But it was his job he hated talking about most of all. He dreaded meeting people because he knew that a considerate, logical question to someone you've just met is 'what do you do?' He didn't object to it on philosophical grounds, or see it as a negative reflection on a certain type of person who can only talk about work. Indeed, if he allowed himself a moment of small satisfaction, it was on his overall charitable attitude towards people. Rather, it was the physical prospect of such an exchange, the give and take of an average polite conversation, that made him anxious. He could feel himself growing hot and uncomfortable, beads of sweat on his brow, his back. And his hands - his cold, clammy hands. With each week that passed in his job, with each new introduction, it just seemed to get harder. His description became more circumspect full of rambling, borrowed phrases, rather than concise. He dreaded the question more, not less. He spoke quickly and apologetically to smiling people who seemed to have jobs that they didn't care about or jobs that they cared so much about.

How did all these people get so secure and sure of themselves?

He clung to the idea that we are not what we do. But he harbored deep skepticism about this position. After all, in a very real way, we are what we do.

But the deeper questions weren't as troublesome as the shallow, fleshly ones. And this was more of a problem that needed to be solved than one that needed to be mulled over. Interests! He needed interests! Something to steer these conversations towards. And talking points! A teleprompter even, to keep him on cue as he squinted into the bright, judgmental lights of everyday social interaction. He needed anything to keep him from saying another word about working for a company that provides solutions.