It Was All Over After Asimov

Years ago I worked for a guy who was just terrible. He was a brat, 34 years old but an overgrown, ill-natured little boy of the spoiled suburban type, more specifically of the sort that’s supposed to be gifted in some way. I imagine Walt (as I shall call him) being inflicted on dinner parties in Connecticut back when he was a child. Maybe he delighted them with his turns of phrase à la S.J. Perelman. Maybe he played jazz solos on his clarinet. I know that one time he recited Gilbert and Sullivan at me. He stuck a foot behind the other foot, tilted his head, and began spouting. Quite possibly he tucked his hands behind his back, schoolboy-style, to underline what a show he was putting on. I stared at him and felt trapped. No polite response was possible. I think I dropped my eyes to the floor and kept them there until he got disgusted and left.

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