seven.

That Sunday the county paper boasted its highest sales in 80 years. Covering the front page was an in-depth article on Paul Clark, including, on Page B-3, a complete transcript of the words which covered his body.  The paper sold briskly; it seemed everyone had to see for themselves, everyone had to have their own copy. There was a strange local pride to the story – this was A Big Deal, it had been picked up nationally, it was on the networks, it was on Yahoo News. And Paul Clark - he was theirs.  Everyone in town knew him, or at least, knew someone who did. He was their tie to infamy, to celebrity.

In the lines which formed that morning, conversation invariably led to speculation about the transcript itself, which as of yet hadn’t been seen by the public. The anticipation was palpable, though it’s difficult to say what readers actually expected to see. Maybe a revelation – an “ah ha!” moment when a puzzle piece is added that makes sense of the picture. Or maybe something ugly – a long, involved suicide note, perhaps, with gut-wrenching details of being neglected – or, better yet, molested – as a child.

As it turns out, it was just a story. A simple little story about a group of people who liked to talk – about each other, about themselves, about celebrities, about disasters, about whatever. People who would smile and laugh with each other in open conversation, only to turn on the first person to leave the room. People who spend hours talking about how Gary in Human Resources’ wife left him for a woman. Or the supervisor’s God-awful hairpiece. Or that girl who got booted from Big Brother. Shallow people, constantly distracting themselves with the odd and superficial, whose interactions are, at best, bad imitations of human kindness and friendship.

The story ends as a member of this group dies.  The remaining friends act very sad, as if they’re very upset. Everyone’s somber, everyone has a funny story that makes them all laugh then tear up. Of course, no one’s “really” sad about this man – they didn’t even know him; they wouldn’t have known his last name if not for the plate on the front of his desk.