Absaluting

Whittaker was a serious man. In his time he had sat across from the most serious. World leaders and serial killers alike had answered his questions. Tales of electric cars were his bread and butter. More world wars had been averted than he would care to mention. Science had advanced in giant leaps. Religions had died. Religions had been born.

Whittaker listened and prompted, and kept his counsel to himself. Shielded from the world, he operated behind an unintrusive door next to bathroom. To the casual passer by it could front no more than a closet but on the other side a staircase dropped steeply into a perfect cuboid, empty save for an unremarkable writing desk.

Whittaker was a professional. Whittaker disliked the interviewees, on the whole, but integrity was paramount. With a leaden face he recorded what was said, no more, no less. Politics, culture and science flowed past in the scratch of a pen. Whittaker recorded serious things.

Whittaker respected time. Time was all he had. Time allowed Whittaker to keep his shit together. Whittaker would never write the word 'shit'. Whittaker would maintain the spirit of seriousness. This is a weighty world.

Whittaker had an astounding memory. Some interviewees were repeat bookings whom he would register without acknowledgement. One such was a young girl. This in itself was unusual. Most of the serious things with which he was presented came from older males; a fact which had troubled him, but not to the extent that he might question it.

"It ain't finished."

"Please, continue."

"There ain't nothing else to say."

Whittaker laid down his pen: "You came to me to say this, why?"

"Because you forgot."

Whittaker watched the girl leaving and looked to the manuscript and then to the steps.

Whittaker rose from his seat.