“Roger L. Beeson of Hartford, Connecticut suffered a stroke on May 26, 2011, at age 53 in his office. Beeson is survived by his sister, Shannon, and nephew, Mitchell.”
Roger always read the newspaper in its entirety, including the obituaries. But today his paper was still rolled in a faded rubber band, propped up on the stained tabletop. Roger stared out at the rising sun, refracted countless times in the dewdrops on the window. He started when his phone beeped for an early meeting, then sighed. Roger rose from the cheap plastic booth and crushed the yellow waxed paper of his breakfast sandwich into a ball. The wrapper had orange and green letters on it, spelling “Sausage McBiscuit” over and over. Before throwing it into the trash bin, he pressed one greasy thumbprint onto its surface.
Roger’s face was red and dripping with perspiration when he reached the car. He wiped his forehead before turning his key in the ignition. On the way to work, Roger drove five miles per hour below the posted speed limit, even though he was already late. He tapped four thumbprints onto the steering wheel at one red light, and three more on the car’s radio at another.
Roger’s meeting ended around noon, and he went outside for a smoke. His cigarette lighter was brass and engraved, dented with age and covered with fingerprints. Roger thought about Mitch’s eighteenth birthday next week and about the present he hadn’t bought or wrapped. Perhaps he could have the lighter fixed and overnight it to California. But Shannon wouldn’t like that. She’d been begging Roger to quit for years. He dropped the burning cigarette on the asphalt and crushed it under a shiny leather shoe. The fingerprint on it wouldn’t have lasted long anyway. The paper of the filter was too hot, too soft. Roger left six fingerprints on the electronic lock of the security system, and five more on the doorknob.
The secretary was tiny, with black plastic eyeglasses and a puckered mouth. Roger said hello to her and asked about her daughter’s new baby. She replied that her grandson was doing well. He smiled, leaned across the counter, and pressed his thumb to the glass of her spectacles. Then he turned into his office, three doors down the hall. His fingertips brushed the handle of the door, the desk, and the plastic shrubbery in the corner. He sat down at his desk chair and picked up a file for a shipment.
Roger didn’t read the file. Instead, he walked to the window and forced it open. He coughed as old dust dislodged from the holes in the screen. Roger stroked the wooden frame, tiny breezes blowing onto his fingertips. A splinter cut into the pink skin of his right thumb. When he felt the pinch of the shattered wood, Roger looked at his finger. He pulled a pen from his breast pocket and covered the soft skin of every fingertip on his left hand with sticky black ink. Then he spread his fingers wide and leaned on the cool glass of the open window. He could see the invisible spirals all around the room: on the stapler, computer keys, and telephone buttons. He saw them inside the paper drawer of the printer, along the cellophane tabs of the files in the cabinet, and scattered across the torn calendar pages in the trashcan. All anyone would need was a magnifying glass and calcium oxide, and they could see every book he’d read, every door he’d opened, every place he’d ever been. A person could learn his hopes, his secrets, his life from the spiral patterns he’d left behind. They’d just have to look. They’d just have to try to find him
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