Horn’s father is yelling again; they both knew it would happen, part of the pattern they help each other reinforce. This time’s different, though. Horn’s not afraid, not angry, not even bored. There has been a shift, and somehow he’s in charge.
No one watching would see it, but they both feel it there. His father’s drive has changed: it’s become a concentration on form rather than content. Horn feels like an auditioning director–that’s appropriate, anyway. His father’s theatre diction. Horn still plays the teenager, slumped and inscrutable, while consonants boom and crack like ice floes in his father’s mouth.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
“Vertical scalability!” they said, enthusiastically. They’re always very enthusiastic.
Borland understands their desire to save floorspace, but he’s pretty sure stacking cubes like interlocking Lego isn’t the way. He doesn’t envy Stoneberg, who now needs a stepladder to reach his desk. But he also wishes Stoneberg’s crotch weren’t right at eye level.
That crotch is being adjusted vigorously right now; Borland looks away quickly, then jerks back as Stoneberg’s chair rolls over a crucial report. January’s shredded.
Borland grips the pieces tightly, resisting the urge to wad them down Stoneberg’s throat. Soon, he thinks, calming himself. Soon, Accounts Receivable will pay.
Thursday, February 12, 2004