Read Online Résumé With Monsters by William Browning Spencer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Browning Spencer
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Horror, American Fiction, 20th Century, Life on other planets, Erotic Fiction, Men, Fiction / Horror, Horror - General
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Christmas tree (decorated with business cards) reminded Philip that the holiday season was upon him.
Ralph Pederson came running up. He looked thinner than when Philip had last seen him, and more disheveled. "Philip, Philip," he said. "Come on back, I'll introduce you to everyone."
Had they forgotten him already? True, he had always arrived at the end of the day, when everyone was leaving. And he was not, he knew, the sort of person who made a lasting impression. He was quiet, of average height and features, and he was inclined to utter the stock phrases of social commerce.
Still, he had only been gone a few months, and his leavetaking was, in itself, spectacular enough to keep his memory alive.
On entering the long room, Philip realized that he did not know anyone. All the employees he had worked with were gone, replaced by a new crew. Later that evening, when Philip was alone with his thoughts, he remembered Ralph saying that morale had been low for awhile, but that recently it was much higher.
Philip had attributed this elevation in morale to particularly eloquent motivational pamphlets or a decrease in the workload, but now Philip understood that morale had been improved by the simple but effective measure of firing all the low-morale types (i.e. everyone) and hiring new blood.
The new crew was obviously frightened, displaying the large, wild eyes of headlight- hunted deer, but their adrenaline reserves had not yet been depleted, and so they were not sullen or apathetic.
Monica was not there, although Ralph said she would be back next week. Surprisingly, Al Bingham had survived the purge.
The old printer walked into where Philip was typesetting at about eight in the evening.
"Yeah," he said, when Philip expressed his delight in seeing him, "I'm an old-timer here now. Don't take long to get seniority at this joint, does it?"
Philip agreed that it didn't, but his surprise at seeing Bingham was obvious, and the old man read his expression and answered the question there.
"Ralph don't fire me because he can't smell the fear," Bingham said. "I'm invisible. He is always coming up, ready to give me the boot, but then he falters, gets this baffled look, and I know he can't see me. He wonders what he was about to do and marches off to ream some poor Mexican working in the bindery."
Philip called Amelia at nine in the evening. His inability to destroy his novel—or even to lie and say he had destroyed it—had set their relationship back to one rationed phone call a week. Philip knew that Amelia was waiting for him to make the next move, but he couldn't find the internal resources to act.
"I'm back at work," he told her.
"I've found a job myself," Amelia said, excitement in her voice. "I start next week."
"Oh." Philip felt a flutter of panic. "Well."
"Hey, congratulate me." Amelia giggled with good spirits.
"Hey, congratulations."
Oh, be careful, Amelia. I know you don't want to remember, but please, please be careful.
They talked briefly. Amelia said she had to get up early the next day, some sort of orientation thing in preparation for her first day of work, and she hung up.
That night, Philip dreamed the dream of his father's death in the coils of the System.
This is how it went, as it always went, a dream as unvarying as a documentary unwinding:
The kitchen is silent and cool and Philip, who has just come home from school, walking through one of spring's first truly hot days, goes to the refrigerator and finds a carton of milk and drinks the cold, headache-inducing milk standing in the light of the open door which sheds the green-tinged light that aliens use to immobilize teenagers making out in cars. The refrigerator hum is, of course, the hovering spacecraft.
Today the refrigerator is louder than normal, and when Philip closes the door, he discovers that a second sound pulses behind the familiar drone of the
Ralph Pederson came running up. He looked thinner than when Philip had last seen him, and more disheveled. "Philip, Philip," he said. "Come on back, I'll introduce you to everyone."
Had they forgotten him already? True, he had always arrived at the end of the day, when everyone was leaving. And he was not, he knew, the sort of person who made a lasting impression. He was quiet, of average height and features, and he was inclined to utter the stock phrases of social commerce.
Still, he had only been gone a few months, and his leavetaking was, in itself, spectacular enough to keep his memory alive.
On entering the long room, Philip realized that he did not know anyone. All the employees he had worked with were gone, replaced by a new crew. Later that evening, when Philip was alone with his thoughts, he remembered Ralph saying that morale had been low for awhile, but that recently it was much higher.
Philip had attributed this elevation in morale to particularly eloquent motivational pamphlets or a decrease in the workload, but now Philip understood that morale had been improved by the simple but effective measure of firing all the low-morale types (i.e. everyone) and hiring new blood.
The new crew was obviously frightened, displaying the large, wild eyes of headlight- hunted deer, but their adrenaline reserves had not yet been depleted, and so they were not sullen or apathetic.
Monica was not there, although Ralph said she would be back next week. Surprisingly, Al Bingham had survived the purge.
The old printer walked into where Philip was typesetting at about eight in the evening.
"Yeah," he said, when Philip expressed his delight in seeing him, "I'm an old-timer here now. Don't take long to get seniority at this joint, does it?"
Philip agreed that it didn't, but his surprise at seeing Bingham was obvious, and the old man read his expression and answered the question there.
"Ralph don't fire me because he can't smell the fear," Bingham said. "I'm invisible. He is always coming up, ready to give me the boot, but then he falters, gets this baffled look, and I know he can't see me. He wonders what he was about to do and marches off to ream some poor Mexican working in the bindery."
Philip called Amelia at nine in the evening. His inability to destroy his novel—or even to lie and say he had destroyed it—had set their relationship back to one rationed phone call a week. Philip knew that Amelia was waiting for him to make the next move, but he couldn't find the internal resources to act.
"I'm back at work," he told her.
"I've found a job myself," Amelia said, excitement in her voice. "I start next week."
"Oh." Philip felt a flutter of panic. "Well."
"Hey, congratulate me." Amelia giggled with good spirits.
"Hey, congratulations."
Oh, be careful, Amelia. I know you don't want to remember, but please, please be careful.
They talked briefly. Amelia said she had to get up early the next day, some sort of orientation thing in preparation for her first day of work, and she hung up.
That night, Philip dreamed the dream of his father's death in the coils of the System.
This is how it went, as it always went, a dream as unvarying as a documentary unwinding:
The kitchen is silent and cool and Philip, who has just come home from school, walking through one of spring's first truly hot days, goes to the refrigerator and finds a carton of milk and drinks the cold, headache-inducing milk standing in the light of the open door which sheds the green-tinged light that aliens use to immobilize teenagers making out in cars. The refrigerator hum is, of course, the hovering spacecraft.
Today the refrigerator is louder than normal, and when Philip closes the door, he discovers that a second sound pulses behind the familiar drone of the
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