Monday, September 24, 2007

A scene.

Dammit, this new book has really taken hold. I was ironing clothes for work tomorrow when I realized I was writing a scene in my head. Granted, it was based on a conversation I had with a really stupid coworker this morning (lifted almost word for word, which I never ever do, but this was too priceless to not use). So I went ahead and typed it up so I wouldn't forget it, and thanks to the miracle of semi-anonymous blogging, I offer it here for your enjoyment. Or not, whatever. I've changed the name of my coworker, and the underscore is how I indicate to myself that the other character doesn't have a name yet (when I name him, I can search and replace).

"How was your weekend?" I asked Brad. _ was within earshot. I wanted him to think I was polite, even to oafs.

"Did you see Family Guy last night?"

"No. I don't watch that show."

"You don't watch Family Guy?" Brad pretended to fall backwards in his chair.

"It's not my kind of humor."

"No, you have to watch it. It's great."

I checked the fax machine and threw away a real estate ad. "It's stupid," I said, and regretted it immediately.

Brad didn't notice the insult. "It's hilarious. Remember the episode with the giant chicken? Last night they brought the chicken back and there was this big fight, and in the middle of it they stop and go to a restaurant, and they can't remember what they're fighting about, and then after they eat they go back to fighting." He guffawed.

_ passed me and raised his eyebrows with a half-smile. I smiled back. Brad must have thought I was praising his narrative, because he launched into an account of another episode he liked.

I ignored him and followed _ to the break room. From the smell, Brad had already visited the bathroom that morning. I could still hear him talking from around the corner, apparently to himself.

_ poured himself a cup of coffee. "Does he do anything except watch TV?" he murmured.

I fought the urge to giggle and agree. I had to say something witty, something terribly intelligent and memorable, something that would make _ take new notice of me. "He must eat a lot of tacos too," I said. Bad choice.

But _ snorted into his coffee cup, grinning. "Depth bomb," he said.

I slapped my hand over my mouth, afraid I'd bray instead of laugh. A moment later I controlled myself enough to say, "It's more an explosive decompression, I think."

This time _ slopped coffee over his shoes. I went back to my desk, triumphant, and only then realized that my first real conversation with _ had been about shit.

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