it raw and appreciate its intricacies, its delicacies. I had no interest in working nine-to-five for a huge corporation, where my work was just a little portion of the big product, and creativity was negligible. Programming, I thought, like everything else, should allow for personal style, individual flourishes. The plan was that if I could march into a company with software in hand, show that I knew what I was doing, I could skip the grunt work and go on to the good stuff. In the afternoons, I sold movie tickets, and in the evenings, I composed. I remained at the theater, grossly overqualified, for two years. Others have suffered longer for their art. In some sick way I enjoyed working at the theater, getting off on the feeling of accomplishment from doing my work perfectly every time. It was ridiculously easy—take the customer’s money, pull out the ticket, say “Have a nice day.” Take the next customer’s money, pull out the ticket, say “Enjoy your movie.” Beside me, high school students fumbled with the customers’ change, punched tickets for the wrong movie, and generally made me fear for humanity.