Stan Patt, Civil Servant
Typical pose: standing at the personal-space perimeter of your cubicle, hands in pockets, middle-distance stare, mouth open, discussing some inanity of daily life: weather, traffic, sports, this morning’s headline, etc.
Stan Patt is the prototypical civil servant. High-water cuffs of an overly loud plaid. Trimmed bland-sandy hair slicked tightly to dome. Feckless freckles arbitrarily sprayed across slightly pinkish cheeks. Droning monotone just above the threshold of hearing. Penny loafers (yes, that’s right! penny loafers) polished to a high oxblood sheen.
It’s amazing to me that Stan doesn’t extend roots; he seems anchored here every morning well through the mid-morning coffee break, then again every afternoon until 4:23 quitting time.
But, in a way, I’m rather fond of Stan, because he never exceeds expectations, never falls outside the parameters of perfectly normal and (almost) harmless. It’s nice to know you can count on something in this world, even if it’s something as inherently ineffectual as Stan.
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