Rs The pink slime behind

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-Josh Barker

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Dr. Arnez Willafore has a dog fight on his hands.

Leaned back in a well-worn leather desk chair he wipes

the worst of the blood and fur from between his fin-

gers with a wet napkin. His eyes peer over round-

ed gold-wire reading glasses. Dr. Arnez Willafore sighs.

Dr.Willaforeisamanwhostandsatoddintervalsduring

board meetings. He’s never been particularly fond of social

graces and his declarative laugh and thorough inability to

keepitstifledcombinetocolorthemanassomewhatincisive.

There’s no laughing at this moment.

Privately,Dr.Willaforealsostandsatoddintervals,but

methodically,asthoughliftingtheneedleonsomeinternalre-

cording.Hestandsandturnshisbacktome.Forthefifthtimethat

nightImakenoteofhismicro-houndstoothItaliansuit,thelatest

fromanendlessarrayoffine-tailoredskinsthemancycles.

Unconsciously working the wet nap around his

knuckles, Dr. Willafore gazes from book to well-thumbed

book filed haphazardly alongside awards from civic insti-

tutions and family vacation photos. The key to an unpro-

nounceable Scandinavian city. A bar napkin: “Thanks, Ar-

nie! -Billy Carter.” He sighs again and looks at his hands.

After a close inspection of each hand,

he drops the spent wet nap on the floor.

Dr.Willafore runshishands throughhishair inapro-

tracted, sweeping manner. He inhales deeply before whirl-

ing around and slamming both palms flat on his desktop.

“Somepeople,theyjustgetsohunguponprocess,

process,

process!