FIGHT CLUB by chuck Palahniuk

Author:chuck Palahniuk [Palahniuk, chuck]
Language: eng
Format: epub

Chapter 12

MISTER HIS HONOR, mister chapter president of the local chapter of the national united projectionist and independent theater operators union just sat.

Under and behind and inside everything the man took for granted, something horrible had been growing.

Nothing is static.

Everything is falling apart.

I know this because Tyler knows this.

For three years Tyler had been doing film buildup and breakdown for a chain of movie houses. A movie travels in six or seven small reels packed in a metal case. Tyler’s job was to splice the small reels together into single fivefoot reels that self-threading and rewinding projectors could handle. After three years, seven theaters, at least three screens per theater, new shows every week, Tyler had handled hundreds of prints. Too bad, but with more self-threading and rewinding projectors, the union didn’t need Tyler anymore. Mister chapter president had to call Tyler in for a little sit-down.

The work was boring and the pay was crap, so the president of the united union of united projection operators independent and united theaters united said it was doing Tyler Durden a chapter favor by giving Tyler the diplomatic shaft.

Don’t think of this as rejection. Think of it as downsizing. Right up the butt mister chapter president himself says, “We appreciate your contribution to our success.”

Oh, that wasn’t a problem, Tyler said, and grinned. As long as the union kept sending a paycheck, he’d keep his mouth shut. Tyler said, “Think of this as early retirement, with pension.” Tyler had handled hundreds of prints.

Movies had gone back to the distributor. Movies had gone back out in re- release. Comedy. Drama. Musicals. Romance. Action adventure. Spliced with Tyler’s single-frame flashes of pornography. Sodomy. Fellatio. Cunnilingus. Bondage.

Tyler had nothing to lose.

Tyler was the pawn of the world, everybody’s trash. This is what Tyler rehearsed me to tell the manager of the Pressman Hotel, too.

At Tyler’s other job, at the Pressman Hotel, Tyler said he was nobody. Nobody cared if he lived or died, and the feeling was fucking mutual. This is what Tyler told me to say in the hotel manager’s office with security guards sitting outside the door.

Tyler and I stayed up late and traded stories after everything was over. Right after he’d gone to the projectionist union, Tyler had me go and confront the manager of the Pressman Hotel.

Tyler and I were looking more and more like identical twins. Both of us had punched-out cheekbones, and our skin had lost its memory, and forgot where to slide back to after we were hit.

My bruises were from fight club, and Tyler’s face was punched out of shape by the president of the projectionist union. After Tyler crawled out of the union offices, I went to see the manager of the Pressman Hotel. I sat there, in the office of the manager of the Pressman Hotel. I am Joe’s Smirking Revenge.

The first thing the hotel manager said was I had three minutes. In the first thirty seconds, I told how I’d been peeing into soup, farting

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