A Life Transparent Read Free Page A

determine just what it was that worried him.
    Was it that he did not trust his own boss? Was it the insincerity in Butler’s eyes that put him on edge? He thought about asking around the office, but that would only lead to gossip, and this would be better played close to the chest. Even so, uncertainty nagged him. It encompassed his mind so completely, that he almost missed the clock striking 5:00 P.M. The entire day was lost to an odd hint of suspicion.
    He felt like a failure when he left the office. His sales for the day were the lowest in months. People under his wing—even new hires still in training—had made more sales that day. Donovan had no one to blame but himself. He wanted to blame Timothy Butler, but his rational self spoke too loudly to be ignored.
It’s all you
, it told him.
Quit worrying and get on with it.
    Donovan sat in his car for a few minutes, waiting for the emptiness to subside. When it did, he felt the first pangs of hunger rumbling in his stomach, accenting that deeper, more troubling sensation. He tried to ignore it.
    Traffic was less agreeable that evening. Shortly after taking the highway entrance ramp, Donovan found himself sitting bumper-to-bumper with other lost souls trying to get home. He switched on the radio to help pass the time. A recap of the morning’s interview was playing, and this time Donovan caught the name of the book’s author.
    “Please welcome Dr. Albert Sparrow—”
    Outside, an SUV blared its horn and sped around Donovan’s car. He gripped the steering wheel and tried to focus on the road.
    “Thank you,” said Dr. Sparrow.
    “I understand you’ve got a new book available?”
    “Yes, the title is—”
    Donovan chimed in, “
A Life Ordinary: A Comprehensive Study in Human Mediocrity.
” He snorted at the sound of it.
So pretentious.
    “Care to give us the gist, Doc?”
    “Through my studies, I’ve found that most people live painfully boring lives. We get up, we go to work, we slave away for eight, ten, even twelve hours a day, only to go home and meander for a few more before sleep.”
    “Yep,” the host chortled. “Sounds about right.”
    “Over the last five years I’ve studied this phenomenal tendency toward the ordinary life. While some of my contemporaries refute my argument, I believe atypical activity is essential for our species to survive.”
    “So, what, we should go camping or something every other weekend?”
    “Not exactly, for even in such an escape we may confine ourselves to routine. Our failure to recognize these patterns leads to a kind of ennui which—”
    “On-what?”
    “Ennui. It’s—”
    Donovan changed the station. Dr. Albert Sparrow was replaced by the screeching singer of AC/DC. He’d rather listen to this than the boorish ramblings of an overpaid PhD. He tuned out a second helping of the aging rockers. The music was interrupted by a Missing Persons alert for someone named Alice Walenta.
    As he listened, that faint, metallic buzzing filled his ears. He grimaced at the sound and switched off the radio to help clear his head. The droning stopped. By the time he pulled into his driveway, he’d forgotten all about the good Dr. Sparrow, AC/DC, and Timothy Butler. For a day begun with such high hopes, it had fallen far below the mark.
    For now, Donovan was just happy to be home.
    •  •  •
     
    “So, I was wondering ...”
    Donna dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin. Steam from a platter of broiled chicken rose between them.
    “Uh huh?” he mumbled between bites.
    “I was wondering if we could, you know, maybe take a vacation?”
    “A vacation?”
    “Not for a week or anything. Just, I don’t know, a long weekend?”
    He swallowed his chicken, cut another piece, and asked, “When? To where?”
    “I don’t know, Don. I thought we could go to the shore. It would be nice.”
    Donovan finished his chicken, washed it down with a glass of iced tea, and released a low belch. He excused himself, then