About Andy

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Andy was, frankly, the very definition of boring. He wore nothing but solid button down shirts, all shamelessly bought from the cheapest stores in town. He was quiet, had no defining personality traits to speak of, and was always followed by the faint odor of fish, or rotten fish, or garbage.


He organized his belongings neatly, almost perfectly. Every shoe or belt or clip-on tie was perfectly equidistant both horizontally and vertically from the next. He would stand back and admire his closet from time to time, letting the fluorescent clap-on-clap-off light reflect off his badly shaved and acne-ridden face. “A clean home is a perfect home,” he would murmur. The idea wasn’t unfounded, but his closet still turned out just as interesting as he was.


Andy worked at a nameless company doing mindless work for tactless bosses. He would sit for hours, a prisoner of the walls of his cubicle and the word processor on his desk, and slowly punch key after key on the keyboard. He would break for lunch for an hour exactly every single day, and he would sit by himself as he thoughtfully chewed the turkey sandwich, prepared daily by his wife.


Somehow, Andy did have a wife. I can’t remember her name at the moment, but it definitely wasn’t anything exotic or particularly worth remembering. It was probably something dull like Jill or Jennifer. She would mull about the house in her tattered apron, day after day, periodically dusting or washing things, but would mostly watch low-quality Mexican soap operas to pass the time. The house remained abnormally clean though, and Jill, or Jennifer, or whoever was dreary enough to marry Andy, prided herself on it.


Andy would drive home in his beige ’93 Toyota Camry every day, leaving work at precisely five o’clock and pulling into the driveway exactly thirty-two minutes later. He would get out of his car, close and lock the door, then formulaically try to open the handle in fear of a bad locking attempt. He always managed to lock the car correctly, but it was really the principle of the thing, right?


Then Andy, and whoever his wife was, would sit down at the dinner table, alone. They had no children, and although they relished the lack of noise, I imagine a few kids would have made the household slightly more interesting. They would eat some generic supermarket brand pork chops or chicken with a side of orzo pasta and a glass or two of water, then clean the table, retire to the bedroom, and fall asleep.


Not tonight, however. Tonight Andy was unusually animated, although not necessarily in a positive way. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair after each successive bite of his chicken, and would subconsciously gulp every sip of water very loudly. His odd behavior – or presence of personality, for that matter – prompted his wife to ask him what the matter was.


Andy looked at her, a half-chewed piece of chicken breast barely ground in his molars, and gently put down his fork as to prevent it from clattering. He looked up at her, his eyes frowning more than his mouth, and contemplated how to put his recent revelation into words. Andy began to speak, and for a second, he might have been interesting.


If he was, however, it only lasted a few seconds.





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