Ohmyscience
07-11-2008, 08:41 AM
A chance was bestowed upon George. Out of all the neglected e-mails amidst the sanctum of internet limbo one e-mail merited a reply. Preparations were in order. His fingers cleaved the dense array of shirts and pants as he rummaged through his closet. The closet was a simple maple closet whose shifts of clothing went from toddler through teens and finally restocked with apparel he had collected through his years away from home when he was studying at the university. Near the back of one end inhabited a suit and pants duo. Between a pair of seldom used dingy sweat pants and swim trunks he discovered a tie. With the shirt he had more options. In order to exude hopeful can-do attitude he opted for power blue with stripes rather than the silenced desperation of dingy yellow. As he reconsidered his options which amounted to choosing nothing more than a shirt and a pair of socks, his mother called out to him in his native language.
“Time to eat!”
George sat across from his younger sister Ally (by two years). His mother who did not speak a word of English beyond ‘thank you’ and ‘okay’ sat next to him. Under florescent lights in the dining table and kitchen combo, a square table allowing for four occupants pressed against a white washed wall. An invitation of ‘eat and then leave’ whispered the ambience of the condensed room. On the table was a small dish of chicken, beans, vegetables, and a bowl of soup. Excesses in protein were denounced by George so the portions of meat were minimal. He recommended that white meat was better since it contained less cholesterol. Every since his recommendation his mother has rotated between chicken and fish. George lifted the chicken and placed it into his mouth voraciously. His sentiments echoed the fluid ping pong of “Flavorful”, “This is really good!”, and “What’d you put in it?” that immersed the room. After fifteen minutes George was done eating.
“Drink that bowl of soup that I have for you there. It’s good for you.”, his mother commanded.
George was never fond of the soup his mother made. Aromas, suggesting of herbs and vegetables masking large portions of chicken, were heavily dissipated before tickling his nostrils. The soup itself was watery and offered no consolation to taste.
“I don’t want any. I’m not going to drink it. Just give it to Ally.”, he said nonchalantly.
“But it’s good for you. Have some.”, she pleaded.
The objection on flavor had always been present. His argument evolved over the years. “There was no merit in the soup”, he thought. The chicken and vegetables became bland and no one ate them. However it was not possible that proteins and nutrients could just escape the chicken and vegetables. Therefore this was a product of tradition and George began protesting ever since high school.
“I don’t really like it. And the soup is just water.”, George replied to his mother’s suggestion on the merits of the soup.
“The soup isn’t just water. I’ve been making this soup the same and it’s a soup that’s been made for generations. Why would people make it if it weren’t good for them?”, she protested as if her assumptions were solid as Newton’s laws.
“Just because its tradition it doesn’t mean its true.”, George rebuked.
Ally ripped through the native verbiage that encroached the room when she said, “Why don’t you just drink the soup”, in English. The conversation between George and his mother came to an intermission that would never congeal to an end when Ally and he became engaged. He explained holding his methods of deduction with what he thought flawless under the scrutiny of Socratic logic that if both of them refused to drink the soup then their mother would not longer make it. It wasn’t as if Ally liked the soup any more than he did.
“But she put so much effort into making it.”, Ally protested.
“That’s exactly why we should not drink it. This soup isn’t really good for you. It’s just water. If we can spare mom the effort of making it then it will save her some time for other things she can enjoy doing.”
This exchange was a buoy rocking on placid waters; surfacing every so often for George to reaffirm his aptitude for logic. Ally drank the soup without objection. After dinner he was preparing to sleep early. Tomorrow demanded exuberance which, in his idleness, had been sifted away by the walls of his house.
The alarm, which George had not heard in months, stung his ears. The light of dawn barely breaking through the window, cowered against the opaque residue of the evening before. Lazily, the autonomous hand swung across his chest to extinguish the alarm. Getting ready; shirt, suit, shoes and tie, George concocted dialogues that could possibly ensue. He would move with the amble of confidence. “Back straight. Eyes always forward.”, he thought.
The alarm took two victims that morning. His mom peered into his room and asked where he was headed so early.
“I have an interview today”, George replied.
“Good luck. You should have told me yesterday. I would have made something for you to eat”, she replied.
“It’s fine. I can grab something outside”, George said while quickly grooming his hair attempting to expedite his departure.
Outside, the excrement of floral promiscuity irritated George’s nose. The sky above him gleamed of pastels embedded with clouds. He was quite comfortable despite his nose. On his street folks were exiting routinely for work at least that was what he thought. He never recognized any of them nor cared to speak with them. Along the pavement large trees resided providing escapes from the sun that impinged his face. He made his way to the subway walking steadily; back straight and eyes forward.
In morning New York embodied forced vitality. Men and women is suits jostled pass each other carrying coffee in their hands. Along the sidewalks bagel and pretzel stands tempted its pedestrians with something warm and something filling. George took out of his pocket the address which he had jotted down the night before. Making his way to another mediocre uninspiring thirty story building he takes the elevator to the tenth floor.
Behind the receptionist stenciled plates read ‘Edison Financial Group’. George sat down in the lobby and waited until it was close to his time for interview. He came early and did not want to break the appointment. When it was almost time for the interview he went to the receptionist to tell her that he had an appointment. The receptionist phoned the interviewer and within minutes George was seated across someone who could decide his fate.
Slight moisture began to develop on the palm of George’s hands. Thoughts of exact wording ran through his head as he answered common interview questions. Back straight and eyes forward crept into his head. Within ten minutes at most George was done. An exchange of handshakes prompted George to say his “Thank for considering me as a candidate.” Going down the elevator he repeated the conversation to see whether he had made a favorable impression. “My grammar was good. No extensive breaks in sentences. I didn’t stutter. And I answered with some enthusiasm”, he thought. As he made his way home he felt that he did quite well.
That night his interview became the topic of dinner discussion. Ally asked him what the position was for and George described the exciting prospect of becoming an accountant.
“’So did you get the job George?”, his mother asked
“I don’t know yet. It’s isn’t easy to tell whether they’re going to hire me or not. They’ll call me in a few days”, he replied nonchalantly.
Dinner consisted of similar dishes as the previous along with its conversation. After George finished his meal the buoy of the soup predicament surfaced. Again he protested and refused on logical grounds. Again his mother repeated the same argument. He thought that his attempts at boycotting the soup would eventually lead to a submission on his mothers end. Even Ally had occasionally came to the defense of George’s argument but the soup, the soup that always sits uninvited on top of the table reveled at his ineptitude to win a concession.
“Drink the soup. Its good for you”, his mother suggested with the same amplitude as the previous night.
“I don’t want any. Just give it to Ally”, George replied
Ally protested in English breaking through their native tongue, “Just let her make it for you.”
That night George incessantly thought about the decision of the employers. Lying down in the silence he became worried but still hopeful that he could somehow obtain that position. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t qualified but being at the mercy of someone who knew nothing about him just made him uneasy. “How could they really assess my skills within ten minutes?”, he thought. As he went to bed that night he wished the days would just skip so he could have their decision right away. “Nothing I can do now”, he thought and slept with the comfort he recalled similar to the last few days he had at the university.
07/11/2008
“Time to eat!”
George sat across from his younger sister Ally (by two years). His mother who did not speak a word of English beyond ‘thank you’ and ‘okay’ sat next to him. Under florescent lights in the dining table and kitchen combo, a square table allowing for four occupants pressed against a white washed wall. An invitation of ‘eat and then leave’ whispered the ambience of the condensed room. On the table was a small dish of chicken, beans, vegetables, and a bowl of soup. Excesses in protein were denounced by George so the portions of meat were minimal. He recommended that white meat was better since it contained less cholesterol. Every since his recommendation his mother has rotated between chicken and fish. George lifted the chicken and placed it into his mouth voraciously. His sentiments echoed the fluid ping pong of “Flavorful”, “This is really good!”, and “What’d you put in it?” that immersed the room. After fifteen minutes George was done eating.
“Drink that bowl of soup that I have for you there. It’s good for you.”, his mother commanded.
George was never fond of the soup his mother made. Aromas, suggesting of herbs and vegetables masking large portions of chicken, were heavily dissipated before tickling his nostrils. The soup itself was watery and offered no consolation to taste.
“I don’t want any. I’m not going to drink it. Just give it to Ally.”, he said nonchalantly.
“But it’s good for you. Have some.”, she pleaded.
The objection on flavor had always been present. His argument evolved over the years. “There was no merit in the soup”, he thought. The chicken and vegetables became bland and no one ate them. However it was not possible that proteins and nutrients could just escape the chicken and vegetables. Therefore this was a product of tradition and George began protesting ever since high school.
“I don’t really like it. And the soup is just water.”, George replied to his mother’s suggestion on the merits of the soup.
“The soup isn’t just water. I’ve been making this soup the same and it’s a soup that’s been made for generations. Why would people make it if it weren’t good for them?”, she protested as if her assumptions were solid as Newton’s laws.
“Just because its tradition it doesn’t mean its true.”, George rebuked.
Ally ripped through the native verbiage that encroached the room when she said, “Why don’t you just drink the soup”, in English. The conversation between George and his mother came to an intermission that would never congeal to an end when Ally and he became engaged. He explained holding his methods of deduction with what he thought flawless under the scrutiny of Socratic logic that if both of them refused to drink the soup then their mother would not longer make it. It wasn’t as if Ally liked the soup any more than he did.
“But she put so much effort into making it.”, Ally protested.
“That’s exactly why we should not drink it. This soup isn’t really good for you. It’s just water. If we can spare mom the effort of making it then it will save her some time for other things she can enjoy doing.”
This exchange was a buoy rocking on placid waters; surfacing every so often for George to reaffirm his aptitude for logic. Ally drank the soup without objection. After dinner he was preparing to sleep early. Tomorrow demanded exuberance which, in his idleness, had been sifted away by the walls of his house.
The alarm, which George had not heard in months, stung his ears. The light of dawn barely breaking through the window, cowered against the opaque residue of the evening before. Lazily, the autonomous hand swung across his chest to extinguish the alarm. Getting ready; shirt, suit, shoes and tie, George concocted dialogues that could possibly ensue. He would move with the amble of confidence. “Back straight. Eyes always forward.”, he thought.
The alarm took two victims that morning. His mom peered into his room and asked where he was headed so early.
“I have an interview today”, George replied.
“Good luck. You should have told me yesterday. I would have made something for you to eat”, she replied.
“It’s fine. I can grab something outside”, George said while quickly grooming his hair attempting to expedite his departure.
Outside, the excrement of floral promiscuity irritated George’s nose. The sky above him gleamed of pastels embedded with clouds. He was quite comfortable despite his nose. On his street folks were exiting routinely for work at least that was what he thought. He never recognized any of them nor cared to speak with them. Along the pavement large trees resided providing escapes from the sun that impinged his face. He made his way to the subway walking steadily; back straight and eyes forward.
In morning New York embodied forced vitality. Men and women is suits jostled pass each other carrying coffee in their hands. Along the sidewalks bagel and pretzel stands tempted its pedestrians with something warm and something filling. George took out of his pocket the address which he had jotted down the night before. Making his way to another mediocre uninspiring thirty story building he takes the elevator to the tenth floor.
Behind the receptionist stenciled plates read ‘Edison Financial Group’. George sat down in the lobby and waited until it was close to his time for interview. He came early and did not want to break the appointment. When it was almost time for the interview he went to the receptionist to tell her that he had an appointment. The receptionist phoned the interviewer and within minutes George was seated across someone who could decide his fate.
Slight moisture began to develop on the palm of George’s hands. Thoughts of exact wording ran through his head as he answered common interview questions. Back straight and eyes forward crept into his head. Within ten minutes at most George was done. An exchange of handshakes prompted George to say his “Thank for considering me as a candidate.” Going down the elevator he repeated the conversation to see whether he had made a favorable impression. “My grammar was good. No extensive breaks in sentences. I didn’t stutter. And I answered with some enthusiasm”, he thought. As he made his way home he felt that he did quite well.
That night his interview became the topic of dinner discussion. Ally asked him what the position was for and George described the exciting prospect of becoming an accountant.
“’So did you get the job George?”, his mother asked
“I don’t know yet. It’s isn’t easy to tell whether they’re going to hire me or not. They’ll call me in a few days”, he replied nonchalantly.
Dinner consisted of similar dishes as the previous along with its conversation. After George finished his meal the buoy of the soup predicament surfaced. Again he protested and refused on logical grounds. Again his mother repeated the same argument. He thought that his attempts at boycotting the soup would eventually lead to a submission on his mothers end. Even Ally had occasionally came to the defense of George’s argument but the soup, the soup that always sits uninvited on top of the table reveled at his ineptitude to win a concession.
“Drink the soup. Its good for you”, his mother suggested with the same amplitude as the previous night.
“I don’t want any. Just give it to Ally”, George replied
Ally protested in English breaking through their native tongue, “Just let her make it for you.”
That night George incessantly thought about the decision of the employers. Lying down in the silence he became worried but still hopeful that he could somehow obtain that position. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t qualified but being at the mercy of someone who knew nothing about him just made him uneasy. “How could they really assess my skills within ten minutes?”, he thought. As he went to bed that night he wished the days would just skip so he could have their decision right away. “Nothing I can do now”, he thought and slept with the comfort he recalled similar to the last few days he had at the university.
07/11/2008