Stan
“Once he wanted revolution, now you’re the institution. How’s it feel to be the man?” — Ben Folds, The Ascent of Stan
Alone in the sparse but neatly appointed office each detail scrutinized and agonized and tweaked pleased him.
The floor to ceiling curved window allowed an architected breeze through micro perforations where no louver would do. To spoil views of the immaculate grounds below would be heresy.
Interlocked mortise and tenon joints left not a bump or ridge in the perfect desk of teak. Atop a slim, aluminum-backed screen, a red, pebbled ceramic coffee cup and a small dish with a hand-folded tea bag. Arranged. Visually weighted. Precise.
Grey eyes, thinning hair and stubbled cheeks looked down at the screen. The edges, the reveal of glass to aluminum were nearly imperceptible. The screen reflected back his face but only slightly. The much researched anti-reflective nature of it only sent back a fraction of the photons previous models did. But in those few beams of light the crows feet gripped the flanks of his eyes. Tilting his head for closer inspection the hairline rims of his spectacles were made visible.
No longer the square-shouldered man of his youth he saw his posture arched, his brows furrowed. The sight of his elder face wasn’t new but seeing it in this way, in this place with every detail just-so, gave him pause.
Through bluster and brag he swayed the masses. When his cheeks were less sallow he laid the machinations in place. Opinions of the future were headlines and every missive became a rally cry.
From garage to boardroom the fire in his belly persuaded and cajoled. Those with less vision were expendable as inclusion became expulsion. The merry followers dwindled, replaced with predatory-eyed managers.
And now here with the artifacts of his world, his persistence of vision, the map of his travels unwound. Flashbulb memories of the past, of genuine smiles, became a rehearsed slideshow, a manufactured happiness. Effusive conversations of the future morphed into bulleted lines and well-tended quotes.
He was pleased with everything he saw around him except the reflection of the past that lay just at the surface in the most perfect, architected shape before him.
Week 8 of 52 Week Writing Challenge
