The following monologue is written awkwardly. "Awkwardly" is affixed to the end of the last sentence, and not out of false humility. Nor is the awkwardness intentional. The author of this monologue writes awkwardly because instead of laying words down like mortar on brick, he simply lies down: on couches, beds. He invents insidious means of twiddling his thumbs and executes them with panache, with gusto. He executes them chiefly out of fear. "Out of fear" is a cliche which should be replaced with "because he is a child with his head tucked between his knees in a room filled with men in suits carrying briefcases," but because he is scared, "out of fear" will do; it will have to do.



"Fear of what?" asks the Platonic, vestigial interloper. The author answers that he is afraid of reaching down into the penny jar of his mind and scratching the gritty bottom; unable even to spin thread of copper, when gold is what his heart breaks for. The monologue, awkwardly written, is related in words beneath the colon punctuating this sentence:

I am twenty five years old, and today, in the parking lot outside my office building, I step out of my sports utility vehicle. I push the round button on the keyless remote. The sports utility vehicle retorts with a honk. The sound waves from this honk poke my eardrums. This poke jostles something. I begin walking west. There's a four lane highway I cross without looking. Tires lock and squeal against the tar. More honking.

On the other side of this highway I take steps in my loafers. I do this for three hours. In my path there is a fence. It is made of barbed wire and we face each other, the fence and I, each one daring the other to move. The fence is stolid and upright. After ten minutes my shoulders slouch and in my eye you can see I won't do it. I won't cross the fence. I won't go around the fence. The fence has hemmed me like a cow.

Over the fence I stare. Probably at some greener grass. A farmer has seen me; he hustles up wearing Nikes. Words come out of his mouth and I hear them. He reaches into his pocket and instead of a gun he pulls a phone. One of the skinny phones that are shiny and coveted. He flips it open and extends his arm. I know he wants me to take the phone. To call someone.

His kindness has swirled me up and I'm bobbing up and down in it. I might even smile. But this act of kindness is also a gentle murder. The taking of the phone. The saying of "thanks." The dialing of numbers of someone back East. All of these things are suffocating pillows on the sleeping face of my adventure. Soon I will have to apologize. The hours I have taken and not spent as someone's colleague, someone's husband, someone's father: they must be accounted for. They must be paid back. I will sincerely apologize. I will come to work early. I will go to bed late.

And once my eyes close and I slip into dreams like flannel pajamas, I will chide my wandering self. I will tell him that once the children leave and I'm subsisting on the drippings of my 401k, I will buy Nikes like the farmer, and I will leave all phones behind. I will take westward steps. I will take them, one old-man-step at a time, until I arrive just West of West Pole. There the sun will set in my lap, so that there will no longer be room for me to tuck my bald and spotted head between my knobby knees.