Twenty pairs of shoes but they never know where the shoehorn is; houses filled with microwave ovens and flat-screen televisions,
yet they couldn’t tell you which anchor bolt to use for a concrete wall if you threatened them with a box cutter.
Ove has a whole drawer in his useful-stuff box just for concrete-wall anchor bolts.
He stands there looking at them as if they were chess pieces.
He doesn’t stress about decisions concerning anchor bolts for concrete.
Things have to take their time. Every anchor bolt is a process; every anchor bolt has its own use.
People have no respect for decent, honest functionality anymore, they’re happy as long as everything looks neat and dandy on the computer.
But Ove does things the way they’re supposed to be done.
He came into his office on Monday and they said they hadn’t wanted to tell him on Friday as it would have “ruined his weekend.”
It’ll be good for you to slow down a bit,” they’d drawled.
Slow down? What did they know about waking up on a Tuesday and no longer having a purpose?
With their Internets and their espresso coffees, what did they know about taking a bit of responsibility for things?
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