Jonathan Holden

Day after day, along with his placid automobiles, that well-groomed sallow young man had been waiting for me, as in the cheerful, unchanging weather of a billboard—pacing the tiles, patting his tie, knotting, un- knotting the façade of his smile while staring out the window. He was so bad at the job he reminded me of myself the summer I failed at selling Time and Life in New Jersey. Even though I was a boy I could feel someone else’s voice crawl out of my mouth, spoiling every word, like this cowed, polite kid in his tie and badge that said Greg, saying Ma’am to my wife, calling me Sir, retailing the air with such piety I had to find anything out the window. Maybe the rain.  It was gray and as honestly wet as ever.  Something we could both believe.