The Paris Review. Fall 2023, ft. Naomi Klein, Alice McDermott

The Gideon Society, 9:

"Hello, sir," I said, trying to surreptitiously tuck my shirt back in and look a little less... attacked. The Director eyed me, then went and stood behind my desk, peering out the thin window slit, on which a cactus that was about 3/4 dead sat. I never know how much to water a cactus. I mean, it never rains in a desert, right?

"Jack," The Director said. He eyed the zombie cactus and then went back to looking out the window. He never used my last name. Nobody here did. I like to think thats more out of respect for my dad than out of disrespect for me. "How is your caseload?"

I suppose if I was better at my job, or had more self-confidence, I would not automatically assume that every interaction with a superior was a prelude to m being fired. But I'm me. I feared the worst. How was I going to pay my rent? My student loans? I'd end up indentured.

"Uh, ok." I waited. He didn't look at me.

"OK?" Skeptical. "What does that mean?"

I didn't know, either.