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From Lori Tuckett, Editorial Assistant:

I often view my life as a tragic comedy. The good is always tempered with the bad. On the day I moved up here, my excitement and anticipation grew the closer the moving truck got to my new home. I was on the edge of my seat as we drew close to North Adams. And then do you know what happened? The truck broke down less than a mile and a half away! My excitement quickly swan-dived when I realized that moving day was turning into moving night. Furthermore, I'd have to serve as an interpreter between my Russian movers and the mechanic. Mind you, I speak neither Russian nor cars, so translating consisted of the movers talking in animated Russian while pointing out the parts that they thought were bad. I then applied the best words I could for the mechanic. The night wasn't a loss, though. When I did make it to my new domicile, I had two very eager men help me unpack and keep me company as they waited for their boss to come from New York City and pick them up. Hell, we topped off the night by having dinner and exchanging language lessons. See? The good with the bad.

I joined Tripod about four months ago, and since then I've been initiated into its rituals. I didn't expect to find a lot of loose women around Williamstown, or a lot of loose men, but I did. Please understand that in a small place like this, you've gotta take your pleasures where you can. Several times a month, a masseuse comes to Tripod and rubs out our kinks — kinks engendered from late night working, ravin', and cruisin'. (What? Did you think we were tied to our terminals?) A typical night on the town consists of the following: work, eat dinner with coworkers at Williamstown's social center, and try to meet strangers. Then, retire from the eatery, cruise up and down the strip (actually, Williamstown's one busy street), recognize familiar cars, and look for spontaneous parties. Parties are hard to come by in a town fortified for the winter, so more often than not, Tripod sticks together. Tripod sticking together is a good thing. The bad part is the inevitable emergence of a cauldron of seething desires...

Dan is my officemate. On our down time, we plot our takeover of the company, followed by the world. That is, when he and Mike Agger aren't secretly planting signs on my back that say such things as "Property of Tripod Editorial." The position of my desk affords me the great opportunity to view Randy all day. Often, I'm regaled with his beautiful rendition of a singing can-can dancer. But what incites him to suddenly act a part from "A Chorus Line?" I don't know, it's just part of his mercurial nature.

Janet is beset by a serious desire — for a fast hard drive. Give her the bytes! (Oh yeah, she loves to drive her car too.) When not craving power, Janet's alter ego, Dolores, emerges. Dolores is a hard-living, tough talking woman with plenty of bright red lipstick, golden tresses, and a ever-present cigarette dangling from her mouth. I can't say that it's a pleasure to make her acquaintance.

I've been deliberately skirting around the issue of inter-office romance. Does it exist? Sure. Does it exist here? Well, Trixie had a tryst with a lad named Fox who used to be Christina's sweetie. Unfortunately, that fizzled when he went away one weekend and reappeared somewhat less endowed. I really shouldn't continue because I'm trying to live down a bad reputation as a tattle-tale from my senior year of high school. With one simple question from my history teacher, my carefully cultivated image was blown. "Lori, you're a gossip. Do you have anything to add about President Reagan?" Apparently I had let slip the previous day that Truman was the last faithful President in the White House.

Ernest Hemingway is one of my favorite writers so I can definitely appreciate the talent and impact of subtle expression. In fact all of my faves — Hemingway, Yasunari Kawabata, and Wallace Stevens — knew how to play it close to the vest. But after all, what is gossip but refined observation? What's the difference between observation and gossip? Gossip is often a shared secret whose truth and accuracy is decided upon by the recipient. It can plant a seed in your head which makes you reconsider what you'd previously believed. And I guess that's what I'm about, making others think twice about their beliefs, motives, and aspirations. (I confess to being that little girl on the elementary school playground who spread the "rumor" that Santa didn't exist.)

I can keep a secret like nobody's business, but I also know how to prompt someone and get them to see things anew. There is beauty in the mundane, and the mundane in the beautiful. And dare I say it? There's good in the bad.

— Lori (2/28/97)

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Read more "Letters from Tripod" in the archive.

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