Adam M. in the muscle shirt:
In America, every individual is a king. That’s the way it was supposed to be from the beginning. Each of us a king.
His salsa red hi-tops firmly planted, Adam M. says this to a faceless girl. A girl so plain and meek there is just a blurry haze where her face should be. And a voice, so eager to express understanding and complete agreement—her only line of defense—is pitched to suggest personhood without demanding it. Happy to please, her voice says: Yes, right, sure, yes.
Adam M.’s hair is all Gordon Gekko in the front, and then it seamlessly transitions to John Bender Breakfast Club rebel in the back. A double “fuck you” to a country, a culture, and the weakened society he’s grown to fear and loath, yet cling to like a child who has been beaten since birth. His hairstyle proclaims his innermost slogan: “I hate to love you so I want you to think I’ll kill you!”
Superseding everything else in the open waiting area of the public building, a monotone voice calls out from behind thick glass: “Adam M., window number seven.”
Faceless girl drops her gaze to the floor, projecting a safety wall around herself. No one sees me. No one sees me.
…”Adam M., window number seven.”
Transitioning his focus, Adam M. aligns his red hi-tops with the future, puts on his best swagger and makes his way toward the window. Each of us is a king, a peasant, a pilgrim, and a fool … exiled to the public anonymity of numbers. No one sees me. No one sees me.
K. Shawn Edgar | Nobody | Hampire | Furless Panther