I run the simulator. That’s my job and pretty much my life’s work. I had one job before this one. I used to work at the Pudgy Burger. I made the fries. I hated it because I’d always get burned by the grease, and Randy the manager said I was too slow. I’ve never been very strong or quick of a person, but I have a good mind for things. That’s what my uncle used to say. I told Randy that I wanted a different job but he told me to stop being such a baby and just fry the fucking fries. When I finally quit there, he said it was about time, and called me a weird little pussy.
His role in what we shall call the Symphony was minimal. Minimal because this was a long symphony, long enough that one might’ve wondered if it were everlasting. Minimal enough that both the instrument he played and the measure at which he joined the composition are irrelevant. What instead merits exposition is how he came to understand his part.
The truck was flipped upside down and the rain was pooling beside the windows. One of the headlights was out and the other was sort of blinking on and off. I remember thinking, it’s okay if I die. I won’t regret anything. Only, I could’ve done some things sooner, some other things later and some not at all, but everyone has that problem so I can die watching one light blink on and off, that would be just fine.
On the way home, Terrence takes a turn I’m not expecting. I don’t say anything. He drives silently, blonde curls flapping out from under his backwards fitted. He keeps his head pointed forward, mirrored shades on.