Quick Fiction on Working

Lots of folks in the STSC are writing fiction - so consider me inspired by Craig to try my hand at fiction again after a decade hiatus because. . . it is hard. This post is back to the 500 word exact mark.

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Ever since he’d heard the word “meteorologist” as a boy, he knew that was his path in life. Tho it wasn’t until the age of 12 that he found out meteorology was the study of atmosphere and weather, not meteors. But he was a rigid kid and had already spent years imagining a future of introducing himself to others as “Andrew, the Meteorologist.” 

There is a Pyrrhic battle between -ics and -logys that is waged in the reality where Pyrrhus never won, but also never lost.

After boring days in the classroom, Andrew slumped on the sofa next to the aloof cat he inherited from a neighbor and dreamed of being a meteoriticist. He’d wonder if kids with prominent lisps eschewed professions like meteoriticist or esthetician for easier to pronounce jobs like pallbearer and painter.

Since he turned 38, he quit looking up. “Jack Horkheimer be damned,” he’d say under his breath to the cat who ignored him. He’d dissected currents and gasses to such a degree that the heavens no longer held any mystery. This made him feel akin to obstetricians and gynecologists, tho he’d never met an obgyn in real life, what with being a single man with a penis and all.

Andrew prepared himself for the day’s lecture. Another hour of empty-eyed students with twitchy fingers that missed their devices. He surmised that the difference between the generations was that this generation spent more time in youth with their hands on their phones while his generation spent more time with their hands on their genitals. Both generations were lackluster about hand-washing tho. 

The rustle of students settling in for a lecture is loud. Not loud like thunder but loud like whispers in cinemas and churches. He couldn’t think until all movement had ceased. The topic on the syllabus - the same syllabus he’d used for 8 years - was Hydrodynamics of the Atmosphere. 

He peered into the tiny sea of students. Their eyes fixed on him, waiting. They had faces but he forgot their names, or rather never worked at remembering them in the first place as they’d all be gone in a few months anyway. Semesters set us up for strings of short term relationships and that was his reason for being in an unceasing cyclone of dating. 

“Water has the power to quench and clean.” He found this statement poetic but the students appeared unfazed.

“Water only has power because of gravity,” his voice rose as the book he dropped from above his head descended with a thud on the desk in front of him.

“Without gravity, water loses all its power to destroy. It can no longer cut gorges. It can no longer line the pockets of roofers after hail storms. It loses the power to drown. Without gravity, we are hydrated and safe.”

Glances were passed like joints between the bewildered students as Andrew said, while headed for the door, “Go think about that.”

This was the moment Andrew changed his profession to Philosopher.