David Foster Wallace: The Pale King

[Robin Landseadel]

Here's the excerpt from "The Pale King":

	Lane Dean, Jr., with his green rubber pinkie finger, sat at his
	Tingle table in his chalk’s row in the rotes group’s wiggle room
	and did two more returns, then another one, then flexed his
	buttocks and held to a count of ten and imagined a warm pretty
	beach with mellow surf, as instructed in orientation the previous
	month. Then he did two more returns, checked the clock real
	quick, then two more, then bore down and did three in a row,
	then flexed and visualized and bore way down and did four
	without looking up once, except to put the completed files and
	memos in the two Out trays side by side up in the top tier of
	trays, where the cart boys could get them when they came by.
	After just an hour the beach was a winter beach, cold and gray
	and the dead kelp like the hair of the drowned, and it stayed
	that way despite all attempts . . .

http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2009/03/09/090309fi_fiction_wallace