THIGHWHACKERS

by Hunter James

A right long time ago it was, back when Eisenhower was still in the White House, but there I was, way back in the hills, a thousand miles from anything (or so it seemed), standing in front of Quaint Toiletries Inc., a huge paper-products manufacturing mill that stunk up the whole countryside. The year was 1959. Nixon almost certain to take the White House, with no hint of the chaos soon to come. Young, ambitious, always looking to better myself, and I had been invited up for an interview.

Nobody in sight. Could it be that everybody at Quaint Toiletries had simply been gassed to death by the stink? I was about to turn and walk away when the door swung open and a nondescript fellow with balding hair and a pipe in his teeth said: “Naw, the toilet paper ain’t been used yet. I mean, we don’t build the stink into it. That’s just a natural stink that goes with making any kind of paper product. I reckon you’ll get used to it after a while.”

“Say, y’awl make anything besides toilet paper?”

“Why, hell fire, feller, we make just any kind of paper products you can think of. You standing inside one of the biggest damn fool paper factories into the whole United States—I reckon in the whole goddamned world.”

“Well, that’s a comfort, I must say. You say there’s nothing they can do about the stink. I reckon I see why they would want to hide an outfit like this back in the hills. Out of sight of the wayfaring public, I mean.”

“I don’t reckon I take your meaning, mister. Now, like I was saying, I do hear tell that these here kinda plants give off a peculiar odor for them what’s not used to hit. I reckin it goes with the territory. But you sho git used to it mighty fast. Can’t say as I smell a thing. Been a right smart while since there was any kinda smell I could notice. Yesssir, fact is, I can’t smell one blessed thing in the world except good mountain air.”

“Well, that’s a comfort. It sure is,”

The big steel door slammed shut behind me. I could see, straight-off, that I had come too far to run.”

I went on into the office suite, introduced myself and asked to see the man who had summoned me for an interview after I had written him a long letter explaining that I was hankering to become a famous writer in the field of press relations and such like trash. The company was looking for someone to put out its monthly magazine. So I sat and waited, eying all exits and entrances on the chance I might discover a quick way out.

Presently the editor of the Quaint Toiletries monthly journal, about to be promoted to a vice presidency, came in. The very man I was supposed to replace. He invited me to his domain with a nice firm handshake of the sort taught in business schools and a smile that I supposed he had learned at the same place. But only moments later, after we were in his office with the door shut, the smile took on a strange hint of contempt. A little too fat for his clothes. Hostile and maybe a little aggressive to boot. Or maybe it was just my imagination.

Suddenly he rolled out from behind his desk, yanking off his coat and tie as he did so and staring at me as though I were a gangster under interrogation. I noticed how he kept hitting himself with a rolled up copy of the Atlanta Constitution, my own paper to which I now longed to return. But maybe that was also my imagination.

“So you’re the one that wants to be the writer,” says he, leaning forward in his chair. “Or big time journalist. I reckon you know that our job first and foremost is to promote and market the company. Words are important only in so far as they accomplish our first and overriding goal. And there just ain’t no other.”

“Yes. I understand. Quite.
He whacked his thigh with the paper. He began to laugh, a bit ominously, I thought, and began to repeat him like a drunk on his fourth whisky. “So you wanta be one of these writing fellers, huh?”

Wham!

The sound of the paper again striking his thigh.

I suppose that would be one way of putting it, although I must say that my first concern is to do a good and proper job for the company.”

“Well, yeah, I reckon you’re one of these boys that wants to be another Walter

Winchell. Is that about right now?”

“Never had much use for him.”

“Never had much use for him, eh. Well, how about that. What about one of them other big syndicated columnists? How about that, eh? What about Eisenhower and the Republican Party. I suppose you think Adlai Stevenson ought to be running the country. Have I got it about right?”

Smack!

“Stevenson? Can’t say as I favor him none.”

“Is that right? Is that the way you figure it now? Let me tell you about Stevenson. He has a thin, short dick and a whole lot of women. Explain that one for me, will you? Anyhow, we already know he would never stand up for the rights of Corporate America.”

“I’m curious as to how you came by that information. I mean about his dick. I already know about his women.”

“Never mind that. I got my sources. I’m telling you he’s got a short dick and that’s an end to it. Not only that, it’s got one helluva right angle bend in it. Why them little faggots that’re always following him around they can’t even get their mouths around it to give him a blow job. And you think a guy like that oughta be in the White House?”

“By all means no. The deficiency ought certainly to render him incompetent for public service on any level?”

“Yeah? Well, I reckon you know it stinks around here. Yes, that’s right. Technology has not yet solved the problem of how to get all the tiny fragments of smell of out of the paper making process. But it will come in time, and besides, you soon get used to it. Pretty soon, well, its like there is no smell at all. Reckon you can handle the smell, boy?”

Smack!

“Oh, by all means, yes!”

He stared at me a good long while. Then started up again as though nothing had been said. “Well, now,” he said, and this time he reaches up and whacks at an imaginary something or other in the air. “Well, now . . . let’s just suppose now that this ain’t quite your cup of tea. Haaaahahahahah. Yeah. Maybe you ought to be out writing books instead.” His voice rose, even more menacingly and he leaned forward as though to put the interview to a trial by fire—or maybe fisticuffs. “You say you think you can put the interests of the company first?”

Whack!

“Or maybe you’re one of these here young’uns that wants to work around here a for a while and then write a big expose about us, maybe even one of them big books, talking about all the stink we’re putting out and not a word about the some of the best paper products in the world. Is that it? Hahhahahhhhahhhaaaaaaaa!”

Whack!

“No sir, not a bit of it. It’s not that at all.”

The thighwhacker stood up and I realized for the first time how immensely tall he was, his immense bulk. A great fat man with dark, thorny hairs sticking out of his nose. The underside of his tie hung lower than the front. Otherwise, his appearance was impeccable. He still held the newspaper and moved toward the door, whacking himself all the while. I had begun to take offense at his treatment of my bylines.

“Very well, young fellow. Come with me. I want you to talk with our first vice president.”

I followed the thighwhacker down a long hall, the stink of the place reaching even into these hallowed environs. Pictures lined both sides of the walls at respectfully spaced intervals. People doing all sorts of interesting things with toilet paper except, of course, the most obvious thing. Pictures of golf courses and lakes and great forests from which the company acquired the raw material for its high quality product. On the opposite wall, framed certificates of the many fine awards won by the Quality Toiletries Journal.

The thighwhacker went all the way down the hall without saying a word. I followed right behind him and we at least turned into a door. But he didn’t go all the way through. He turned abruptly and with another whack of his thigh, abruptly knocking me backward. I grabbed for something to hang onto, but the thighwhacker kept falling back on me. He had me solidly pinned against the wall. I suddenly realized I was not in the world’s finest toilet paper manufacturing plant, but in some sort of medieval torture chamber. The thighwhacker looked around for something. Ah, yes. The rolled-up copy of the morning Constitution. There it was, lying on the floor. He leaned over to pick it up, leaving me momentarily free. As he straightened up, he said, without apology for his strange behavior, that the office we were about to enter belonged to J. Williams Longshank, who boasted descent from the First Families of Virginia.

“That’s an old English name. Longshank. I want you to remember it. L-O-N-G-SH-A-N-K. We like to know with whom we are talking at any given moment at Quality Toiletries. We always like to show the proper respect.”

“Of course. I understand perfectly.” In fact, I was about to inquire after his name when you thoughtfully reminded me.”

He looked at me then fell into another horrible menacing laugh. “Ahahhahahahhhhaha. A writer, eh! Yeah one of them writing boys. Yessir.

The thighwhacker again smacked himself, this time in the rib cage, so hard that he had to bend over for a second to catch his breath. He did so in time to lead me past the desk of the secretary and directly into the first vice president’s office.

He rose from behind a desk decorated with rolls of toilet wipe and other fine paper products. “Come in. Come in.” Yes, by all means. Come in at once.”

I stood modestly behind the thighwhacker.

“Good morning, Mr. Longshank. This is the young man I was telling you about. He particularly wants to write for and edit our prize-winning company journal. Says he doesn’t believe Stevenson out to continue as president. Har,har, har. Whatdyyathink about that, huh? By the way he says, turning back to me. I probably didn’t mention our publication has won more awards in its field than any of our competitors. More by far. I can get you the exact account if you are interested.

“Yes.”

“Yep. Says he wants to write some more of them prizing winning news stories.” He turned back to me. “Young man, this is Mr. Longshank. Mr. Longshank, this is . . . pardon me, you name has momentarily slipped my mind.”

I told him.

“Well, Mr. Hunter. We’re very glad to have you with us today.”

”James,” I said.

“Of course. So sorry. Won’t you please have a seat?”

I already had one, but I guess he hadn’t noticed. He came out from behind his desk and took another chair directly across from me. The other man went out. It made no difference. Why this Longshank fellow was little more than a carbon copy of his aide-de-camp. A little fatter, a little greasier, holding a rolled up paper in his hand—I believe it was the Wall StreetJournal this time—and looking at me with a slightly more evil glint behind his pearl-rimmed glasses.

“Whack!”

“Tell me, young man. Tell me in your own words why you would like to work for Quality Toiletries. Outside, the sound of another whack, muffled now, and then a giggle from the secretary. Another whack, another giggle, repeated ten times over. For some reason I to thought of Popeye raping young Temple Drake with a corncob, except this time fatso apparently was using a used up roll of toilet paper. Not the instrument of choice for such a job.

“Yessir,” said Longshank, whacking himself quite as lustily as had the man before him. Strange, the similarity between between them. Did it come from breathing the same polluted air all of these years. A little more sophistication in this character. A bit leaner, no hairs growing out of his nose.

“Just me as succinctly as you can, and in your own words, why you would like to come to work for Quality Toiletries. Mr. Kirkpatrick tells me you are quite a writer, based on the samples you sent him. I believe you also said you wrote for your college newspaper.”

“Yessir. A weekly column. I would hope to maintain the same standards at an editor of your prize-winning journal. I believe your would be most pleased with the results. I think we might even be recognized in Europe.”

“Whack!”

“Sir, if I may say so, sir, I believe you have quite worn out that newspaper. Although I’m sorry to say that I have no bylines in it, it has hardly been off the press for more than ten hours or so.”

He began to laugh the same eerie laugh as his underling. He leaned forward, as though preparing to attack. I rose and took a couple of steps backward, crouched, waiting for him to jump me.

Instead, he only laughed—not actually a regular kind of laugh. Rather a high piercing scream that went right to the bone. “Hahhaharharharhaaaaaaa!. One of them writing fellers, eh! I see. I hope you understand, Mr.—I’m sorry, could you give me your name again—I hope you understand that the marketing of our products comes before your personal ambition and achievement as a writer. The company, you understand, must come first at all times. You see, I am a former newspaper man myself—worked once for the London Telegraph and the old NewYork World. But I must say that my work here was much more satisfying. Oh, I did a great deal of work that was as satisfying as it was difficult and always with the understanding that I MUST ALWAYS KEPT THE COMPANY FIRST IN MIND!”:

“Whack!”

Suddenly I could think only of flight, of getting out of those hills and valleys, forever away from the stink of toilet paper that hadn’t been used yet. I got up to go.

“Just a minute, young man. I must confess that you do have impressive credentials. I believe there are quite a few more things we ought to talk about.”

I moved to the door with the Thighwhacker-in-Command right beyond me, out the door and past the secretary, who had had her fun and had turned back to her typing. I went out the second door, breaking into a faster pace and finally into a run, with the man right behind me, whacking his thigh as he ran.

“Wait, young man. I say. Wait! By god, you can’t leave here like this. We are a respectable company.”

He gained on me as I ran, whacking me across the back of the neck as I made for the exit, stumbling down the stone steps into the dirt and getting up with him still behind me swinging his paper and throwing himself over on the grass and quickly rising again and pursuing me to the car, whacking at me all the while. “You little bastard. How dare you sneer and turn your back on the world’s top producer of quality toilet products! You little bastard. Come back here. Come back, you little bastard. Come back!”

“Fuck you, sir. You –or, if not you, your underling—have destroyed one of my best bylines. To hell with you and may God smother you in this obnoxious smell forever.”

I sped away, flinging gravel into his face. I looked back at him through the rear view mirror, watching as he tumbled to earth, and then getting up shaking his fist in a cloud of gravel dust. And still he came running forward until at last I had fled those mountains, that stink, back into the Piedmont country of my youth, with the smell still clinging to me. I don’t think I was completely rid of it even after a good shower and a full night’s sleep. I kept seeing the thighwhackers, first one and then another, in my nightmares, which I believe is why I did not feel cleansed after almost ten hours of sleep.

I kept seeing and hearing them even as I was sinking deeper into sleep. Don’t sneer at our stink, your man. By god, don’t you dare come in here pretending you are Shakespeare without the slightest interest of the company in mind. Don’t you dare even pretend to smell the slightest big of stink coming from the purest of Quality Toiletries products, which absorb and dissipate the smell even as you wipe your ass with it. Don’t you dare, you bastard. By god, I’ll kill your goddamn little ass. Whack!

I sent in an expense account. He sent me back a piece of their finest toilet paper, pink, lavender-scented, with the words “fuck you” scribbled across it. Such is the tale of my only venture into the charmed world of corporate America. Well, let me say only this: I ever did truly think that Stevenson ought to be president. How would I ever have convinced the big men at Quaint Toiletries of that?