"You can't wash shit," is what her mother said when she called
home and asked what she should do about her brother. "That kid's
been a screw-up since he was five years old."
He should write the story down. He went back upstairs and sat down at
the keyboard and pecked out the sentences that had come to him, but they
seemed very sterile there aglow on the screen, in just the same way that
they'd felt restless and alive a moment before. The sunny day beamed
through the study window and put a glare up on his screen that made it
hard to type, and when he moved to the other side of the desk, he found
himself looking out the window at the city and the spring.
He checked his calendar and his watch and saw that he only had a couple
hours before the reporter from NOW magazine came by. The reporter -- a
summer intern -- was the only person to respond to his all-fluff press
release on the open network. He and Kurt had argued about the wording
all night and when he was done, he almost pitched it out, as the
editorial thrash had gutted it to the point of meaninglessness.
Oh well. The breeze made the new leaves in the trees across the street
sway, and now the sun was in his eyes, and the sentences were inert on
the screen.
He closed the lid of the laptop and grabbed his coat and left the house
as fast as he could, obscurely worried that if he didn't leave then, he
wouldn't get out all day.
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