Vishnu Coming Through JEFFREY DAVID GREENE
V
ishnu comes through, every night, at midnight—and it’s always the same. First the fax machine turns on in Human Resources. Then a warbling transmission comes through, emitting blue, sparkly dust which settles on the floor. Then he appears with his four arms moving in a quasi-hypnotic swirl that almost looks artful. He sets his conch, discus, mace, and lotus down on some accountant’s desk and then secretes a sweet smelling oil from his palms (he says it’s for meditation, but we just use it for lube), and then he presses me up against a Xerox machine, and we have hot sex. It doesn’t mean I’m gay. I wouldn’t do this with just anyone. Afterwards we lie on the ground and smoke cigarettes, staring at the knotty, plaster ceiling. Sometimes we fuck again. Other times we talk about books or sports. Vishnu is very well read. Then, at some point, the fax machine turns back on, and the screeching transmission starts again, and the potpourri dust appears, and in a few moments, he’s gone. And I know I’ve got to wait until tomorrow. Around here some people call me Shakespeare or Dr. Berger because I’m in college. Not many Pinkerton Security guards are. I suppose that’s where the stigma comes from—the regular, yuppy employees that we work for see a bunch of foreign-sounding minorities in tight-fitting suits and assume that none of them are educated. When they see me they’re especially surprised—”A white security guard who’s not a supervisor? Weird. He must be some sort of crackhead”—they don’t know that I’m nearly done with a degree from Emerson College, and even though I’m floundering through a single class a semester, I’m still educated. When they hear my voice, they’re doubly surprised. I can speak standard English, and I don’t use Ebonics or slang or any sort of street vernacular. I’m a goddamn English major, thank you very much. “Hey, Shakespeare,” Rowley said from his station behind the fourth floor security desk. He was a short, bald Haitian guy with big eyes and a sublime grin that bore a startling resemblance to Baby Godzilla. I often found myself waiting for him to let out a diminutive battle cry and pick up a double decker bus, just to lick each occupant before eating them. I tapped my clipboard. “You being good, Rowley?”
109