Talons That Go Unnamed - Chapter 2 (Roj)

Chapter 2, Roj:

So Roj is headed back to work the day immediately following his reminder of the incident in his past. Essentially what happened is that he was (at age 9 or so) in the audience of a morning talk/news show when a reporter stood up, declared the fundamental lack of truth and calculated goverment collusion in broadcast journalism (Roj can't put his finger on the specifics) and suicides.

This memory haunts him, along with the postmodern trials of parenting and commuting in a world that the individual thinks is essentially not worth it. He struggles to think of reasons to convince his daughter to go to school, etc.

Comments on form, function are appreciated.

“But why do I have to?” Bethany had asked, pleading for some explanation in what must have seemed like very dire straits to her. The problem was that Roj didn’t have an answer, not one he could articulate truthfully. And he certainly did not have the constitution to troll out tired euphemisms. Somewhere down there he had a good reason she should go to school, but even that was nearly spoiled, to Roj’s satisfaction, by the deplorable state of education. They were essentially taught to fill out forms and play games on the computer.

“You have to go . .” Roj now said to an empty cab, between dropping her and her brother off and the office. “Because, that’s the least you have to do. I mean, to be a productive citizen, to be socially acceptable you have to go to school.” Roj veered the monstrous family vehicle back onto the service drive. A new BP had opened up, accessible seemingly only from the service drive and the air, and Roj needed coffee. He had been up all night battling back horrific memories, convinced even more than before that the government must have slimey tentacles in every shady deal around the world. Perhaps coffee was a tool they used; hook the populace and they can be hindered, downright groggy and dysfunctional, by careful fluctuations in supply.

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In the lot gleaming white stands screamed at him in white LCD; junk food promotions displayed prominently above the machines. The roof overhead held powerful lights, etching out a yawning oasis from the dismal semi-city (Roj was now half-way to work) around it. If Roj didn’t know exactly what this place was, if after 31 years he had been pulled out of Plato’s infamous cave, he would have thought this place had strict association with divinity.
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As he stepped inside the shoplifting sensors went off and spooked Roj in to a crouch. He virtually always set these off, especially the newer ones, and there were a half-dozen misunderstandings over the last couple years with security personnel. He couldn’t explain it, and no one had ever been able to posit a reasonable theory.

The Arab at the counter waved him in and Roj made his way back to the drinks. He wanted something thirst-quenching, something that would cool his throat, knowing that there would be coffee at the office. The gas station was designed to be flown blind, every aisle matching the reiterated the intuitions of an American in America. Cold beverages along the back two walls, a comprehensive, waist-level island for pouring and prepping coffee, magazines & impulse items at the front counter and a progressive order of want to need as one surveyed the aisles from front to back.