Strychnine Over(ride) pg2

Adam, as his 23rd girlfriend had once observed, could be effectively described by the periodicals which he took but did not read. The Economist, for his father, so that he'd have something to discuss with a man he never called. Spin, because he couldn't take Rolling Stone seriously. The New Yorker, which he scanned for the cartoons and then ignored, for culture. Those he did read were less revealing.
Monday, Adam had a newsstand New Republic boiling in his backpack. Off the table, he kept it well out of sight while grinding down the day behind the half-wall which provided the illusion of privacy. Adam kept his desk clean, cold comforting contrast to those around him, all stuffed animals, memos, photos and inspirational slogans, attempts to soften the sharp edges of where they were. Adam's only inspiration was as obvious as it was invisible: it doesn't matter. His work never occasioned complaint, steady, conscientious, silent; nor compliment, either, relentlessly doing what he was asked and no more, a slow mechanical rebellion.

Posted at Friday, March 12, 2010 07:42 PM
In Short Fiction Category | Permalink