“But… Sir, you don’t understand….”

Mr. Clark closed the door and smiled quietly, in a vacant sort of way.  He sat down at his desk quietly, too—he rarely did anything any other way.  But what was this…  It was pink, but menacing- Mr. Clark couldn’t help but notice the stain in the corner, and they’d spelled his name wrong.

Mr. Clark’s desk was orderly, with little more on top than neat piles of paperwork that changed with the day, a well-maintained typewriter and the methodical hands that kept things in order; though today, a small slip of paper broke the harmony.  Here was a paper that could not be filed.

They’d spelled his name wrong.

Upon the pieces of white and empty walls not claimed by filing cabinets, the rather small window or the rather small door, little certificates and awards for qualifications, efficiency, attendance, and other commendations hung silently.  They should have spoken up.

They’d spelled his name wrong.

They had spelled his name wrong.

Jumping up from a weathered seat, not very quietly at all, in fact, Mr. Clark left the office in a rush that day.  Weeks later, the Sunday paper would get his name Right.

The End

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