Page 73 - WTP VOl. VIII #6

With a paperclip, he attached a ticket stub from a baseball game he attended alone in Chicago five
years before, put the whole thing in an envelope with his supervisor’s name on it, and left it with the recep- tionist on his way out. Metaphors. They’d be guessing for years as to what he’d meant by them.
As for his actual work, he left all of his assigned du- ties unfinished. There were no completed spread- sheets, no finished memos, only fragments of lists, of figures. Everything was in chaos, disarray. Purposeful disorganization. No one could pick up the pieces with ease. Right before he left, he locked his desk drawer with the claim files he was assigned to review inside. He threw the key in a dumpster outside the office.
It was all a mind game to him. A giant mindfuck.
He turned on to Federal Street. The county court house was just in front of him on the right, a large white building with columns and an iron entrance- way that had been modernized with a turnstile door. Outside, an American flag fluttered above the blue flag of the State of Maine.
A young man emerged from the courthouse doorway, into the sunlight. A young man, perhaps in his 30s, wearing a gray suit and a light gray dress shirt open at the collar, no tie. A young man who walked with hunched shoulders.
“A lawyer,” Seymour thought. “It has to be.”
He hated lawyers. The insurance company he quit was full of them. He dealt with them every day, sev- eral times a day. Those over-educated, condescend- ing, arrogant, elitists who looked down on him. Who told him that he had to process claims even though it would make his numbers look bad. They would call him from upstairs in the Legal Department and tell him that the law required the claim to be paid.
If a consumer filed a complaint, the State Insurance Department would be ordering them to pay the claim. But he would argue that the policy was am- biguous, that they should go to court and fight it out like real lawyers. Like tough guys. Then the lawyers would get an odd tone in their voices, an exhausted, exasperated tone of weariness and frustration, and tell him to pay the claim. Just do it. Please do it. We have other matters we need to get to now. We can’t keep arguing with you.
But it was all behind him now. Yes, he had once liked his job and been interested in what was covered
by the policy and what was not, but it soon soured. People didn’t like his forthrightness, his firm attitude.
Now, he was free from everything that had tormented him so much over the past seventeen years. Free from the ridicule, the disciplinary meetings, the “Does not get along with people” notations in his personnel file. Free from the lawyers. God, the lawyers, that was the best part of leaving.
Seymour took his sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. The young man in the gray suit did not wear sunglasses despite the glare, and instead kept his head down.
The traffic light was green, but a hearse was slowly driving up Federal Street with purple lights flashing. There were cars behind it with purple flags stuck to their hoods. A funeral procession. The young man and Seymour stopped at the corner to wait for it to pass.
One purple flag car went by, then another, and anoth- er. Purple flagged cars were backed up into the dis- tance. It was like a purple military parade. He could not tell where the last car was.
He glanced at the young man. The young man was not looking at the funeral line, but staring ahead into ap- parent nothingness. He seemed despondent, disen- gaged, and by contrast Seymour felt jubilant. How could the whole world not feel fantastic? Well, those in the funeral procession and the dead person didn’t, of course. But why shouldn’t everyone else feel stu- pendous on this memorable, special, sunshine-filled day? The young man muttered something beneath the hum of the automobile engines.
“What did you say?” said Seymour.
The young man turned to him, his eyes dull and pale. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Yes, you did. You spoke. I know you spoke.” Normally, Seymour would never converse with a stranger, espe- cially someone in a suit, but he felt so liberated and optimistic he decided it was not beneath him to start a conversation, to make a comment or two.
He looked at the young man. “I’ll bet you just lost a case,” he said. He put his hand in his pocket. “I’ll bet you just lost a case or else that case you’re working on isn’t going so well. Am I right?”
By God, it felt good just to say that.
“What?” said the young man.
Seymour went on. “I know your type.” He nodded. “I
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