Thomas World by Richard Cox Page A

like someone imported the thing into Photoshop and turned down the color saturation. I park in some other, random spot, and as I get out of my car I notice a softball-sized dent in the truck’s front left quarter panel.
    A few minutes later I reach my cube, where I switch on my desktop and monitor. Then I head for the cafeteria. I pour myself a giant coffee, black, and order two eggs over medium. When the eggs are done I ask the short-order cook for two sausage patties. The patties are kept in a warmer, and I always select the best-looking two in the lot. That I enjoy selecting my own sausage patties in the work cafeteria should tell you a little about how exciting my days typically are. Recently I calculated I’ve consumed somewhere in the neighborhood of seven thousand eggs and seven thousand sausage patties during my storied, twelve-year tenure at this company. You might think my arteries would be completely sealed shut, but somehow my total cholesterol count has never gone higher than 165.
    I usually get to work around eight-thirty, and by then the cafeteria is mostly empty. Today is no exception. There are two heavyset women talking in one corner, possibly debating about whose pantsuit contains more polyester, and there is a blue-collar dude eating pancakes near the TV. Two or three tables behind him sits a guy I have actually seen before. His name is Dick Stanton. He’s probably six or seven years younger than me, and from what I’ve heard, he and his first name are a good match.
    In the cafeteria Dick keeps mainly to himself and reads Ayn Rand novels. I’ve never spoken to him before, but I’ve overheard a few of his conversations with other people, and he seems to be an arrogant, liberal-minded guy. For instance, he hates FOX News, and I’ve heard him complain bitterly about Republicans. But then again lately even I feel like doing that.
    On a typical day I would find an empty table and spend five minutes inhaling my breakfast, but today I am overcome with an intense desire to strike up a conversation with Dick. I find my way to his table and sit down beside him.
    â€œHi.”
    â€œOh,” he answers, still chewing on a bit of bagel. “Hi.”
    â€œI’m Thomas Phillips.”
    He nods and sort of waves as he bites into his bagel. “Dick Stanton.”
    â€œHope you don’t mind me sitting here.”
    â€œNot at all. Just having some breakfast and watching FOX News.”
    â€œYour favorite, right?”
    Dick looks at me a little sideways and then chuckles. “Yeah,” he says. “My favorite.”
    I never do this. I never sit down and talk to strangers. And yet as the news drones on, my desire to manufacture conversation with Dick is so strong it’s like it was scripted this way.
    I try staring at my plate. I stab at my eggs, which bleed sunshine. I mop up yolk with pieces of sausage. But as soon as the news breaks for a commercial my mouth flies open.
    â€œAn interesting thing happened at my church yesterday.”
    Dick looks at me with what seems like feigned surprise. “Really.”
    â€œYeah. The priest explained why gay people shouldn’t be allowed to get married and how their lifestyle is immoral.”
    â€œAnd this was interesting?”
    â€œNot in itself. What I thought was interesting was the reaction of the congregation. I mean, some of them are probably gay, right? And plenty of them must know a gay person. But no one seemed surprised by what the priest had to say.”
    â€œWell,” Dick says. “Why should they be? It’s not exactly new, the church condemning homosexuality, right?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œDo you go to church?” I ask him.
    â€œA few times when I was a kid, but that’s it. How about you? Every weekend?”
    â€œPretty much. I’m Catholic.”
    â€œThen you already knew the church doesn’t support homosexuality and especially not gay