The new hire hopped into the van, radiating grudge. He hated the fall weather and the kind smiles of the women as they accepted their baskets of fruits and nuts. He insisted on driving and wore sunglasses that resembled nothing so much as the van’s back windows. Tina fiddled with the radio, knowing that he’d overwhelm whatever music she selected with his thoughts on government and the occasional necessity of fanaticism. He had very little to say about his own life, except that he was getting over a breakup, and also not getting over it. His first day he had announced in the sorting room that he had “lowered the lance, if you know what I mean,” but no one did—they just thought his name was Lance. The radio tried for holiday cheer. “I’m a talented artist,” the new hire said, and if it was anyone else, she would have thought he was hitting on her, but not this wrathful stack of cells. On they drove, into the precipitate dusk.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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