Connection Lost (ii)

He made it another hour. He met with Cumbags McCarthy, Caspar Fletchley-Crotch, Sandy Fistjobs, and Cuntbollocks Sotomayor. He gave full consideration to impaling himself on a thumb drive, strangling himself with a Firewire cable, choking himself on a MicroSD card, and just ramming his head into the desk until he was too concussed to notice he was alive.

This last option was probably cheating. As he moved into Hour Three, he didn’t really care.

The ten-year-old sitting across from him started buzzing. This wasn’t the strangest noise he’d emitted over the preceeding half hour. He reached into his pocket and removed a cell phone shaped like a rocket ship. “My mother says it’s dinner time,” he said. “I’ll see you later.” And with that he jumped down from the chair and all but ran for the hallway.

“Good fucking God,” said Alan. Or Cantonese to that effect.

He waited for his next drop-in much as a Confederate soldier who’d just taken a cannonball to the bridgework might wait for the next tooth to be pulled. And he waited. Seconds become minutes. Processor cycles became the next frame of a wittily retro screensaver. And then Alan remembered that prospies and family were wined and dined by the school on their Day of Days. At five o’clock. And the appointed hour had come.

He still had an hour left before he could go home. But that hour, it seemed, was his alone.

He grudgingly admitted that he probably wouldn’t be killing himself today.



~ by davekov on 29 October 2011.

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