Three-Eighths of an Inch

Jason saw that there was a three-eighths inch difference between the right hook and the left. It meant that the painting would not hang level. This was a problem. This problem had repercussions. Self-loathing would consume him. He would become short with his boss – maybe even yell a little in frustration. Under the guise of sarcasm, the boss would retaliate and call him a Palestinian terrorist or a stinky Sudanese. What made this worse was Jason was a self-loathing, guilt ridden white boy of 25 whose only real desire was to feed inbred children in the Middle East – or give them free dental cleanings on one of those trips millionaire Orthopedic surgeons go on every few years to salve their consciences.

Three-eighths of an inch didn’t really make a difference but the boss would notice. In the middle of taking a break from drafting an email to talk on the phone with one of his boy-toy, bubble-butt buddies he would slosh himself around on his wheeled chair and bark. “It’s not level. Check the level; you have to check it with the level. The hooks must be off, that’s why it’s not level.” Jason would grasp at his reserves of patience to feign submissiveness. “Yeah, I know…I mean you’re right, the hooks must be off. I’ll check it with the level.” “Now you’ve got to take it down. Do you have to take out the screw? Take out the screw. Remeasure. You have to put another hole in the wall? Oh, then you have to patch the hole.” And then back to his conversation, all interested big brother – right into their pants.

But it wasn’t what he said that frustrated and angered. Jason was sure he meant it as a personal attack. He knew that with all his privilege he should now how to hang a picture level. Wasn’t he grateful to be born white and not unattractive so he could have this job? That’s why he took a huge decrease in expected pay – he was lucky to be working. As much as it was his right as a college-educated man in his mid-twenties to have a flashy job in New York, he was cognizant that how he got there was based more on what he was born with than what he had accomplished. And it helped that old men liked to flirt with him.

Sweat was soaking through his pits and groin. The screws he had hung level but the hooks on the frame were off – by three-eighths of an inch. Damn framer. Asshole, overpriced, cock-sucking faggot. Why had Jason pursued the job? Was school really that miserable? He had thought that this was the answer to avoiding teachers who hounded him for late papers and make-up quizzes. An apartment in New York that he could barely afford, but afford all the same, was better than moldy student housing and Green-Day playing roommates. If New York was calling who was he to turn it down?

He wiped his face. The dew on his brow now darkened his forearm sleeve. The old logic didn’t add up when faced with this problem. The problem of his racist boss, of the lack of support from any of his peers, of his growing spending habits and diminishing savings. He wiped with his left arm. Matching stains. Matching lies. Matching problems. He stared at his arms. The stains were off three-eighths of an inch.