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22 December 2023
Well, it wasn\'t the point he\'d been trying to make, but sure, why not? The committee seemed to take a liking to it. George smiled from above his maroon tie as he ended his presentation 20 minutes early. Twelve bald heads nodded vigorously around the cherry-oak conference table as Walton Pritchord, at 57 the youngest CEO to ever lead Premier Akron Enterprises, rose up and grabbed hold of George\'s hand.
“Hell of a presentation, buck,” Walton said, still shaking his hand. “Laid these geezers out flat. Jesus.” He paused, still holding George\'s hand, apparently meditating on the presentation again, before coming back to life with another round of hand shaking. He moved into a conspiratorial range of George\'s face, close enough for George to smell something like corned beef and sauerkraut on his breath.
“Take a look around, buck,” Walton whispered to George. “There’s nothing but rotting carcass in this room. Period. Not one of these coffin-weights has had a useful idea since the last time they fucked their wives. Well, I’m not sure that exactly stands now, with Viagra and whatnot, but that’s not the point here, is it? Is it?” He nudged George, waiting for an answer.
“No, sir. Not. The point, that is.”
“No, it isn’t!” Walton continued, barely able to contain his very yellow smile. “The point is that you can blow these fuckers out of the pond. You have talent. I can see it. I can see through your second-rate suit. I can see through your nervous demeanor. I can see through your mid-eighties model Buick Skylark. I see it, buck. And I don’t give two old shits what all these other lame-asses think of you, or what they fucking say about you. Period.” Walton seemed to enjoy ending sentences by saying the word “period”. He finally let go of George’s hand, gave him a wink, and turned to leave the room, letting loose a hearty backslap on a stooped heavyset man as he walked out the door.
George had never felt more out of place. A man whose mother still has hanging in their livingroom two third place ribbons he received in seventh grade intramural kickball. But here he was now, the big shot, as face after wrinkled face shuffled past him, offering handshakes and congratulations, pats on the back and punches in the arm.
When the last gray suit left the conference room, George moved to the window and let his gaze focus on the man-made pond situated squarely in front of Premier Akron Enterprises. What part of his presentation had they taken to again? He couldn’t remember. Why had he stopped well early of making his actual point? What had been his original point anyway? Something about a massive strip-mall and condo combination development? It didn’t matter anymore.
It was still early afternoon, though the sky was entirely overcast. A line of ducks was holding up traffic as it waddled across the highway toward the pond out front, where very stagnant water awaited them. George had nothing left on his schedule that day, and was considering going to the local Dairy Queen to reward himself with a Mr. Misty Freeze. After all, he\'d been worried about that presentation for weeks, and it went well, didn’t it? I mean, didn’t everyone really buy it? Then why did his chest feel like it was still seized by something damp, and why did his suit feel like it was heavy enough to pull him to the floor?
A short, yellow bus shrugged up to the pond, and a group of retarded children poured out, followed by an extraordinarily thin woman hoisting a large bag of something over her shoulder. The ducks had made it to the pond by this time, and quickly swarmed around the children in anticipation. The thin woman managed to get the sack off her shoulder and open it, revealing the contents to be popcorn. The children squealed with pleasure as they used their somewhat limited athletic ability to toss handfuls of popcorn around them, where it was quickly devoured by the ducks, who had become almost frightening in their manic attempts at over-consumption. The retarded children didn’t seem to mind or notice, though, as they became enmeshed in a cloud of feathers and popcorn.
George watched the scene. He felt like he was feeling something. Was it pity? Did he pity these children’s simple lives of no consequence; their constant outcast nature? No. Was it jealousy? Was he jealous? Of retarded children?
He was definitely feeling something. Something was here to be felt.
“Hell of a presentation, buck,” Walton said, still shaking his hand. “Laid these geezers out flat. Jesus.” He paused, still holding George\'s hand, apparently meditating on the presentation again, before coming back to life with another round of hand shaking. He moved into a conspiratorial range of George\'s face, close enough for George to smell something like corned beef and sauerkraut on his breath.
“Take a look around, buck,” Walton whispered to George. “There’s nothing but rotting carcass in this room. Period. Not one of these coffin-weights has had a useful idea since the last time they fucked their wives. Well, I’m not sure that exactly stands now, with Viagra and whatnot, but that’s not the point here, is it? Is it?” He nudged George, waiting for an answer.
“No, sir. Not. The point, that is.”
“No, it isn’t!” Walton continued, barely able to contain his very yellow smile. “The point is that you can blow these fuckers out of the pond. You have talent. I can see it. I can see through your second-rate suit. I can see through your nervous demeanor. I can see through your mid-eighties model Buick Skylark. I see it, buck. And I don’t give two old shits what all these other lame-asses think of you, or what they fucking say about you. Period.” Walton seemed to enjoy ending sentences by saying the word “period”. He finally let go of George’s hand, gave him a wink, and turned to leave the room, letting loose a hearty backslap on a stooped heavyset man as he walked out the door.
George had never felt more out of place. A man whose mother still has hanging in their livingroom two third place ribbons he received in seventh grade intramural kickball. But here he was now, the big shot, as face after wrinkled face shuffled past him, offering handshakes and congratulations, pats on the back and punches in the arm.
When the last gray suit left the conference room, George moved to the window and let his gaze focus on the man-made pond situated squarely in front of Premier Akron Enterprises. What part of his presentation had they taken to again? He couldn’t remember. Why had he stopped well early of making his actual point? What had been his original point anyway? Something about a massive strip-mall and condo combination development? It didn’t matter anymore.
It was still early afternoon, though the sky was entirely overcast. A line of ducks was holding up traffic as it waddled across the highway toward the pond out front, where very stagnant water awaited them. George had nothing left on his schedule that day, and was considering going to the local Dairy Queen to reward himself with a Mr. Misty Freeze. After all, he\'d been worried about that presentation for weeks, and it went well, didn’t it? I mean, didn’t everyone really buy it? Then why did his chest feel like it was still seized by something damp, and why did his suit feel like it was heavy enough to pull him to the floor?
A short, yellow bus shrugged up to the pond, and a group of retarded children poured out, followed by an extraordinarily thin woman hoisting a large bag of something over her shoulder. The ducks had made it to the pond by this time, and quickly swarmed around the children in anticipation. The thin woman managed to get the sack off her shoulder and open it, revealing the contents to be popcorn. The children squealed with pleasure as they used their somewhat limited athletic ability to toss handfuls of popcorn around them, where it was quickly devoured by the ducks, who had become almost frightening in their manic attempts at over-consumption. The retarded children didn’t seem to mind or notice, though, as they became enmeshed in a cloud of feathers and popcorn.
George watched the scene. He felt like he was feeling something. Was it pity? Did he pity these children’s simple lives of no consequence; their constant outcast nature? No. Was it jealousy? Was he jealous? Of retarded children?
He was definitely feeling something. Something was here to be felt.
artid
1256
Old Image
5_8_retards.jpg
issue
vol 5 - issue 08 (apr 2003)
section
pen_think