Measuring the Man
by Charles Rammelkamp

I was reading a poetry collection by Tony Hoagland when Jack strolled over and tossed the stroke book onto my desk – “Now here’s some poetry for you, my man.” A naked woman with an angry, accusing look in her eye stared at me from the slick cover, gobs of sperm rolling down the Alpine slope of her breasts in a viscous translucent avalanche.

“Thanks,” I said, watching Jack leave my cubicle and then putting down the poetry to flip through the magazine, full of photos of naked young women in provocative poses.

An hour later, grandparental Gordon Hosten idled over to say goodbye. It was his last day of work after close to forty years. As he approached my cubicle, I noticed the stroke book on my desk where I’d tossed it after flipping through the pages. Embarrassed, I shuffled some papers over the slick magazine, hiding it under innocent office clutter.

In a mood to reminisce, Gordon talked about the wonderful years he’d had here at Infodyne, the great people he had known and the worthy projects on which he had worked. Then he described his retirement plans. He and his wife were building a house down the street from their daughter.

“I want to bicycle with my grandkids,” he confided. Already I could see the cherubic grandfather, the family man, mentoring his grandchildren, driving them to after school lessons, taking them on camping trips, teaching them the secrets of nature.

Fond tears glistening in his eyes, Gordon shook my hand in a gesture of farewell. In reaching out to take his outstretched hand, I managed to brush some of the papers on my desk aside, exposing the magazine Jack had left. Gordon picked up the magazine I'd discreetly turned face down.

“Jack give this to you?” he leered, admiring the naked young blond.

I nodded, embarrassed, feeling a little ashamed in the presence of this wholesome granddad.

Gordon nodded to himself and said, “I gave it to Jack first.”