opens my door without knocking. I don’t know how long he was there before I noticed him, but I am sure he did not knock. I jump when he says, “Lou!” and turn around.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Working,” I say. What did he think? What else would I be doing in my office, at my workstation?
“Let me see,” he says, and comes over to my workstation. He comes up behind me; I feel my nerves rucking up under my skin like a kicked throw rug. I hate it when someone is behind me. “What is that?”
He points to a line of symbols separated from the mass above and below by a blank line. I have been tinkering with that line all day, trying to make it do what I want it to do.
“It will be the… the link between this”—I point to the blocks above—“and this.” I point to the blocks below.
“And what are they?” he asks.
Does he really not know? Or is this what the books call instructional discourse, as when teachers ask questions whose answers they know to find out if the students know? If he really doesn’t know, then whatever I say will make no sense. If he really does know, he will be angry when he finds out I think he does not.
It would be simpler if people said what they meant.
“This is the layer-three system for synthesis,” I say. That is a right answer, though it is a short one.
“Oh, I see,” he says. His voice smirks. Does he think I am lying? I can see a blurry, distorted reflection of his face in the shiny ball on my desk. It is hard to tell what its expression is.
“The layer-three system will be embedded into the production codes,” I say, trying very hard to stay calm. “This ensures that the end user will be able to define the production parameters but cannot change them to something harmful.”
“And you understand this?” he says.
Which this is this? I understand what I am doing. I do not always understand why it is to be done. I opt for the easy short answer.
Yes, I say.
“Good,” he says. It sounds as false as it did in the morning. “You started late today,” he says.
Page 15
“I’m staying late tonight,” I say. “I was one hour and forty-seven minutes late. I worked through lunch; that is thirty minutes. I will stay one hour and seventeen minutes late.”
“You’re honest,” he says, clearly surprised.
“Yes,” I say. I do not turn to look at him. I do not want to see his face. After seven seconds, he turns to leave. From the door he has a last word.
“Things cannot go on like this, Lou. Change happens.”
Nine words.Nine words that make me shiver after the door is closed.
I turn on the fan, and my office fills with twinkling, whirling reflections. I work on, one hour and seventeen minutes. Tonight I am not tempted to work any longer than that. It is Wednesday night, and I have things to do.
Outside it is mild, a little humid. I am very careful driving back to my place, where I change into T-shirt and shorts and eat a slice of cold pizza.
AMONG THE THINGS I NEVER TELL DR. FORNUM ABOUT IS MY sex life. She doesn’t think I have a sex life because when she asks if I have a sex partner, a girlfriend or boyfriend, I just say no. She doesn’t ask more than that. That is fine with me, because I do not want to talk about it with her. She is not attractive to me, and my parents said the only reason to talk about sex was to find out how to please your partner and be pleased by your partner. Or if something went wrong, you would talk to a doctor.
Nothing has ever gone wrong with me. Some things were wrong from the beginning, but that’s different.
I think about Marjory while I finish mypizza . Marjory is not my sex partner, but I wish she were my girlfriend. I met Marjory at fencing class, not at any of the social events for disabled people that Dr.
Fornum thinks I should go to. I don’t tell Dr. Fornum about fencing because she would worry about violent tendencies. If laser tag was enough to bother her, long pointed swords would send her
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Working,” I say. What did he think? What else would I be doing in my office, at my workstation?
“Let me see,” he says, and comes over to my workstation. He comes up behind me; I feel my nerves rucking up under my skin like a kicked throw rug. I hate it when someone is behind me. “What is that?”
He points to a line of symbols separated from the mass above and below by a blank line. I have been tinkering with that line all day, trying to make it do what I want it to do.
“It will be the… the link between this”—I point to the blocks above—“and this.” I point to the blocks below.
“And what are they?” he asks.
Does he really not know? Or is this what the books call instructional discourse, as when teachers ask questions whose answers they know to find out if the students know? If he really doesn’t know, then whatever I say will make no sense. If he really does know, he will be angry when he finds out I think he does not.
It would be simpler if people said what they meant.
“This is the layer-three system for synthesis,” I say. That is a right answer, though it is a short one.
“Oh, I see,” he says. His voice smirks. Does he think I am lying? I can see a blurry, distorted reflection of his face in the shiny ball on my desk. It is hard to tell what its expression is.
“The layer-three system will be embedded into the production codes,” I say, trying very hard to stay calm. “This ensures that the end user will be able to define the production parameters but cannot change them to something harmful.”
“And you understand this?” he says.
Which this is this? I understand what I am doing. I do not always understand why it is to be done. I opt for the easy short answer.
Yes, I say.
“Good,” he says. It sounds as false as it did in the morning. “You started late today,” he says.
Page 15
“I’m staying late tonight,” I say. “I was one hour and forty-seven minutes late. I worked through lunch; that is thirty minutes. I will stay one hour and seventeen minutes late.”
“You’re honest,” he says, clearly surprised.
“Yes,” I say. I do not turn to look at him. I do not want to see his face. After seven seconds, he turns to leave. From the door he has a last word.
“Things cannot go on like this, Lou. Change happens.”
Nine words.Nine words that make me shiver after the door is closed.
I turn on the fan, and my office fills with twinkling, whirling reflections. I work on, one hour and seventeen minutes. Tonight I am not tempted to work any longer than that. It is Wednesday night, and I have things to do.
Outside it is mild, a little humid. I am very careful driving back to my place, where I change into T-shirt and shorts and eat a slice of cold pizza.
AMONG THE THINGS I NEVER TELL DR. FORNUM ABOUT IS MY sex life. She doesn’t think I have a sex life because when she asks if I have a sex partner, a girlfriend or boyfriend, I just say no. She doesn’t ask more than that. That is fine with me, because I do not want to talk about it with her. She is not attractive to me, and my parents said the only reason to talk about sex was to find out how to please your partner and be pleased by your partner. Or if something went wrong, you would talk to a doctor.
Nothing has ever gone wrong with me. Some things were wrong from the beginning, but that’s different.
I think about Marjory while I finish mypizza . Marjory is not my sex partner, but I wish she were my girlfriend. I met Marjory at fencing class, not at any of the social events for disabled people that Dr.
Fornum thinks I should go to. I don’t tell Dr. Fornum about fencing because she would worry about violent tendencies. If laser tag was enough to bother her, long pointed swords would send her
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