I’m trapped; waiting in line at Time Warner’s sterile offices; hoping to swap out a modem, whatever that means.
The guard at the front door wears a gun strapped at his bulging waist. I’m face booking on my phone. A number of persons standing around shiftlessly in this room should probably be swapped out as well.
Whatever that means.
Background music leaks through the ceiling, blending unhappily with my desire to divorce rapidly from the inappropriate language of the surly crowd; a cluster of people holding plastic bags, random cords and mismatched gadgets.
The line stalls.
I look up resignedly at the ceiling and the dirty fluorescent lighting, from which emanates a continual buzzing.
I’m contemplating the bust of Homer and the future of Western Civilization…
690 Saint Paul 