Chapter 3

Generic crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair, the soft wood creaking and wavering precariously. Gen was not the most petite of persons. He had a largish but thin build: both stout and sallow, much like an obese friend who recently lost far too much weight. His sunken cheeks accented a set of dark and brooding eyes that shifted periodically, alternating between rapid flickering and stillness. His gray pupils were generally unnerving, though the rest of his features had a tendency to perpetuate an aura of friendliness. At least, they did when observed from a fair distance.

This is not to say that people didn't find him attractive. Though he didn't stand out when among large groups of people, he was the sort of passerby one would remember in a vague and unremarkable sort of way. It was as if he hovered about the periphery as a notable figure of momentary entertainment. Everything about him breathed of restless intensity. He possessed the sort of gravity that one admires in geniuses but hates in friends; the spirit of those kinds of cocktail party people that can weave a captivating story for the first five minutes of a conversation before degenerating into abstruse details and awkward moments.

Not that he attended cocktail parties. He had better things to do with his time.

He rose leisurely from the wooden chair, gathering the disposable lunchware and absently depositing them in the trash. Gen didn't recycle because he couldn't see the point. Even if he could recycle every scrap of disposable plastic and cardboard he used in life, as his more conscientious roommate Dave did, the beneficial environmental impact it could have simply paled in comparison to the tons of garbage the rest of this consumer-oriented culture mercilessly accrued in a single day. To Gen, it came down to the matter of scale, a principle those wretched activists never seemed to grasp. The environmentalists failed to realize that the trash they generated in advertising campaigns alone far outweighed the benign effects any inspired sporadic acts of conservation could have. They were almost as bad as the humanitarians...

"Excuse me, but do you know what time it is?"

Startled, Gen stopped in mid-stride and stared straight into a pretty pair of blue eyes. For a moment, he found himself completely absorbed by their form. The eyes were wide, softened by youth and framed in an austere, academic set of eyeglasses. They were the eyes of a freshman who still remained unspoiled by the years of bitter cynicism this God-forsaken university would pound into her brain. Her pale yellow hair gently curved to follow the edges of her rounded face, whose slightly flushed complexion enhanced her impression of innocence. She was cute. Gen sighed before glancing at his watch.

"A quarter past one." It came out as a mumble. Surprised by his own voice, he shifted his weight uneasily and slowly moved the hand with the watch behind his back.

"Thank you!" She smiled brightly and strode past him, her gait bouncing lightly. The sunlight shimmered in her hair and those footsteps, which began with a sharp clacking on the hard floor, soon faded with her presence. Gen stuffed his hands into his pockets and sauntered away in what he hoped appeared to be a casual manner. He hated being caught by surprise, particularly by those of the feminine persuasion. He also hated giving out the time. That action often required that he reveal his watch, which he was somewhat embarassed to display in public. Not many people wore a Spongebob Squarepants watch. It didn't matter how accurate it was, how reliably it functioned, how cheap it was, or even how convenient the purchase seemed at the time. No self-respecting college student wore Spongebob Squarepants in public and Gen, who had the guts to keep it, didn't see the need to let anyone else know.

It was sad to think that giving her his name may have been even more humiliating than the watch, but such was life. He had resigned himself to that particular fate long ago and had gotten used to those dialogues that always began the same way:

"Hi! My name is (blank), what's yours?"

"Um... my name is Gen."

"Jen?"

"Gen."

"How do you spell that, Jen?"

"G. E. N."

"Ah."

This part would always result in an awkward silence. The more curious ones would press further.

"Er, is that... Polish, or something?"

"No. I am clearly not Polish."

"Ah... didn't think so. Is it a nickname?"

"I suppose so."

Depending on the sort of mood he was in, Generic could drag the conversation out a bit longer. It was faintly entertaining to toy with these sorts of people, whose curiosity urged one thing and social conventions another. Sooner or later, he would say that his full name was Generic, that it was spelled "just like the word is", that he had never watched Bobby's World, that his parents thought it would be cute to name him something... unique.

Depending on the amount of alcohol available at these sorts of cocktail parties, the inquisitor would either bawl in laughter or smirk contentedly. Gen's stoic expression had an unfortunate tendency to amplify either effect. At least, it did until his refusal to say anything further hinted that it was time terminate the "conversation", leaving the hapless "conversation partner" to wander off in search of more talkative game.

Needless to say, Gen did not have many friends.

His sauntering found its way to the main entrance of the campus center and he pushed it open with what he hoped appeared to be an assertive manner. The daylight washed over his face, warming him. Instinctively, he looked up at the sun and squinted, pausing to gauge the temperature. Brisk. Cold. He tucked in his thin sweater a little tighter and prepared to stroll off through the campus.