Hey Look
Chapter Title: Maurice Van Der Doelen, Commercial Stance Consultant

“Come in, come in. See those certificates? All bullshit. There is no Harvard School of Physical
Positioning. There is no Oxford College of Applied Commercial Appearances. I think the Beijing
Number One Faculty of Personal Space Management may be for real, but I sure as shit didn’t
go there. And I tell you this not only without shame, but with pride. Because what I do here,
what my clients learn here, is pure boardroom stance-based alchemy, my friend. And that can’t
be learned in a classroom. Except this one. It can be learned in this classroom.”

This is Maurice Van Der Doelen, New York’s best-paid commercial stance consultant. His clients
include Ernest Piccolo (“A great guy, a real pro, godfather to one of my kids, I think”), Oprah
Winfrey (“A natural redhead, can you believe that? Hot damn, what a sight”), Donald Trump
(Skin like a leper, but a very keen student”) and some years ago, most of NWA (“Bunch of
pussies, except Ren. Me and him hit Vegas like the SEALs hit Bin Laden”) . Maurice charges a
thousand bucks an hour and Maurice is always busy.

“Commercial stance coaching is my specialty, but I’m pretty sure I would have been an
extraordinary success at whatever I’d decided to turn my hand to. I could’ve been that Liberace
cat, for example. I didn’t have the hair though, unfortunately. This? Nah, they took this from my
butt cheeks and glued it in. If you look closely you can see my scalp is continually leaking
infected sebum, see? No, I don’t blame you; the stench when you get up close is beyond human
comprehension.  Anyway, that’s eleven grand I won’t be seeing again. So, I didn’t really have
the hair to be Liberace. Or the rhinestones, I guess. A piano would’ve helped, and maybe a few
lessons. Take those out of the equation and I could be as dead as that fat faggot right now, with
my own mausoleum and everything.”

Maurice pats his hair back down, sniffs his fingers, winces and runs to the open window. He
places the fingertips of his outstretched hands on the sill from too far away and leans forwards
at an uncomfortable and rarely-deployed angle, gasping. Recovering, he notices that he has
inadvertently created yet another compelling and unique negotiating stance and wonders how
much he could charge to teach it. He simultaneously composes and congratulates himself, with
each action fellating and high-fiving the other.

“Anyway, open kimono time. I know what you’re thinking; you’re thinking damn, this guy is
extremely charismatic, perhaps I should ask him if he would like to have sex with my wife, no
strings attached? And all I’ll say is this: I’m grateful for the offer, sincerely I am, but let’s keep it
professional for now. Once our hour is up I’m just a regular joe with physical needs and primal
desires, same as any man, except mine are maybe more urgent and, okay, I’ll say it, kinda fucked up.
 I’m talking dog piss cocktails drunk from a corpse’s asshole. Man, just the words get
me hot. Mmm. Anyway, we can talk about your wife, daughter etctera afterwards. You got a
dog? No no, tell me afterwards. Right now, I’ve got a great new way of leaning on a desk to
teach and you, my Saudi friend, are right at the front of the class. Let’s get started, we’ve only
got 52 minutes left, and if history is any guide I’m likely to need a substantial crap at the halfway
point.”