Sketches

Passion . . .

A twenty-two year old Jackson Bryce was considering the notion of passion. “Ah,” he thought. “Passion, that’s it! And to think all of his was over some kid’s homework.” DOA had just ended—”I want to create that drama—I want to express my passion.”

“These fries need to be cooked longer, dude.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Dump them back, asshole.”

“Fuck you. We’re behind here. Go out and look pretty for the customers.”

“Fuck you man. Jesus Christ—you’s think I’d get a little fucking respect from a goddamn high school kid. But no—I fucking babysit the biggest assholes in Natick. Fucking A!!”

Jackson shuts the door to his office and plops down into his chair. He pushes back and slams his feet on the desk. He gets up—locks the door and again plops down in his chair, but now pulls out a drawer from the desk and rests his feet in it.

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