You are currently browsing the daily archive for November 19th, 2008.
The Wall Street Journal was incensed with his contribution. The grapevine had it they were even putting Ann Leastwich on probation for not spotting straight away that George was a vain nutcase “of the ninth degree.”
This made George angry. Ann didn’t have a chance. She would have been given probation if he had refused to write anything too. “There’s no place in this world for temps,” George thought, and called WSJ’s editor-in-chief to inform him that if Ann was set to graze, he would sue.
“Ms. Leastwich is lucky to own such a figure,” George admonished himself (in recollection.) In his defense, it was her funny, pointed nose that came to mind when he called rather than her breasts.
Next week, his column was on the second page and Ann had been promoted. George felt powerful: a feeling that didn’t slack even when his desk flooded with hate mail from intuition-less readers. He was a sudden hero among New York artists, thanks to Professor Helm, who promoted his column at Columbia, convinced that it was he who pushed him in the right direction. Every being in New York City who made money via their artistic spirit quoted him like devote Catholics quoting the Bible. George feared that his “Brief Education” (as he referred to it thereafter) lost its original, satirical flavor. NYU art majors were painting his words on the walls of their studios for Christ’s sake.
George became more reclusive than ever once universally famous, hiding with his bar graphs and not taking phone calls. He threw out all of his letters, save the “Thank You” note from Ann, and refused all other journalism offers. In the light of his fans, this made him all the more enduring. They called out his anti-social tendencies as a mark of a true genius and canonized his name with the late Allen Ginsberg.
This wasn’t so long ago. George abandoned ship only recently. Two months ago, August, Emily had found him slumped over his desk like the failing Atlas; his eyes closed and his lips blue. He had stopped breathing. After the raucous, sterile nightmare of the hospital, George concluded that even numbers, especially numbers, will suffocate you eventually no matter how well you swim.
