Free Falling Sideways by Kennedy Thomas E. Page B

a clock. Simply know the time and trust that knowledge. Like the primitives. Only this would be the other end of the evolutionary cycle. Primitive understanding refined in modern managerial consciousness.
    After folding back his side of the eiderdown, he rose smoothly in the dark room, glanced at Karen asleep in a heap across the mattress, tangle of tight yellow curls showing against the pillow, lit by a shaft of pale light from the driveway lamppost. The swell of the bedclothes over her hip stirred him; quickly he stepped into his slippers and crossed the room quietly, down to the foyer toilet, where he wouldn’t wake anyone, and watched the rod deflate as he leaked quietly against the porcelain. Piss hard-on. The urges sank away with it.
    In the kitchen he did jumping jacks before the open back-garden door, watching morning mist lift off the grass, cool October air sweet in his nostrils. He touched his toes, touched the floor, flat-handed the linoleum, did side bends, back bends, squats on toes, and squats on flat feet until a light sweat filmed his flesh. Then he poured and drank seven centiliters of prune juice and climbed down the stairs to the basement bathroom.
    Watching the calm of his blue eyes in the mirror, he brushed his teeth, shaved his lean jowls. Just before the prune juice kicked in, he stepped on the electronic scale. It was his custom to weigh himself, naked, before and after shitting each morning. Sometimes as much as a half-kilo difference. He looked before he flushed to read the day’s augury in what he had dropped. Two large brown nuggets. Neat. Internal harmony. Promised a good day. He cleaned himself meticulously with wet serviettes and relegated his produce to the plumbing system.
    At five fifty A.M., in luminescent Helly Hansen running suit and self-illuminating Nikes, a purple-and-gold terry-cloth sweatband around his head (colors of the Tank logo), without knocking first, he briskly opened the door to his son’s room and entered swiftly, clicking on the overhead light.
    “Adam. Y’wake?”
    Silence. Scan the covers for telltale bulges. “Adam?”
    “Yeah, Dad, thanks.”
    Forced politeness. Self-control. It annoyed Kampman a little that the boy’s sleepy smile seemed exaggerated, effusive. And it annoyed him a little more that he didn’t rise with alacrity, that he was still in bed.
    Hands beneath the covers. Drop it, son!
    It annoyed him that he had learned it was necessary to budget five minutes of a tight morning schedule for this reveille process. And it also annoyed him that these things annoyed him, for he wanted very much to respect his son, his firstborn by a dozen years, who had a lot of potential. If he would just get his butt in gear. He told the boy that from time to time. Not too often, but at certain moments when he judged it might have an effect.
    You’ve got potential, Adam.
    Thanks, Dad.
    Use it.
    That smile. Thanks, Dad.
    Now his voice was crisp, though not without affection. “Carpe diem, sonny!”
    “Right, Dad.”
    “Come on.”
    The boy sighed—true colors there—threw back his covers, and slid his legs out so his feet were flat on the antique plank floor. But sitting, not standing. Kampman could see he’d slept in his underwear. Sloppy habit. We provide pajamas. Use them. Maintain form at all times. Demonstratively, he shot his cuff and looked at his wristwatch.
    “You are up, are you not?”
    “Yo, Dad.”
    “Good. I’m counting on you now. Up early and work hard. You’ll never regret it.”
    “Right, Dad.”
    “Good. Have a good workday, sonny. Love ya.”
    “Love you, too, Dad.” Rubbing his eyes.
    Kampman leaned forward and gave the back of the boy’s head an affectionate smack.
    Down the hall, he looked in on the twins, still sleeping in their little twin beds. He wanted to kiss their golden brows but feared it might wake them, complicate the morning before Karen was up or the au pair here to deal with it.
    Across to Karen. He could see the blue