Friday, January 8, 2010

Round Eyes

There is something wrong with the way Timmy folds pizza boxes at work. For some reason every box that he folds falls apart. Also when he puts wax paper in, it's always on the wrong side, which makes it a bit more cumbersome when dealing with customers. I don't mind all that much because I know Timmy has some problems . I don't know the prognosis, I'm not a doctor. I don't know anything about how the mind works or how many bones there are in an ear, but I'm pretty certain there's something wrong with Timmy. In an eight-hour day, he says almost nothing. You could say hello to him--Hello Timmy--and he almost always disregards it. In fact he's so good at not responding it's like you're not even there. You don't even exist to Timmy. And when he incorrectly folds those boxes it's as if he's not even there.

I wish I had a iota of Timmy's social grace: not having to answer questions and spending my day staring listlessly at nothing. I wonder what he thinks about. Maybe he thinks that those boxes are perfect. That everything around him doesn't really exist and that common conversation is meaningless. Words like hello and goodbye never enter his thoughts or perhaps he's just confused. I would at some point like for him to explain this all for me, but I know that he won't. I've tried.

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