get hit with a scandal or a meltdown, there would be no point in shredding documents, because there would be far too many of them to shred, and far too many independent computer networks to clean out, and far too many hard copies in far too many file cabinets in far too many home offices. Human beings had a mania for documentation. They took pictures of themselves doing nothing at all.
Hereâs Uncle Ned, drinking lemonade at last yearâs VFW picnic
. They kept birth certificates, First Holy Communion records, Confirmation scrolls, high school diplomas, marriage licenses, driverâs licenses, family Bibles, school pictures, postcards. David imagined the average American house as a stockpile of paper, the closets filled to overflow with souvenirs and mementos, the basements and the attics stocked with brown cardboard boxes going to mold and mildew, keeping the faith. Or maybe not. David was sometimes acutely aware of the fact that he had never been in an average American house, not once in all his thirty-six years, not even on a visit to the families of college friends or business colleagues. In the circles in which he moved, nobody would be caught dead with four bedrooms and two-point-five baths on half an acre in New Jersey. No matter how well they played the game of being a friend to Working Americansâthe bankâs own television commercials sounded like hymns to
Good Housekeeping
and
Better Homes and Gardens
âthere was a river of distaste running through the upper echelons of every business he knew, and the distaste was for all things suburban and middle-class. Especially middle-class. There was a reason why they sent their children to private kindergartens that cost in tuition more than most public school teachers made in a year, and it wasnât just for the prestige, or for meeting the right people. It took work to build an adult who never watched television, never listened to pop music and didnât even know the way to the local mall. It took something more than that to make sure your children would be instantly recognizable, and distrusted, by outsiders. Cocoons are not comfortable things. Nobody ever stayed in them unless they had to.
The printer was finished printing. There was a pile of paper in the well at the top of the machine. David thought he was getting a headache. He sometimes loved his job and sometimes hated it, but he did truly and always hate the peripheral obligations, of which this evening would be one. It helped a little, but only a little, to know that Tony wasnât any happier about this than he was himself.
He got the papers out of the well: three collated hard copies, one for his desk, one for his file, and one for the attaché case he carried with him everywhere. The rule was the more important the man, the fewer the papers he carried. Only middle-management nobodies without a chance in hell of rising in the hierarchy schlepped two reams of paper with them every time they headed for their cars. His attaché case wouldnât have held two reams of paper if heâd wanted it to. He felt almost guilty giving it this single thin file, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had to talk to Tony about the numbers and he had to talk to him tonight. It would at least help pass the time at this idiotic party if he could spend a few minutes talking reality among the potted palms. The whole mess made him wish he would never have to marry. There were only two choices, in marriage, for people like him. Either he got married to a woman like Charlotte, or he got married to one of those women for whom ambition was more important than plastic surgery. In either case, he would be miserable.
He dropped one of the copies in his attaché case and closed up. He picked up the other two to leave on Adeleâs desk when he passed it. He had his own assistant, but in this case it made more sense to give the work to Tonyâs, since she had been coordinating this
Hereâs Uncle Ned, drinking lemonade at last yearâs VFW picnic
. They kept birth certificates, First Holy Communion records, Confirmation scrolls, high school diplomas, marriage licenses, driverâs licenses, family Bibles, school pictures, postcards. David imagined the average American house as a stockpile of paper, the closets filled to overflow with souvenirs and mementos, the basements and the attics stocked with brown cardboard boxes going to mold and mildew, keeping the faith. Or maybe not. David was sometimes acutely aware of the fact that he had never been in an average American house, not once in all his thirty-six years, not even on a visit to the families of college friends or business colleagues. In the circles in which he moved, nobody would be caught dead with four bedrooms and two-point-five baths on half an acre in New Jersey. No matter how well they played the game of being a friend to Working Americansâthe bankâs own television commercials sounded like hymns to
Good Housekeeping
and
Better Homes and Gardens
âthere was a river of distaste running through the upper echelons of every business he knew, and the distaste was for all things suburban and middle-class. Especially middle-class. There was a reason why they sent their children to private kindergartens that cost in tuition more than most public school teachers made in a year, and it wasnât just for the prestige, or for meeting the right people. It took work to build an adult who never watched television, never listened to pop music and didnât even know the way to the local mall. It took something more than that to make sure your children would be instantly recognizable, and distrusted, by outsiders. Cocoons are not comfortable things. Nobody ever stayed in them unless they had to.
The printer was finished printing. There was a pile of paper in the well at the top of the machine. David thought he was getting a headache. He sometimes loved his job and sometimes hated it, but he did truly and always hate the peripheral obligations, of which this evening would be one. It helped a little, but only a little, to know that Tony wasnât any happier about this than he was himself.
He got the papers out of the well: three collated hard copies, one for his desk, one for his file, and one for the attaché case he carried with him everywhere. The rule was the more important the man, the fewer the papers he carried. Only middle-management nobodies without a chance in hell of rising in the hierarchy schlepped two reams of paper with them every time they headed for their cars. His attaché case wouldnât have held two reams of paper if heâd wanted it to. He felt almost guilty giving it this single thin file, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had to talk to Tony about the numbers and he had to talk to him tonight. It would at least help pass the time at this idiotic party if he could spend a few minutes talking reality among the potted palms. The whole mess made him wish he would never have to marry. There were only two choices, in marriage, for people like him. Either he got married to a woman like Charlotte, or he got married to one of those women for whom ambition was more important than plastic surgery. In either case, he would be miserable.
He dropped one of the copies in his attaché case and closed up. He picked up the other two to leave on Adeleâs desk when he passed it. He had his own assistant, but in this case it made more sense to give the work to Tonyâs, since she had been coordinating this
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