Quentin

Should I pick it up? I am looking at four hundred and sixty-eight pages filled with words typed in Times New Roman font. Size 10. Double-spaced. I am writing this with a red, hexagonal pencil courtesy of the Office of Professional Development at Such and Such State University. Should I pick it up? The manuscript needs a thorough autopsy. I have consumed three-quarters of a gallon of Chianti table wine and it’s seven in the morning on a cold Sunday in the South. Someone slipped a joint last night into the pocket of my robe. I roll it under my nose. Should I pick it up? The compressor has been laboring to kick on since 5:30. Note: find refrigerator warranty and call for service. Who the hell telephones this early on a Sunday?
“Immiseration brings radicalization.”
“What?”
“Remember the Deprivation Theory unit in Sociology 100?”
“I didn’t take Sosh.”
“Well, listen. The Deprivation Theory speaks of inequality always begetting social upheaval, only somehow in this country we’ve all been pacified into some kind of American-Idol watching indolent monster.”
“Yeh?”
“We have been transformed into the greyhound chasing the electric rabbit and the faster we seem to run, the faster it gets away from us. We’re walking blithely down the road to disaster. And yet the seismographs of public opinion show barely the faintest signs that we are preparing to redress what’s been done to us. Are we not doomed?”
“I’m not interested in girl scout cookies, thank you.”
“Are we not doomed?”
“Listen, can you fix a freezer compressor?”
“What kind?”
“Maytag.”
“In 2005, Whirlpool bought Maytag and laid off 900 people, did you know that when you bought this defective piece of frozen junk?”
“Jesus, do you ever rest?”
“Let me ask you, when you are not in your apartment, does anyone have access to the food you eat?”
“What?”
“Polonium.”
“What?”
“Fair warning, paisan. Fair warning.”
Then he hangs up.