Yesterday I
stepped through glass doors uninvited, shifted from light to dark. Yesterday I
applied; spoke to a man, to a woman. Their suits were gray. Their words were
gray. They said nothing at all. I said nothing in return. During our exchange,
a bird died on the windowsill. In deference I relented, accepted, extolled. The
man collected signatures; the woman extended a flaccid hand. We nodded
equilaterally. I thought I heard gunfire in the distance: an execution,
possibly mine.
Afterward, I
traded dark for light. I shuffled home hired, shed my suit hired, watched my
girlfriend fold origami penises hired, sat atop the crest of my roof and traded
whispers with the moon hired. Despite myself, I had been hired, indentured.
Today my suit
is gray. My thoughts are gray. I slip pills under my tongue, linger at a
gleaming urinal and mimic the touch of yesterday’s flaccid hand. At my desk I
sit dutifully rigid and peck randomly at ordered keys. I watch letters bestrew
a screen once bleached and barren. Punctuation pecks at my eyes. AutoCorrect
shaves razor-thin layers from my brain. Blood splatters onto my corp-issued
Blackberry in 160-platelet bursts.
Tomorrow I
will demand a raise.
Ethan Swage
ethanswage@optimum.net
Black House
Stephen King and Peter Straub