The Job of the Wasp

The Job of the Wasp

by Colin Winnette

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781593766801
Publisher: Soft Skull Press, Inc.
Publication date: 01/09/2018
Pages: 208
Sales rank: 504,041
Product dimensions: 5.40(w) x 8.10(h) x 0.70(d)

About the Author


Colin Winnette is the author of Haints Stay (Two Dollar Radio, 2015), Coyote (Les Figues Press, 2015), Fondly (Atticus Books, 2013) Animal Collection (Spork Press, 2012), and Revelation (Mutable Sound Press, 2011). His books have been translated into French and Italian, and his writing has appeared in Playboy, Los Angeles Review of Books, The Believer, Lucky Peach, and numerous other journals and anthologies. He lives in San Francisco.

Read an Excerpt

On my first day, I was asked what I hoped to get out of my time at the facility and how I planned to make myself useful. The sign out front described the facility as a school for orphaned boys, so I said my hope was to get a good education, three square meals a day, a place to lay my head and, in return, I was happy to help out in any way I could.

"This is not a school," said the Headmaster, whose nose was like a mushroom, somehow both silly and threatening, "it is a temporary holding facility with mandatory educational elements. You will be held until you are far enough along to care for yourself. No longer, no less. You will work, along with the other boys, to earn your room and board. You will be provided for, but you will not be comforted. Even if I wanted to comfort you, we have been forced by the economic realities of our situation to live simply. Add to that the fact that, by taking you on, we are now at a whopping thirty-one students, one beyond our maximum capacity as stated in the materials I've presented to the state every semester for over ten years running. And yet, here we are. Facing what will likely prove to be one of our most difficult terms, in all respects, I am sure of it. Run a facility as long as I have, and you start to develop a sense for these things." He pulled a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and tore it in half. "Regardless, we will clothe you, feed you, and provide you a bed. You'll receive a standard education. Nothing fancy. Enough to get by within these doors. But as far as things go out there," he pointed toward the heavy oaken doors that had been barred behind me when I walked in, "as far as that goes, you will be on your own."

He pulled a pen from a jar at his right and set to drawing something on the bottom half of the torn paper.

"You'll have various duties," he said. "You'll like some of them and you won't like others. You'll do all of them equally well, because if you stop, or start doing the job carelessly, we will find something else to do with you. And every time we have to reassign you, you will like your new job less. That I can promise you. So do your first job well and you will be as happy as you can possibly be. Do you understand everything I've told you so far?"

"Yes," I told him.

"Good," he said. He rose. "It's possible you'll like it here. It's also possible you'll hate it. We're not in the business of guarding memories, only keeping you from sliding into a lesser existence. You'll have everything you need and a few things more. You will get by. What do you say, will that suffice?"

"Yes," I told him.

"Have you always been so agreeable?" he said.

"I'm sure I haven't," I said. "But I know when it's time to fight, and when it's time to say, 'Thank you,' and, 'I understand,' and 'Yes.'"

He eyed me for a moment then waved me on. It was my belief that our first meeting went well.

At dinner, we were served pork and spinach. It was simple but sat well together on the plate and had a pleasant smell. I nodded as another boy told me that the pork was so tender because the pigs were fattened on the flesh of new boys who could not fit in. His speech was practiced. He had heard it from someone before him, or he had given it many times. He was handsome, I decided. He had little else to say that wasn't about the book he was carrying with him. I hadn't read it, or any of the books he compared it to, because I have no taste for fiction, so I found it harder and harder to listen to him.

"I'd like to focus on my tender pork, if you don't mind," I said.

The boys around us flinched. They seemed to hiss through their teeth.

"You should focus on having a shower," said the bookish boy.

I was in damp and muddy clothes, it was true. I'd been instructed to report directly to the dining hall, where dinner was being served, and so hadn't been able to tidy up or bathe. The Headmaster had sat me with six boys he did not introduce, and now it was clear that those six boys were already preparing to turn on me.

"Did you know," I told the boy, "that we are now one person beyond capacity? The Headmaster instructed me to report back if I had any thoughts on who we might be able to send packing. Anyone who might fare better on the streets than in a civilized facility. There are only so many beds, and there is only so much you can teach a person."

"You are a liar," said the other boy, "and a faggot."

I accepted what he had to say, and he added nothing more.

We were not given salt. Only a fork and a napkin. When I was given the fork and the napkin I was instructed not to lose them. The napkin, I was told, was to keep my uniform clean of pork and spinach, once it had arrived. Outside of their providing the napkin, any spills or stains were mine to deal with, and stained uniforms were unacceptable. My measurements would be taken in the morning and I would receive a uniform within a week. Most of the other boys did look sharp. So I was looking forward to the uniform, and to blending in.

After dinner, we were given half an hour of recess. A rectangle of yard ran the length of the dorms, edged by saplings on the opposite side. At its far end, there was a faded blue gazebo. Opposite that, an aging wooden frame draped in ivy or something like ivy, arching the reaching plant over a brick path that led back to the dining hall. The ivy held small buds that would blossom in the spring, I guessed. I didn't know much about plants, their names or behaviors, but I still enjoyed them. The sight of them and their smells, on occasion. I inspected the ivy and its buds while the other boys played a running game. Something put a boy on the sidelines and something else would draw him back in. I was unfamiliar with the rules and was not invited to play, but I did not feel excluded. The game had fallen habitually into place, as a matter of course, and I wasn't yet part of their world.

After recess, we were instructed to study in our rooms. Mine was small but comfortable. There was a window, a dresser, and a desk. A small bed. A lamp with a green glass shade. I felt like a young professional. A young man setting out to make something of himself in the world. I felt suddenly heartened and hopeful. There was a stack of paper in the desk drawer, along with two pencils. I'd been given nothing to study yet, so I drew pictures. Everything that came to me was violent or bloody. I drew ghosts and soldiers and some things I did not know. I tore up the pages when I was done and set them in waste bin by the bed.

Before lights out, the boys all stood in the hall and sang a song together. I did not know the words. Those I could decipher had little meaning to me. The sound filled the space like several bells, endlessly ringing. It was a song about loyalty and pride. I thought about it and realized that, at that point in my life, I was loyal to nothing and felt little pride.

I did not sleep well that first night. The room felt like a grave. I heard laughter from outside the window, but only for a moment. I looked and saw nothing out of the ordinary. For the rest of the night, I was up, waiting for it to happen again.

In the morning, I was called to the Headmaster's office. A small man in suspenders and a striped white shirt was there, and I was made to stand on a stool. He brought up my arms and spread my legs. He gripped each and every part of me, grumbling to himself. The Headmaster was at his desk, drawing on two halves of a torn sheet of paper. When he was finished, he placed one half in a drawer by his right knee and crumbled the other half in his left hand. He held the crumpled paper in a fist, which he gently pulsed as he watched the small man grip me.

"You're fatter than boys your height should be," said the small man.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I thought you were an orphan," he said. He stepped away from me, watched my feet, then stepped back in to grip some more.

"Do you have what you need?" said the Headmaster.

"The pants will have to be large in the waist, so they will look baggy around the legs," said the small man. "There's nothing I can do about it. I have too much to do to take on customized work for every fattened orphan sent your way."

"I don't mind if they're baggy around the legs," I said.

"Depending on how baggy they are," said the Headmaster, "it will be fine."

"I don't know how baggy they will be just yet," said the small man. He had drawn a notepad from his back pocket and he was sketching something.

"I don't mind if they're baggy," I said again. I brought down my arms.

The small man stepped forward and raised the arms once more. I apologized.

"If they're too baggy," said the Headmaster, still pulsing the crumpled paper, "we will send them back."

"You have to understand that they are going to be baggy," said the small man, lowering his notepad. "If you don't understand that then there's going to be trouble."

"It's okay," I said.

"I understand that the pants will be somewhat baggy," said the Headmaster, "but if they are excessively baggy, we are going to send them back."

"You're not getting it," said the small man. "The boy is fat. He needs a special waist. It's a grown man's waist. He does not have the legs of a grown man. The pants are going to be baggy, and they will be too long. I've never seen an orphan so well fed."

"Send the pants," said the Headmaster. "Send pants that he can wear."

The small man left in a huff, leaving the door ajar.

"He's a pervert," said the Headmaster. "It's hard enough to find anyone who will accept what we have left to pay for uniforms, let alone a sane man with decent intentions. But your time together is through. Don't pay him any mind at all."

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The Job of the Wasp 3.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 2 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Too much "self-revelation" and not enough story.
Laura_Allen More than 1 year ago
Creepy, surreal and wonderful. For fans of David Lynch and Guillermo del Toro