Free The Dismal Science by Peter Mountford Page A

not received a letter of resignation yet from D’Orsi.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  The World Bank, the largest international aid provider . . .
    Vincenzo folded the paper back up, pulled out his mobile phone, and called Vikki, his assistant. She wasn’t there, of course. It was far too early. He left a message: “Vikki, I’m not going to be in. You probably know why. Or, if you don’t know”—he stopped, beginning, for the first time, to feel the true weight of this shift—“you can take a look at today’s Post . I—” He drew a breath, looked up from the newspaper and saw a neighbor’s house, grand and symmetrical, well tended to. Every year, they pressure-washed their driveway. They had a tremendous lawn. The lights were on and he could see a child in a puffy black coat casting his head back, exasperated by something someone else in the house was doing or saying. “I just wanted—I don’t know if I’m going to be back,” he continued, “but I wanted to say that I really enjoyed working with you and if I can be of any help in the future . . . well”—at which point he started to choke up, his eyes stung. He tucked the paper under his arm. “I just—um, well . . . just give me a call, if you want.”
    He hung up and drew a sharp breath, the icy air scorching his lungs. He wiped away his tears with his sleeve, sniffled, then stuffed his hands in his pockets and headed home.
    Reading the article was one of the more surreal experiences of his life. To begin with, the tidiness of the narrative that Walter had arranged was bizarre beyond measure, especially when contrasted against the altogether more complicated and confusing reality of what had happened. Equally surreal, on a separate level, was how strange it was that Vincenzo’s complaining to a friend on the phone about his job had become a prominent story in a major newspaper. Of course, it wasn’t about him—not at all.
    His ego was set straight once and for all when he read the comments in the online version, in which people didn’t seem remotely aware of his particulars.
    There were fifteen comments so far. He read the first few:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  RRFavallin:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  oh man now what if the rest of them would do it too
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Tina_The_Irish_1122:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  I for one think that its about time everyone sees the World bank is a big waste of tax dollars. No more! Especially when we cant afford things we need at home! Are we going to keep the world’s “pan handlers” living the good life while our own middle class is starves. Why do we have to pay for these other countrys lives? This is F-ing stupid!!!
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  SrMixALotsaDrinks:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Amen, RRFavallin, one at a time, like lemmings.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  MuchaMadHatter:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  All I know is that all you grumpy fistdowners should just leave well enough alone about this. I love the cojones on this chap. Face it, dude is the badassest mother f*cker on his country-club’s golf course for the next year. All I gotta say is “Jeeves, hurry along and get that man another gin and tonic.”
    He closed the browser.
    Standing in the kitchen and feeling wholly enveloped by what he’d done in the worst way imaginable—or, in ways worse than he could have imagined—he blushed at the sickeningly public nature of it. He tried to steer his mind into benign territory—pondering, to start with, the things he could do with his extra time. There were tasks, so many tasks! He glanced back at the computer, half tempted by, but too panic-stricken to face, the other comments. No—better