Re: Untitled 2/?
anonymous
April 17 2010, 23:33:25 UTC
A second later, he's in a man's office. This old guy, rupturing the border between middle-aged and senior citizen, isn't particularly bad looking. Maybe he was handsome decades ago, with three girlfriends on top of a wife at home, but now he was left with a poorly thought out mustache and brown hair dangling from gray roots. The slate on the table says his name is Einer Mitchelson, but he looks more like a Gary or Bo.
The miniature television stationed at the desk sings with low, manufactured moans. Alfred's palms stick together when he claps his hands to get Einer's attention and he smiles a smile stretched tightly across his face. Its too genuine in the room; it stands out, feeling raw when the man squeaks his chair over to face him. It doesn't smell remotely like cigar smoke or sex, it smells more like pinesol and other cleaning products, more like a janitor's closet than anything else. This isn't what Alfred was expecting.
What he first wants to say is, "Hey, I'm Alfred F. Jones and I'm just the guy you've been looking for!" He wants to high-five Mr. Mitchelson and laugh away ticks on the clock as they negotiate everything between discussing the pros and cons of mullets, of catchy pop songs, and of the latest Raider win. His smile wavers, however, when he's offered a fake grin and the chair across from the man.
"How old are you?"
Alfred explores the man's life in his mind when he hears his croaking, tired tone. He goes from Paris to Amsterdam, Kingston to Tel Aviv with thoughts and hearts and he thinks about a Einer's wonderful life story as he tells him that he's nineteen, twenty in two months. Sputters when asked how big he is, turns red when Mr. Mitchelson asks if he's, "you know, gay. Queer? Homo?" and tries not to shake his head too hard or to pull his rosary out from under his shirt in testament to the fact.
The miniature television stationed at the desk sings with low, manufactured moans. Alfred's palms stick together when he claps his hands to get Einer's attention and he smiles a smile stretched tightly across his face. Its too genuine in the room; it stands out, feeling raw when the man squeaks his chair over to face him. It doesn't smell remotely like cigar smoke or sex, it smells more like pinesol and other cleaning products, more like a janitor's closet than anything else. This isn't what Alfred was expecting.
What he first wants to say is, "Hey, I'm Alfred F. Jones and I'm just the guy you've been looking for!" He wants to high-five Mr. Mitchelson and laugh away ticks on the clock as they negotiate everything between discussing the pros and cons of mullets, of catchy pop songs, and of the latest Raider win. His smile wavers, however, when he's offered a fake grin and the chair across from the man.
"How old are you?"
Alfred explores the man's life in his mind when he hears his croaking, tired tone. He goes from Paris to Amsterdam, Kingston to Tel Aviv with thoughts and hearts and he thinks about a Einer's wonderful life story as he tells him that he's nineteen, twenty in two months. Sputters when asked how big he is, turns red when Mr. Mitchelson asks if he's, "you know, gay. Queer? Homo?" and tries not to shake his head too hard or to pull his rosary out from under his shirt in testament to the fact.
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