Aidan San Francisco — 1992 The Color of Empathy

Aidan passes a junk shop daily on his way to Mike’s. When he walks by the window, busted blenders grind and broken vacuums grumble. The junk shop man notices that at certain times of day, a cold shadow seems to fall across his soul and all his defective appliances come alive. He is grateful, yet dreads that unknown hour when, even on the hottest days, his shop grows cold, and death seems tangible.

Aidan buys a cell phone and an answering machine. When he records his voice, soft shadows hiss in the background like rattler’s tongues. His voice is almost obscured by their vibrations. Not that it matters. He has no one to call. It is just that he enjoys the sleek uncompromising lines of the machines, their lack of color and complexity.